a time when war
became no more and time
stopped. Why reason?
a time when feuds
Life stops dead still...
Verlena S. Walker
Date: April 13, 2014
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Contest Name: THREADS OF SYLLABLES
Oh! Sleep come claim me for thine own
My mind it wanders far and deep
To distant lands and shores unknown
Far beyond this castle keep
To fight for God on land and tide
To make the heathen understand
My kindred brethren at my side
A christian vow a sword in hand
Their foreign tongues and ritual chants
Oh! Lord they know not what they do
Forgive them Lord their ignorance
Their demi-gods they falsely woo
God grant me strength to bare the proof
From those that practice to deceive
Sins of the flesh and cloven hoof
Oh! What a tangled web they weave
'Tis only death and death alone
Will cleanse the soul and purge the mind
As rabid dogs tear flesh from bone
The will of God his axe they grind
The Devils work must ne'er be done
Cross not our path nor bar our way
The Lord our God thy will be done
The Judas tree will rock and sway
No equal nowhere on this earth
Cruel deeds to shame Marquis De Sade
Whilst crimson tides iinfuse the dirt
Our just and holy Lords crusade
For Hell i've seen and made my own
Grant me my Lord my endless sleep
What devils deeds and seeds we've sown
In Christs own name how he must weep
I'll write to you of medieval ages,
Foreign lands,knights and of many sages.
Medieval verse,and versification
With ancient meter I shall imitate,
To flesh out this age's animation.
And stories fictional and real I'll tell.
The souls of sundry virtues and vices
I shall show to men of all kinds of eyes,
So that I their souls might excite to life.
Who truly is alive without his senses,
yet many minds live with mental fences.
The Gods were chased away from this bright land,
And many countries were drowned in darkness.
Art was unpainted,clogged up fairy wells.
Unlearning became the new science of man
And music deemed to be of Satan birthed
For its mirth, and carnal rhythmic pleasures.
Oh of truth this divine art of muses,
Music's mothers, the soul with beauty fuses,
Yet still were libraries burned to ashes,
and with timeless secrets the fool clashes.
Empires undone from within and out,
To be hewn down by hounds to war devout,
Who from savage forests came to devour
The sheep and the pampered puppies of Rome.
The Gods did pity these once great races,
the light torchbearers which the dark faces
with it’s all consuming flames of sheer might
which scorches into ashes scrap and dross,
to fuel its holy energy and fire,
the giver to mankind of life so sought.
and Vestigial Conscience
The sun overshadowing my morality
my self- righteousness eclipsed
Where early mans' dawn is,
Our sun over my left *should* threaten to tinge me if
I pontificate platitudes that fail to connect us to
full stomachs for our children, solid comfort during our elders’ aging and respite needs
That McChrystal was sacrificed at the altar
the way Abraham (*pause) to show faith
O yea, my ancient ancestors from Ireland
Maybe they had roots in Celtic lore
Heralding Beowulf’s heroics
And maybe they had someone in some way connected to
various seafaring warring factions!
Tyranny and takeover spark hatred
blinding rage, like
action- oriented swarming killer bees~
Vestigial, then, is it - our
Weeping flows, but flash floods cannot compare,
and the burn of fury that hot lava
NO! of liquid molten, from the deepest depths of Earth's core -
even that cannot compare
to the condemnation
my foe must assume.
With this pen I secure my conduit to the divine,
My unpretentious foothold here from my pedestal,
My spears are fueled
Ghosts of pharaohs
Branded timeless in stone
Condemning the vilified,
as it is published by
The Royal Geographical Society:
Syria as the Gateway between East and West
The Geographical Journal
Vol. 107, No. 5/6 (May - Jun., 1946), pp. 179-190)
And why shouldn’t this be so?
Beowulf, an earliest epic
Of Old English
How proud and agile to be able
To confer your legacy in written format
Onto your generations and incursions ~
Daughters of the American Revolution,
weren't you early colonists settling in Maryland?
Wasn't The Crown's high noon tea wrought with hypocrisy?
I was wrong when I supposed
McCongress ordered striking the King's son
off the Dollar Menu, To Go,
when they showed up at the
Morocco & France have tensions
today that sprouted around this very topic, you know.
Everyone has to pay attention to who the special children are,
from the special castes - it is written and taught in
children's international fairytales
written by nations collectively-
cultures present their insides
in their telling of morals embellished
inside gripping tales
to their children,
use of cultural symbols and
delectable terms, the signs all
lead directly to the diaper room.
But for this poet, it was the Irish potato famine
forbidding entry into libertine culture.
Thorns piercing through my heart while it's burning. Vines flowing out of my soul, and I look to the sky. Hallelujah, I'm alive. Hallelujah I'm whole.
Smoke of cigarettes flame out into the open. Feelings of charm and warmth pass across my lungs. I see twelve or more dwarfs marching in rows. One of them stepped on my toes.
