The 110-Most Interesting Readings

Here is my selection for the best readings, a personal list, out of a 1000-selections  

D.L. Siluk, Dr. h.c.

The Gospels (Mathew, Mark, Luke, John) 31 A.D.

Epic of Gilgamesh

(John Garn Gardner & John Maier, translated: poetic) 2700 B.C.

Iliad (Homer: poetic) 800 B.C.

The Odyssey (Homer)

Aeneid (Vigil)

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (J.R.R. Tolkien, translated)

Alexander Trilogy (by: Mary Renault) three-books 325 B.C.

The Republic (and, Plato’s Atlantis, 450 B.C.)

Grendel (John Gardner)

Beowulf (9^th Century)

The Tale of Troy (by John Masefield; Epic Poem) 1250 B.C.

Book of Job (Poetic) 2200 B.C.

Song of Solomon (Poetic) 1000 B.C.

Sandalwood and Jade (Poems by: Lin Carter) 1951

Galleon of Dreams (poems by: Lin Carter) 1953

The Great Stone Face (Hawthorn)

A Movable Feast (Hemingway)

The Unvanquished (by Faulkner)

In the Beginning… (Joseph Ratzinger)

Dracula’s Guest (Bram Stoker)

The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket

(Only Novel by E.A. Poe) 1838

The Story of Philosophy (by Will Durant)

The Raven and other Poems (Edger Allen Poe) 1845

Silence in the Snowy Fields (poems by Robert Bly)

The Branch Will not Break (poems by James Wright)

Life of Cicero (by Robert Harris) 2 books 

Pillars of the Earth (by Ken Follett)

Tobacco Road (by Erskine Caldwell)

The Road Back (by Erich Maria Remarque)

The Source (by James Mitchenner)

Before Adam (Jack London)

This Side of Paradise (by F. Scott Fitzgerald)

Huckleberry Finn (by Mark Twain)

Absalom, Absalom! (By Faulkner)

Sound and the Fury (by Faulkner)

Life along the Mississippi (by Mark Twain)

Men without Women (by Hemingway)

Save Me the Waltz (Zelda Fitzgerald)

Robin Hood (11^th Century)

Hamlet (William Shakespeare)

Ariel (Plath: poetry)

Theseus: The King Must Die &

The Bull from the Sea (Mary Renault) 2-books (1250 B.C.)

The Grass Crown & Sequel (Coleen Macaulay) 2-books

The Book of Folly (Anne Sexton)

Crow (Ted Hughes: Poetry)

Lilith (by George Sterling: Poetic)

Nigger to Nigger (E.C. L. Adams)

The Liar of the White Worm (Bram Stoker)

The Game (by Jack London)

Anomalous Phenomena &

Homeward Bound (Jules Verne) SF 2-books

A Night in Lisbon (by Erich Maria Remarque)

Night over Water (Ken Follett)

Chicago Poems (Carl Sandburg)

Twenty Poems of Georg Trakl

Twenty Poems of Cesar Vallejo

Tender is the Night (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

The Children of Hurin (by J.R.R. Tolkien)

The Man with the Hoe (Markham: Poetry)

Twenty Prose Poems (Charles Baudelaire)

In Country Sleep (Dylan Thomas: Poems)

The Selected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon

(Poetic and Prose: by D.L. Siluk)

The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale

(Poetic Tale by D.L. Siluk)

Dark Odyssey (Donald Wandrei)

Mary, Called Magdalene (Winthrop & Frances Neilson)

Windy McPherson’s Son (Sherwood Anderson)

The Fifty Column… (Hemingway)

Go, Down Moses (Faulkner)

Verses in Ebony (Robert E. Howard)

The Notorious Jumping Frog… (Twain)

The Night Born (Jack London)

The dragons of Eden (Carl Sagan)

The Grand Design & Black Holes

(Stephen Hawking…) 2-books

Music for Chameleons (Truman Capote)

The Doctor and the Devils (Dylan Thomas)

The Bell Jar (Sylvia Plath)

Habitant of Dusk (August Derleth: poems)

Songs and Sonnets Atlantean (Donald Fryer: 9000 B.C.)

