Best Acolyte Poems
Always he comes here
Humming to the air
Calling and begging
Calling the dead
Who passed long ago
For help! for help!
Hefty he is
Bowing
Kneeling
Behind this monastery
He did cry for the moon.
Dressed
In his white vestment
Tinted in red
Where is he going?
He defied the ancients
Sad is his mother
Sad is his father.
Even the sun sunned madly
And the moon mooned sadly
Weeping for this listless acolyte.
each poem did edit
only fool received credit
had to regret it
poems lacked a verb
many poets may disturb
ate horrible herb
what he did in spite
Trump became an acolyte
are afraid with freight
heard Trump in choir
voice became higher and higher
always a liar
we laughed with much mirth
take this for what it is worth
worst show on this earth
Thought of these haiku while
watching MSNBC this morning.
Wish there were more positive
things to listen to.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Quora Originally Answered: What is the reason for your Trump hatred?
One reason I am “spewing hatred for Trump” (and mind you, this is just one emblematic reason): upon firing the commander of the Coast Guard, he evicted her from her house with 3 hours notice. That was done purely for the sake of cruelty. This is who he is and who he has always been. He’s a criminal, a thug, a rapist, a conman, and a thief.
I do indeed have other things to do, which is why I don’t spend all my time doing this; however, I am retired, and I’ll do whatever the I want, punk. Don’t like it? I really don’t give a sheet whether you do or don’t.
You are lying about “100 million people like Trump.” But then, lying is typical of your ilk, and it’s to be expected because you have no honor, no integrity, no morals, no ethics, and no £ucking clue.
He’s an insurrectionist, and is currently attacking the very constitution we’ve held more or less sacred for 250 years. He just gives you a stiffy, that’s all. Or is it Melania that does that? No, it’s probably Trump.
Do I think I could do a better job? Than a convicted criminal? I’m smarter than he is, better educated, actually served my country voluntarily, have run a successful business, and don’t think I’m the smartest guy in the room (people that do think that, like Trump, never are).
Now take your pandering, lying, orange-tinged lips and waddle off.
Sincerely;
Donald D________a .
Promise me nothing –
I’m not interested in your vows
Between the farmer and the field
Is just another broken plow
No backtalk allowed –
All discourse now falls short
A culture of mellow drama
And every day is the last resort
I’m a really nice guy and a real good sport
But it’s only to three people that I report
Nobody’s acolyte –
I’m not your man
You can say whatever you want,
But don’t count on me to understand
Nobody’s acolyte –
No never uh-uh
Doctrine and dogma –
Manifestos and miniature threats
It’s nothing to me – the bug mentality
Remembers that everybody forgets
Erasing all debts –
Don’t worry the war will be there
You could set your sundial by the eclipse
The God of the Scroll at which you stare
I’d gladly follow you anywhere
If my senses were impaired
Nobody’s acolyte –
I’m not your man
You can say whatever you want,
But don’t count on me to understand
Nobody’s acolyte –
No never uh-uh
I’m nobody’s acolyte
You’re all spleen and no ideal
I’m not just gonna sit around and watch
While your hidden agendas are revealed
I ain’t nobody’s dog
So don’t expect me to heel
I can see it in your eyes you don’t get it
But try to hold sway you will live to regret it
my poems rise
from cold embers
ever the acolyte
The caffeine on my desk
and bags under my eyes
are evidence of my faithfulness—
devotion to a beast
to whom I've pledged eternal fealty.
The ache in my knuckles
and the draining battery on my laptop
are the marks of a true believer.
The keyboard is my altar,
where I lay out my offerings.
She demands my sanity, my peace of mind.
Her twisted grip pulls me into Her,
and I stare at a blank page
considering my next sacrifice,
the next piece of me to chip off
arranging the scattered collection into words.
Will it be good enough?
Is it ever good enough?
Am I good enough?
I fret that every syllable is insufficient,
subpar, unworthy.
Every sentence demands redoing;
every paragraph must be stripped bare
and reassembled.
I have failed my Mistress—
She punishes me
by lacing my thoughts with poison,
injecting shame into each firing neuron.
She owns me.
Pride is laid at Her feet
and burnt so that the smoke reaches Her nose
and then,
when all is laid out before Her
in a raw and vulnerable showing,
only then does She smile.
I have done it.
I have written the next page.
She is never sated.
Tomorrow, She will hunger again.
I must prepare for the ritual.