Read Poetry: IMMACULATE! PROMISED BOY, by James E. D. Keating

Genre: Family

 Some never make it to see another spring! 6 Degrees with my pitching arm worn out; the man child awakes! The kid came to town on A Sunday and a week later he was dead! Give me hope, give me strength, give me peace, give me love, patience and in grace, abandonment. Give me youth, give me beauty, give me wisdom, give me enlightenment and in happiness; brief contentment in savoring those seldom small things that we all take for granted. The groans in joy and pain and the realizations of nothing being down there: The low rider running cold and high roller running hot; the creative flex away from the hustle and bustle towards peace and quiet, dry docked and contemplative, how it saves my ass. Grabbing at straws for the wind-up and the pitch in baseball. But in my business it is the Pitch that Winds-up in the pitching arm, blown out! The Art that purifies me is incidental; funny stuff trickling down underground that I wrestle with for years. Visual, picture and sound, three turning to thirty; then sixty-four frames per second! Contrast and horizontal shifts no longer exist; giving way to Density and Saturation, baffling the most delusional of directors of photography. 100 some odd years gone by with the making of an imagination that sparks others to re-imagine; and give audiences an act of organic re-invention Towards a New Amsterdam, A Holland or Hell’s Kitchen; handling all with care & cruise control, surfing the net and the planets alike, aligned within 6 degrees of separation. The shows are great in the Keystone State but the business stinks in Denmark thrown from empty cubicles all over the globe in a new age of misery and grief as wrestlers showcase it. Politicians perform and we have the right to say when it is over. The populace documented by the filmmaker as a single person, being all things to all people. So who is the real king of rank in these Williams, Hanks and Beatty? The Prime Minister of Canada or Italy decide. A rich country, promised boy to the poor; but a free-thinker and lancer, enlightened and standing at the door. So beautiful he is, careful and wishing, while society treats him like a stranger. What have you gained but for so precious little; these small truths so evident in jest! Very little has been dropped in your ear to sway the Queen’s language. Written on paper for an audience, bubbling up from the brooks, filled with energy and floating wet as dead leaves, towards stream. The Massive Oceans rise from the Picture in throng’s from the music’s child! You were a child once…now an adult; still wrestling with those feelings of being a child. It is a child that will lead them because God knows they are lost; and God so loves the children, animals and especially dogs; he has returned… but this time he is not alone refusing to sit for long periods anxious to perform feats most strenuous. He is the Overlord, the under lord, the War lord and the Landlord. He is the Real Lord and he isn’t alone this time; but is willing to speak to anyone who claims to be “The Actor”.
-Thank You Mother, for the Dream; and you Father, for being in it! The stream of Violence ever excels as I lay under this Tree…. unencumbered….! My work is done! God’s Speeds me along! My scriptures need not be repeated; but just pictures in my head that I hope will never have to be made. I have found your voice and have fulfilled all of my passions. I lived the Dream and loved the pursuit, with no impression left but calm and comely inspirations by someone or something…anything! Resentment even but not jealousy…who needs it.

Diversity must lead to tolerance, not contempt; and the fire in our bellies only lead us into vice. Dexterity gives way to these mental gymnastics leading us to wisdom and passion in the challenge of a dream, a movement from the promised boy. You will know him by his animal grace, like the June bug in summer and the bison in winter. He is not a work of fiction but is made whole. He is not a God and he is not a daemon or a hermit. He doesn’t practice resentment, jealousy or envy. He runs hot and cold under his tree; witnessing, in silence with her, the busyness and noise under this sun; the only thing that is working right. He was born from Industry in electronics and digital-pixilated posture.
Dogs and babies pray for Him from their gardens, making it seem unordinary that all anxieties have grown past regret.
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Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.
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