The Four Million (O. Henry)

The Dwarf (Par Lagerkvist)

The Windmills (Los Molinos) Poetry of: Juan Parra del Rigo

(Translated by Dr. D.L. Siluk) Poet Died 1926

The Last Tomb (Michael Grichton as: John Lange)

Private Latitudes (Michael Crichton)

Journey (by Jams A. Michener)  

The Colossus (Plath: poems)

Men at War (Hemingway)

Scenes and Portraits: The King of Uruk

(By Frederic Manning)

Arch of Triumph (by Erich Maria Remarque)

Heaven Has no Favorites (by Erich Maria Remarque)

Hawthorn’s Short Stories (1946, Edition)

The Tomb (H.P. Lovecraft)

The Star-Treader (Clark A. Smith: poems)

The Dunwich Horror (H.P. Lovecraft)

Granite & Rainbow (Essays by Virginia Woolf)

Lectures in America (Gertrude Stein)

The Stolen White Elephant (Twain)

Chamber Music (Poems by James Joyce)

Pomes Penyeach (by James Joyce)

Strange Waters (George Sterling)

Death by Demand (D.L. Siluk: Eldritch Stories)

Ecstasy (by Donald Wandrei: poetry)

The Reverie ((For Larry J. Yankovech) (a Tribute))

I guess looking at it, now being an old man of sixty-five, I remember the way Lorimar, we called him Lorimar, his real name being Larry, and how he made me laugh. We had taken a trip once, slept in the State Fairgrounds the police chased us out and we had to walk home three o’clock in the morning, and we walked by a farm, and we stole two carrots, we were so hungry. We grew up together; he lived next door to us. We’d play pool in his basement, play Elvis Presley records, one song always reminds me of Lorimar, that being, “Because of Love,” there was this album of Elvis’ that just came out called “Girls! Girls! Girls!” and that song was on that album he had just purchased, and the album was sitting to the left of me, on a table, the record player playing that very album on that very table, and that song was playing, and he was playing the album as we played pool. Oh, I suppose I could talk on and on about Lorimar, “Come on, Chick,” he’d say, stepping up and down on his toes, he had one web toe, and jogging around the pool table, “let’s get drunk?”  And we’d hit the road and look for someone to buy us a case of beer. We’d come back and sit down in his garage patio, and get drunk.  Oh, I’m sure his younger sister Nadine thought we were nuts, and I guess she’d be right, we were. He sure was fun.

       Anyhow, last night more like this morning, November, 8, 2012, I had a dream of Lorimar—I had only seen him once in the last fifty-years which was some twenty-five years ago, he would be now sixty-six years old, anyhow, in the dream, we had taken his car and went up into Northern Minnesota, and we parked his car at a hotel, and went down to a bar, and on our way back, in a taxi, we stopped at a gas station, I wanted to get something, and I lost my shoe in the gas station, and was looking for it, and the taxi driver came in to ask what was the delay, and Lorimar took off in the taxi, of all things. Well, it would have been all right, maybe, but we had a car, and I told the taxi driver just that, that we had a car and that I just didn’t understand, but if we went back to the hotel, he’d most likely find his car. Well, I woke up, that was the end of the dream; in the morning the sun was up and the day was cool, I asked my wife to see if she could find his telephone number and address on the internet, I sensed a need to. We’re in Lima, Peru, and he’s in Glenwood, Minnesota, remember, and again it’s been twenty-five years since we talked, I was a little nervous.

       I called the number about 11:30 a.m. there was no response, I figured he was out to lunch with his wife. I had lunch with my wife, and after lunch I tried again, his sister answered, I explained who I was, and asked if she remembered me, and she said, “Oh yaw,” I think she remembered the worse of me, back fifty-years ago, I was a wild one. Anyhow, I said, “Is Lorimar home, I’d like to talk to him.”

       She hesitated, it was hard for her to speak I had noticed, nearly tongue-tied, hard for her to get the words out, I asked a second time, “He passed away,” she said, with a near cracked voice. I was standing outside by my garden, my knees started to bed, legs drop, and ankles weaken.

       “When did that take place,” I asked. She again hesitated, I had to ask twice, “August 25, 2012, he had cancer, and other complications.” Then she went on to explain, his wife had left him for a dear friend of his some eight years past, and that she was living with him for the past six years, and he had many physical complications during this time. I myself understood quite well, it was twenty-five years since I had seen him, and he was at that time way overweight and drinking a lot. At that moment I had gotten a tear in my eye. The noisy neighbors drowned out some of what Nadine was trying to say, to tell me, but she was feeling freer to talk now about this and that, but I had to bid her farewell. I liked him a lot, because, well, just because he was himself, so easy to say, Ah, yes, he was a lot of fun.