Planes flying into the fog, and women being rapped in the alleys. The life we lead are lies, planned out like puppets from another dimension.
Time can't save us. We save time to save us. The sun goes down, and everything is quiet. Birds chirping, and the wind blowing white snowflakes onto my face.
Walking passed the church. Blood on White. Everything's a fight. We rise to the golden gates and we look upon the spirits.
The leaders and missions fail. It's not the end of this tale, when soon there will be more blood shed. Anger and hatred have no room. Live the life you are born to lead, or you will just be another blood on white.
To whit to be caught between two brothers
and become the sport of many others
She kept her heart from loving true
but not from the damage passing through
Oh twice spent the beauties coin
did deliberate vengence to purloin
thought knowingly did enter door
in spite she cast them to the floor
Though twas for couple it's own collusion
the device and trap it's own illusion
the crimes waylaid doth carry to the grave
to curse ones soul as fearful and not brave
Twas the story carried in her mind
her face to others she wished were blind
and with ones sight to look upon her heart
to know in violence was her start
She thought those sins would ever last
or to shake the paths of her past
in her fears her heart down cast
she did not know to forgiveness ask
Unable to differentiate between love and need
or if womans desire was only greed
If man looks upon her with his smile
is he looking for love or just another trial
She asks those questions to this day
must there be violence to graveyard pay
for many men have forced their way
in their behavior did have no say
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
CIA & the NYPD’s got a thing for hassling those who
get down on their knees to “pray” to one kind of
fiction, as opposed to another---
they got a way of always being around when
Jersey muslims are trying to dwell in a specific delusion
on their own, whilst good ol’ christians get nothing of the
saying that islam = violence
without recognizing the violence that
has thwarted (and continues to thwart) upon the world,
or for that matter
any religion, whose members at one time or another
have found reason to try & convert others to their way of
be it with the sword or the ak-47,
is both ignorant & more dangerous than the supposed
terrorists that feds are seeking in one community,
forgetting the rest.
all religion inspires insanity
all religion allows a person to think that there is something greater
than this one world in which we coexist &
that the destruction of all humanity,
if needed by said deity,
would be a small price to pay
to get whatever gold star is promised---
if you are going to hassle one group of lunatics
for practicing their lunacy,
then you need to be hassling them all.
My God; Their God
A man acquainted with sorrows and grief
be it then was bruised for our relief
the ones ruling over them kept them in pain
but struck was he so we might Life regain
All like sheep have wandered astray
but he announced to the crowds Gods new day
no violence could be found in his actions done
he spoke of peace in the kingdom to come
He fed the hungry and gave to the poor
tender of heart and kind to his core
oppressed was he and sore afflicted
falsely accused by traditionalists indicted
A quiet man who spoke of verity
taught of loving kindness and mercies charity
the man he was did the broken draw
in every point did he fulfill Gods Law
The works of his hands righteous and clean
his judgment was pure and never mean
a candle whose light has dispelled the dark
his praise for his Father did all his works mark
Jehovah pronounced this the Son he approved
to him was beloved and the World reproved
no harm could be found in his heart or hand
those who follow him will the same stance stand
He sought not mens praise or their vainglory
yet acquired Gods love but by man treated poorly
unlike the kings who Lord over their kin
washed the feet of disciples those lower than him
Did demonstrate he how to walk Truths Way
by example showed traits his disciples display
with accurate judgment in all that he did
to become like him to his disciples he bid
We are not worthy of God to approve
if we do not from our lives violence remove
those who hate and practice manslaughter
cannot become his Son or his daughter
To become like him the Truth you must drink
it must cleanse from you what the world think
upon his teaching consume as your bread
without his life in you , you are still dead..
sources Ps 18 , Is 53 and the gospels
COPYRIGHT © 2010 C Michael Miller
By Michael Williams
It seems wherever I end up going,
everything is hidden, nothing showing.
No one sees, no one knows,
just how this story goes.
Not a care, not a worry,
everyone is in such a hurry.
Too busy to stop, too busy to see,
what has become of me.
Self-hatred and denial are my tools,
no one knows me, they are fools.
Deceiving them all is my game,
I do this and feel no shame.
Filling all my lustful needs,
sewing and planting my deviant seeds
caring not about the shame,
just causing extensive pain.
What is this I think I see?
It’s the Lord, looking down at me.
The look I see in his eye,
is enough to make me cry.
Ashamed of who I’ve become,
of who I’ve hurt, and what I’ve done.
I don’t like who I am,
I don’t feel like much of a man.
Help me Lord, hear my plea,
I can’t stand what has become of me.
I’m tired of the sorrow; I’m tired of the shame,
I’m tired of this hurtful game.
Help me Lord, for I can see,
there is nothing you won’t do for me.
Give me the chance to start again,
I know I can live free from sin!