The Death of Revelation or Zoroaster? Zero, Zilch, Zip!

So: spoke Zarathustra? No! 'Mum' was the word.
And since nada Z uttered, 'twas nada we heard.
Proving overly close-mouthed, as still as the grave,
Z vouchsafed us no greeting, not even a wave.

So: spoke Zarathuse-? Nope! I’d deemed the dude dumb.
Z turned tacitly tongue-tied: the word remained 'mum.'
Like his bouche (biding buttoned), his pie hole snapped shut.
All his channels of intercommunique? Cut!

So: spoke Zara-? Nossir! Not even a whisper
(preventing us learning if Z were a lisper).
Z's soundlessness smacked of the uber-laconic:
no sonorous speeches; no spiels ultrasonic. 

So: heard we Z sounding the word of God? Nein!
Nor no word of man neither. We'd nothing, in fine,
to show for our harking, our straining of ears.
Zoroastrianism's gone soft, it appears.

Getting to 'Yes!'

Than old Noah was nobody nobler.
(Weren’t the man's middle name not 'Noblesse'?)
So: wherever he'd go through a world known for ‘No!’
he'd forever endeavor toward ‘Yes!’

As blue crews of the Jews chanted nocturnes,
noodles nodding -- for nocturnes depress --
his no-nonsense noels (unaccomp'nied by bells)
squired his drive to arrive at some ‘Yes!’

Nofretete, no nonagenarian
(was her noggin not dress'd to impress?)
knew near nothing of Noh, but gave Aten a go
while, like Noah, advancing toward ‘Yes!’

Nofretete was shy, never noIsy.
Still, "No justice, no peace!" was her mess-
age, a message she'd sown with a Nokia phone,
reaching out to touch someone with ‘Yes!’

Crying "Noli me tangere," Nannerl,
nominee, once, for Nome's mayoress,
Nome's avant vote to get, starr'd in No, No, Nanette.
(How low some folk will go for a ‘Yes!’)

Near Nan's neighborhood, none talked of nooses.
(To each noose Nan’d say ‘No!’ -- more or less.)

Like the Noquet of old, Nan prov'd nowt if not bold
in her effort at getting to ‘Yes!’

All too soon, ‘No!’s became the new normal,
nor'd no friend try to end that fine mess.
Was Nostromo the one? ("Nos” was second to none
in his noteworthy reaches toward ‘Yes!’)

Note his nous: Nos all ‘No!’s put on notice.
"'No!”'s be kid stuff," notes Nos, "to outguess.
I'll reach ‘Yes!’ or I'll bust! I'm no novice: I'll just
make my mind up to wind up at ‘Yes!’

But...till ‘No!’s are no longer so noxious,
I shall press on nor not acquiesce,
till from Noyon to Perth, all across Mother Earth,
the whole world drops its anchor at ‘Yes!’

I shall stab all the ‘No!'s. I shall grab up a hose; 
with its nozzle I'll, fin'lly, suppress
all the ‘No!'s. Only then, when I’ve heard Earth’s "Amen!"
shall I waken (that taken as ‘Yes!’)

All the World Really Needs Is...a Cat in a Hat

  

The world, too much with us, hurls headlong towards hell –

o’er-seeded, oe’r-heated and, once again, flat.

What’s needed to save us? Some critter du jour?

No, what’s actu’lly needed’s a cat in a hat.

No afghans in caftans. No bluejays in PJs.

No cock in a frock. No cravat-adorned rat.

No doe dans chapeau. No dugongs in sarongs.

Not one ewe in J. Crew. Just a cat in a hat.

For the super-sized storm, formed as oceans wax warm,

can’t be calmed by some nattily jacketed sprat.

Nor is strife in Beirut rooted out by some coot

In a coat – though it could be: think “cat in a hat.”

Not a flea in a T. No gazelle in Chanel.

Not a wig-wearin’ heron in Karan – not that.

Not wild Irish setters in styled Irish sweaters.

Not jays in berets. Just a cat in a hat.

For to regulate guns run by Nazis and Huns

can’t get done by some outerwear-outfitted gnat.

Nor can car-coated larks prevent racist remarks.

That can only be done by a cat in a hat.

Not some coy kangaroos wearing sensible shoes.

Not a lamb in a tam – there’s just no call for that.

Not some white marmosets in too-tight farmerettes.

Not some newts wearing boots. Just a cat in a hat.

For the plight of the poor won’t be given “what for’

by some eels in high heels or some bonneted bats.

Nor can views fundamental be rendered more gentle

by foxes in socks. Just by top-hatted cats.

No giraffe-like okapis in Spanish serapes.

No pythons in nylons: those aren’t where it’s at.

Not a quail in chain mail. Not some rabbits in sabots.

No shad clad in plaid. Just a cat in a hat.

For while healthcare for all seems an order too tall

for a fruit fly in drip-dry supplied by his frat

or a lemur-like lynx draped in ermines and minks,

it’s as easy as pie for a cat in a hat.

Neither turtles in girdles, ukaris in saris

nor voles dressed in stoles – these would all leave us flat.

Not a whale in a veil nor a Harris-tweed xerus.

No yak in a mac. Just a cat in a hat.

For no pederast priest can be curbed by a beast

in a fleece that’s pre-creased – after all: tit for tat.

Nor are worm cans debugged by some slugs rya-rugged.

All’s best left, in the end, to a cat in a hat.

(Might a gussied-up zorse try to save us? Of course.

But that zorse and his ilk lack the needed “eclat.”

“Neither goose, mouse nor moose is required,” observes Seuss.

“All we actu’lly need is a cat in a hat.”)