If Jesus Came to My House
If Jesus came to my house, to spend a day or more,
I'd like to ask some questions, as I met him at the door.
I'd like to know why God's design puts animals in pain,
To suffer fear, disease and cold, and shiver in the rain.
I'd like to know why babes sometimes are born without a mind;
And there are special reasons for the deaf and dumb and blind?
Were the crusades justified, with all their blood and gore?
And why is it that Christian men have always been at war?
The millionaires and billionaires rule men of every class,
And we who make their food and wine, are told to go to mass.
We'll get reward in Heaven, so the story's said,
Will all the wealthy go there too, when they are finally dead?
Now those of us who don't believe are said to go to Hell;
But will the devil punish those who really served him well?
Heaven and Hell, for best and worst, are concepts clearly seen,
But for the average guys around, we need more places in between.
It seems our Lord and Savior doesn't choose to let us know,
Or maybe he's forgotten, what he started long ago.
So rather than embarrass him, with questions face to face,
Let's make life worth the most we can, and let him fly in space.
A Better World
by Temy R. Beal
Come my friends, and you will see
A better world awaiting thee.
No need to fret or tear your hair,
Just put away your myths and prayer.
Heed you now, my admonition,
Free your mind of superstition,
For it clouds your thinking power
And causes you to cringe and cower
Before imagined deities,
Ruining your pants and hurting your knees.
Temy R. Beal is a freethinker from Alabama. This poem is reprinted with special permission of the
by Graham Carnaffan
Broken factory chimneys
Into rain washed streets overflowing
With scruffy urchin children
Running Around chasing
Their football dreams
I broke my back
On your heart of gold
Your penny loafed bread
Brass farthing Grandad
Sitting under the table
Watching the pissing rain
Drowning the reality
Of signing on
Every other Monday
All my days
Are Godless days
The suicide rate is 3% higher
Than the National Average Breadline
Bank man gone home now
Ain't nothin' left
But a hungry dream
This poem is reprinted from the summer-fall 1995 issue of Struggle,
"A Magazine of Proletariat Revolutionary Literature, with special
permission. Posted here by permission of the author.