No: 974/11-8-2012

Portrait of a Friend

(Eugene Monna—a book and art lover—2009)

Gene Monna drank a little now and then I heard, never saw him drink, perhaps he did with Tom, he and Tom were better friends, than he and I. Those last few years—before he died (and he just died, the first week of November, 2009), he had diabetes, his leg was to be amputated—or at least it was under consideration; he hadn’t been feeling well, neither.

        Sitting so among the book readers at Barnes and Nobel, as he often did, gazing across the café, over at me, and who knows who else, potted smugly with a dozen titles against his heavy forearms, his cold restless near boredom eyes, looking across shelves of books as one would look across the Atlantic in a telescope on a ship: as if awaiting for twilight or an nostalgic moment; to add to that, he looks about in abandoned retrospect, around that bookstore as if life had sent him into a trying tumult, and now with lost ambition, resigned to a few friends, no longer young, near seventy, he is thinking of the tireless detachment he seems to gravitate towards, with the world, just getting himself here and there is cumbersome. 

       He remarks to me, on a dog with one leg, we laugh, trying to figure out how the dog gets about, we laugh so hard we have to hold our bellies, lose our composure, acting like kids: as Gene awaits his pleasure with dependable attentive politeness with me, with a character of laisser-faire, that rules his selective relationships, he claims the privilege for his friends himself, and for those who are not, he replies.

       Here he sits—as he does in his book stacked apartment, in a warm chair of books with words and pictures that mean nothing whatsoever to him, looking at girls in paintings, exciting uniformity in dress and accompanied by men and without men, and he reaches to the next page quietly and lightly and touches the paintings briefly, wondering how the mind of the painter was thinking when he was doing the painting.

       Gene, with his extreme tastes, gold chains, and large gold rings, solid gold, continues to form his obliviousness to the art work, lots of passionate and distant moods going through him, there he looks and looks and studies the art—in old helpless dismay, thinking how to understand the crudeness of each picture, and its inexhaustible flow of lines and brush marks and colors, and figures.

       That was all I knew of him—although I did know he had a wife at one time and, an adult offspring, someplace, somewhere, who never seemed to worry of his existence. That was all he’d let me know of him, perhaps that’s why we got along so well, we never asked questions.

No: 564 (1-5-2010) Dedicated to Gene Monna

They Have Not Perished (The Inhabitants of Easter Island, 2002)

And I got to know them, those who had not perished. Those who had never been further from their island, Easter Island, never left their island other than diving for sport, fare or ritual.   I had heard them also, as one hears a whispering in the ear: the first night of my arrival, they would not let me sleep?

       The living inhabitants of the island, they were as if they had not yet even seen cell phones. It was as if twilight itself had been frozen over that little island that didn’t hardly even show on a map, that not even a hand full of people out of all the whole world, lived, and more visitors came to visit each week than lived on the island—two flights in and two flights out each week. Without a doubt, no more than four platoons of civilians, looking out into all directions and touching nothing for two-thousand miles but water: never anything bigger, or big enough for a plane to land on—to be remembered.

        Here was a place that banshees, and unfamiliar spirits, and the long eared, red haired cyclopean spirits, from the bird cult, of the once and now sunken empire of Lemuria come to live—breaking waves to reach this most isolated island in the world ((from the scattered islands of the South Pacific) (the spirits of the dead—even returning as cockroaches and flies, coming back to kill but when they came back as crabs, they didn’t kill—so legend says. They named Raraku after a mountain, they guarded their spirits while they slept, lest they be taken from them; many spirits haunted the crater of Rano Raraku, so tales are told)), here is where the spirits live, have lived, and died, and still live,  beyond reproach, for countless centuries have lived—have lived in and on, and seemingly forever, within the: stones, the streams round the coast in formed grottoes and crannies, innumerable, once sleeping places, once burials, small chambers with roofed slabs, cracks and crooks and  crevices of the island: walked at one time those ancient roads  to and around and within  the crater Rano Kao, Cooks Bay, Hanga Roa; and somewhere along the unwritten line of ancient languages, built, carved and erected those ancient colossus’ with designs and images showing raised rings and girdle and with what: stone tools? Chipping away the stone in undermining the statue —those excavated statues: at Rano Raraku carving out those stone red hats in an unfinished quarry, where their hats were stamped, marked for delivery:  loved, whether they had anything to be remembered for, or loved for, did love and live, but nothing more than spirits of them remain: nothing other than those unmovable stone colossus’ —those who would not perish, they are still there, inside those stone colossus’ as if imprinted with their old spiritual residue way back when: towering with weights up to ninety tons, without names that are now but shadows of the deeds that made them now silent, men who did the deeds, who lasted and now endure the stones and fought the battles and lost and won and fought again, and again, and again, because they were not even aware they lost, but in time overwhelmed by the world that surrounded them—remained, would not perish did not perish, yet still went on to shape their island: reliving, and simply living their old customs, traditions, as old as those statues, those huge mammoth ancient statues.

       I got to know them both—the living inhabitants and those who would not perish, still powerful in their legends, still powerful and dangerous with one another. The unfamiliar spirits hidden in those statues, in the bones under those statues—they did visit me, talked to me, even a witch visited me, and told me what they died for, what they became, just whispers of course, a few words, no louder than a whispering sun-shower, or a murmuring sunflower to another sunflower, even the marrow in their bones talked to me, and the skull in the cave talked to me: we came to an understanding—them and I, that it was Easter Island, and it is just a dot in the South Pacific, and yes, that’s so, it’s all right—to live in stone, in the past, if that is what you want—a near silent and lonely life, but if that is what you want, really and truly want.

       Five days later in the late afternoon I flew out from under that island, through the shade of those old glorious stone statues—and those who would not perish, then along the ocean, turning to Santiago, Chile, leaving behind me the old other world—that still is the old other world.

No: 487 (written, 10-5-2009; reedited, 11-1-2009; reedited a second time, 2-24-2012; reedited a third time 8-2-2012)

The Thing under The House

I have found my house inhabited by some terrible things, ugly things, in particular one thing. My thoughts are very confusing on this matter. There is even some apprehension as to where they begin. For at times I have appalling visions of faces within the marble bathroom floor, many faces of this  creature—in lack of a better term, demonic. This creature, or beast or whatever, alien of some sort, long dead, now stretching behind me some twenty-years since I built the house.  In consequence, I am somehow convinced there formless faces in the marble, in the blue and white marble tiles in my bedroom, bathroom, are trying to communicate. But what, what do those faces want to tell me: perhaps displeasure, anger, or just torment me.

       I have some vague impressions that some eerie and strange terrible thing took place under the foundation of my house eons ago.

       The identity of these faces is bewildering, cloudy, perhaps suffered some great shock, and could even be alien.

       When my wife and I were building the house, we had found old monstrous bones, and one huge ancient skull, also some artifacts, we took none. Surely they had been born from an incredible people long before the Incas, long before civilization as we know it, existed, perhaps 17,000-years ago, so my archeologist friend suggested. Of course it was all a worm-riddled experience—finding them bones. 

       I remember when I found them—in a dimly lit cave, under my house, as we dug out the foundation, in Miraflores, Lima Peru—seemingly it was at one time, perhaps during the last Ice Age, at one time, this cave was part of a river, it was an idea that came to mind, and once I crawled into it, so it appeared to reach back endlessly.

       “Tell no one of this find, just build your house over it, fill the side of the cave, up with stones and dirt and cement,” my friend told me, “lest you want the government to take your land and use it as they please, and give you not one dollar.” And I took this to heart, I took his advice, and did as he said, built over the site.

       And now the skull and the bones with some kind of artificial flesh, dripping flesh that appeared on them, was in the marble tile floor within my bathroom, next to my bedroom.

       There is a fascination to be penned by those faces, strange ancient beyond the three dimensional—

       The hideous conclusion: my mind being confused, reluctant, came to an awful certainty, if not lost in its labyrinth, not able to turn in any direction without seeing  these faces—faces my wife could not see—perhaps I had second sight, who’s to say, an awakening for me if so—nonetheless, faces I could only see, I took a slug hammer and broke the marble tiles to smithereens, now in small fragments—that nevermore should I behold those faces and in particular that hug skull, with eyes drooping, hanging out of its sockets, and string like flesh, as if part mold.

       My reason could no longer entertain the slightest belief, this was real, and surely my mind was playing tricks: so I pondered, deliberated on. Then I put in new black marble tiles in its place—hope had departed. Hence, I was indoctrinated to the life form of the paranormal.

       I had frequently read on such matters, and got only a small satisfaction from them. And now here I stood, as the saying goes: in the belly of the whale, it was true, gospel true; there were other dimensions, forms of life. In any case, I remained quiet, lest I lose my bearings. My wife didn’t know how to comfort me, nor did she have a solution, other than referring me to a psychologist, and she dare not say that, for I am one.

       For this reason, I then reflected, like walking backwards, came to the conclusion, I had disturbed their ancient grave site, twenty-years prior. This was true, gospel true, so I took it upon myself to talk to the faces, yes, as bland as it sounds that was my next and only step I could think of, and I said in a bold manner: 

       “I am sorry I disturbed your resting place, but what is done is done, what I will do now is this, I will sell the house to the archeologist, he has always wanted this house, not for the house but for your bones, so he will tare down the house and take your bones and all and put them on display at a museum for all to see, to gawk at—this is your ultimate fate, should you not go back to your resting place: for this I am certain.”

       And faster than a clap of an eye, those faces disappeared. My impression of the whole matter was that those faces, those spirits behind those faces were so angry at me, they had gone mad under the circumstances, not realizing twenty-years had passed, I mean to the dead what is twenty-years, and they just hadn’t stopped to think, things could be worse.

#966 (9-23-2012)

The Butcher of Lima (or, ‘Lunch with Mario Poggi’)

It is true that I have asked Mario Poggi, the renowned psychologist of Peru, over to my house for lunch, that he had served a long term of person time for strangling one of his patients to death, the very one, infamous one they call the “The Butcher of Lima,” and it is true on several occasions I have purchased some of his art work, to help him live, his credentials as a professional have been taken away from him.  Matter of fact, he even had me talk to one of his patients once—better said, counsel him once.

       And yet I hope to show by this short narrative that perhaps he is not the murderer we all claim him to be; or the madman he is so often referred to by the media, and the many people I’ve talked to.

       Was he the murderer of the Butcher of Lima? Who killed half dozen victims? If so, who was madder, him or the Butcher? I do hope some of my readers will weigh this statement. Correlate it with the known facts, and ask: which horror is worse; his or the Butcher of Lima’s?

       Perhaps there is madness in both, even the courts were at their wits’ end to account for that last terrible killing—Poggi’s murder; yet all of Lima, all 7.5 million inhabitants were frightened of the Butcher, until Mario Poggi the prison psychologist, was accused of stepping behind a chair, and pulling off his belt, and strangling him to death, as the Butcher of Lima, had done so many times to his victims, without an ounce of remorse. 

       They tried weekly to concoct a theory, a ghastly jest to warn other behavior science helpers to do the right thing, and perhaps a little pressure from the good Samaritans called:  Human Right groups, that feel, even if the truth is something infinitely more terrible and incredible, the servant of the people must be punished.

       So it is said, he murdered the Butcher while in custody at a mental ward, while in prison, under Poggi’s care, but had you asked Poggi, I do believe he would have told you, and he did say so on occasions, and inferred to me: he avenged the dead, the ones the Butcher killed, and the ones he was going to kill. But you see he didn’t give the Butcher a chance to name the new victims, whom he would have put onto his list—after he had gotten out of prison.

       What Poggi was really saying is: he stopped the purge; he did not allow the Butcher’s lawers to loosen untold terrors on all of Lima again.

       There are many color zones of shadows close to our daily paths, some are black, others grey, some white and not visible. Sometimes evil, good evil, if there is such a thing, might come under a greyer zone in the color spectrum—perhaps, white, unseen, passed through; when that occurs the person who is aware, and knowledgeable, usable and available, must strike before reckoning befalls humanity—; you see, the Government does this more often than not, more than anyone, it is called: in the Interest of National Security. It must be done you see, before a city whole or perhaps whole nation, suffers the consequences—again and again and again. This of course cannot be seen by the naked eye, or the naked mind.

       I have known Poggi now for a number of years, perhaps ten in all, he is most phenomenal, a scholar, also, perhaps having a strange secretive inner life: as a younger person, with imagination that gave him freedom.

       At any rate, his adult learning was with the intention of doing good I do believe, not bizarre things as he ended up doing; his odd genius developed a remarkable sensation, a sinister ill-regard for a greatly retarded killer. But society said: you are equal to the Butcher—figuratively speaking that is, but he never shaped any tragedy beyond killing the killer—if indeed that is a tragedy: that is the big difference, where the Butcher was in a world of forbidden necrophagous, or perhaps equal: necrophilia and necromancy (feeding on corpses, fascination with death, communicating with spirits).

       When Boggi talked to me his voice was soft, and light, and his somewhat now dull life, perhaps better said, unexercised life gave him stoutness, more so than a paunchiness, and now past middle age.  He was not in good health, yet still a handsome face, green hair, notable gallant, a shyness to him which brought him to a closer seclusion. Still fairly well-known, I was perhaps one of his better and less critical friends, and we talked an inexhaustible quarry of vital theoretical topics, ate a good lunch, coffee a little wine, and whatever matters he did not wish to refer to his innocence or guilt, he was injured by some odd psychological woe, perhaps affliction, for doing society good in a bad way. 

       As we talked and after he left and we met again several times—along with meeting his wife and daughter, he seemed to feel some sort of bizarre exhilaration as if he escaped from some unseen bondage, he began to mingle more despite his heavy blackmail from society and the courts, and from others for his crime.

       The last time I saw him, he looked as if he was on drugs, he had gotten a divorce, and was no longer seeing his child—to my knowledge; his look and his mind told me: there were no more countless matters to be adjusted; philosophically speaking.

#967 (9-26-2012)

Note: the author communicated with Mario Poggi between 2002 and 2010 perhaps

on a dozen occasions.  The sketch is by the author, D. L. Siluk, taken from a sculpture he purchased by Mario Poggi, in 2005.       

Unfeigned Love

(A Short Poetic Narration)

In old age I’ve come to some kind of an understanding or at least a tinge

       of realization, let me explain:

That when I was young, God, he overlooked many of my mistakes: a boy

       and a bit in the wick, that is to say: twisted, loosely braided, as on a

       candlestick.

And I know now, that when I became a man, and more than a man, he

       watched over my mind: as I left my blistering prints, wherever I did, in

       those coal black nights, and those far-off days.

Now in old age—at sixty-four: the time when the rude owl cries like a

       telltale wolf to those demonic cockroaches:  to woo these old eyes Not to Be: Penitent…

Perhaps wishing I’d go back to those dipping moon drunk days, when I

       sizzled beds and quickly fled, like a cat in a flame.

He, the Lord of Hosts, has preserved me that I may repent.

I know now He knew my heart would not remain in a never-ending   

       cascading, landslide: of decaying stone; this here now, old

       deep-boned, once about a time, roustabout, ramrod.

I know now that I was to be created before the unformed volcanic earth

       of which he created man for…in balance with the other planets.

And I know we are not God’s Apes, perhaps his tragic children,   if indeed

       we can see it above our knees, with our  tormented lifestyle and

       minds: dying a bit each day of our downfall;

Collapsing like a cat in a flame: gusty half men, sizzling…!

And I know soon God will take my soul to Paradise or Heaven: no longer

       the black rebel with a rutted horn, singing sinful songs.

Knowing now the immortality of the soul, is so— and I am more than an

       animal who has no resurrection: I am a man more and more:

Not the cursed residents cooed by the devils of: Sodom and Gomorrah…

And all the deadly virtues that once plagued my soul, no longer plague my

       death…I am at peace with God and Myself!

And I knew then and there, at that specific moment when God’s hand

       appeared: man was God’s creation;

Molded by his own hands, and accordingly, he teaches as he finds it right,

       not as man thinks it should be.

Why then can I sing his praises, and say: “I understand why there are no

       tears in heaven?”

Hence, understanding my own question, when he never answered me, but

       showed me? 

It is a different language: the mist of God, that surrounds a man, soaks

       into the pours of his skin: understanding appears, as if out of Nowhere!

Love covers sin, which we commit

Hour by hour, day by day; night and day, season to season: hence,

Let us acquire love—saving love.

For I have learned, a man lives seventy years in sin, and repents in a day,

       and through Christ’s blood, he can be saved, without even being

       baptized!

And perhaps saved, and sent to paradise, out of repentance, while

       hanging on a cliff, with wind-thrown cedars in his face,

Out of some kind of mercy…and innocence; but all men, they know

       evil for evil—yet in the clap of an eye they are saved: how can this be?

To God it is nothing, nothing if you hate your neighbor and say: “I love

       you God, Lord of Hosts,” how can this be, it is a lie, you are a liar!

No doubt—  You are dreaming: twined in a cold winter’s sun, goose-

       skinned, and have no peace with God.

You love a delusion, for he who loves God, shall also love his neighbor,

       his brother, even his enemy.

Love does not cling to overhanging clouds, it is on a pilgrimage; even

       heaven has nothing greater than love.

For out of love, the Son of God chose to bear the agonies of the Cross.

Thus, in all that I have said so far, can I not call this: Unfeigned Love?

To Him be glory and power for ever and ever, amen.

#3408 (8-30-2012)

This is a Modified version, taken from parts one thru four…”The Hidden Grave of Treasures” (Part:  “Unfeigned Love”)