Best Acolytes Poems
"Until an hour before the Devil fell, God thought him beautiful in heaven."
A thousand, million years had fled
then thousand million more,
yet it was still the morning.
And there stood one, Transcendent,
whom we call God and the Divine,
whose reasoned might
stretched to clutch infinity—
and embraced eternity’s nether bounds
to fashion perfect round—
beginning's instant fused
with very end of things
that time endured no more.
Thus evening interlaced with morning,
from whose conjugative spawn emerged
a cosmic realm, its structure fine,
yet restive, taut and yearning.
Here coherence mingled self with
destiny, and thus arose intelligence.
Among its legion offspring,
daughters of the light
and one the son of morning,
a paragon of intellect—
in depth and reason boundless,
beautiful and firm, named Lucifer.
Beloved of Transcendence and
from whom the mighty angels
fled, nobility confounded.
Across mighty heaven’s parapets
he reasoned and opined.
And many thought him noble.
Yet temerity cannot assail wisdom
nor petulance conjure faith.
He, his mighty acolytes then stood
and cried aloud, trumpeting insistence,
and became among the first
whose grasp did not exceed their reach.
And war ensued—
A war of vaunted intellect,
but also narcissistic,
and rooted in deceit.
For he would exercise free will to battle,
then in victory rob all of its gift.
Therefore a quandary stood
that would not reconcile with reason.
Defeated, Satan stood no more in heaven.
Godly was their sorrow when he fell.
Now in our eyes and hearts and minds
do not echoes of the war resound?
First Place: Julia Ward's Contest: Expand Arthur Miller's Thought from The Crucible (quote above).
Categories:
acolytes, sorrow,
Form:
Free verse
In
grace,
now seen
a verdant tree,
its trunk and limbs
splayed in the round,
perfect radial symmetry.
Were nature absent intellect
might such majesty e'er result—
accidental tour de force as eons pass,
acolytes of chaos then, gathered to exult?
Boughs' burden, scalloped snow of purest white.
Myriad sparkles glint in full moon’s vivid winter light.
Wind
sways,
a polonaise.
Elysian sight. Halcyon night.
Click on the "About this poem" link above for some additional thoughts.
Categories:
acolytes, tree,
Form:
Concrete
There are no shape walls
to bridle one's emotions
creativity is properly ventilated
unbound by meter or syllable count
embracing nakedness
yanked naked in its virginity
The binding belt of chastity
given over to lyrical lovers
Sleeping quietly in the meadows
a pristine area free of squatters
fighting for their rights
with sonnet-crafted homes
and hamlets defined by literature.
Straying away from the norm
acolytes watch as castles are built,
that worships orderly expression
poetic masterpieces,
safeguarded and preserved at all times
metaphors align into a specific subset
pictures look like works of art,
there is a distinct realm
for those unfit to fly in their confines.
Outside of the norm
is a vast nebulous
growing quill flowers from seeds sown
the power of smell to evoke memories,
which one's brain may elect to ignore
when settling at a location of a specific form
is what one's words must imply.
On this trip, there are no rules,
only that burning desire inside
strive to harass the page,
fire getting into the core
from telling someone a mystery,
till the key bares the chest
where other ideas demand rebirth.
1st Place Contest Winner
Written: August 28, 2022
Free Verse - Old Or New Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
5th Place Contest Winner
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Categories:
acolytes, analogy, appreciation, birth, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
Wisdom murmurs amid paucity of things—
seekers contemplative in cross-legged trance.
Pondering vaguities pensive meditation brings—
to apprehend with nonchalance of glance.
While to acolytes, such subtleties impinge—
denied are those of stifled grasp.
For in their minds a fetid dinge,
mundane failure to enclasp.
Stunted ones thus held in thrall,
ever signal their incurious pose.
While unmuted is a mounting wrawl,
from those abhorrent in appose.
The blind above in fog would lead,
who daily task us for our gaze.
They tire us with unending screed,
and we ignore while they abrase.
Rather would I summon stillness—
watch quiet water smooth a stone.
Free myself of this world’s illness—
love gently life I choose alone.
Categories:
acolytes, corruption,
Form:
Quatrain
Pope Francis's belief in the Almighty
has been brought to serious question,
when, on his speech on Origins,
the Bible received nary a mention -
save for a passing glance at Genesis.
His credibility has dwindled rather perilous
it seems - considering, of course, Catholicism's
typical rep of condemning holy writ to ostracism.
The acolytes "explode" with his
acceptance of Naturalism,
Evolution and Bigbangerism.
In a pinch he waved his magician's wand
and pronounced all prior blasphemies - gone!
God - he stated - has no such pointy stick
of which to create all, with a simple flick
of his wrist. The Almighty has limits
and shall conform to Francis's rigid
interpretation, thereof. He tips his hat
in one last show of priestly decorum:
I wish you all a most bless-ed
novus ordo seclorum.
NOTE: The term "novus ordo seclorum" is Latin for "New World Order". If you ever forget how to say it, or spell it, just pick up any American federal reserve note - it'll be right under the pyramid with the all-seeing eye.
Categories:
acolytes, bible, character, philosophy, religion,
Form:
Rhyme
"Nothing may hide from the hidden."
- Japanese Proverb
1.
Gulliver's God Goes Silent
Sir Johnathan's Lilliputians assumed
Gulliver's watch to be his personal god,
Observing how seldom he took action
Without first consulting it.
Time has come to be the Tyrant God of our frenzied Age;
The One Who Harries
The mass of us from here to there, and back again
Crying down the faithful to the terrible slippage
The relentless loss of minutes, hours and days,
Unreclaimable all,
Shouting to us from our wrists, our walls and all things electric
The message of incompletion,
Things undone and lost
In the unstoppable flood that sweeps us along
Carrying all we think we know
Towards some great, invisible, communal Terminus.
The acolytes' wishes are served,
In serving one so like ourselves
Serving those unsatisfied by any sacrifice.
The call comes in late September;
A doctor's voice informs me
Of a tale mad cells are telling
Gathering deep within;
An aimless tide of their lives just beginning
To flourish sans form or purpose
Bringing destruction to the temple they occupy
Through sheer abundance.
That was when, for the first time,
My part in the steady move towards the Terminus
Loomed clear and certain in my sight,
Joining the strong knowledge of my heart.
A fluid anxiety filled me,
Running shapeless and invincible
I felt, somehow, like drowning -
So it was as another Summer gathered itself up for its death
I checked into the hospital
To be dropped into chemical oblivion
Laid out like an offering
To the spirits of Blood and Mystery
Reading my organs through greengloved hands,
Interpreting the language of manic cells.
Skin peeled back like pages of a book
I lay captive in the sleep of Lethe
As they read the script writ in red within
Making decisions
Correcting errata.
The god on the wall
Moved his hands in passing across his face,
But not for me.
Categories:
acolytes, angst, change, fear, feelings,
Form:
Free verse
The preposterous fictions many
profess to be unvarnished truth
warp the very fabric of our universe --
cause those long dead to walk among us
through the spectral midnights in our minds.
The bone dust of those past millennia
films our eyes, coats our shelves
of sacred primers, those missals
unquestionable in their catechistic
authority -- so we become
the acolytes of those controllers
who have themselves always been
instructed, conditioned, and suppressed
by generations of such teachers --
through example, reward, or punishment.
Think! Open up your mind!
The truly free do not fear to question
and to decide the truth or falsity
of any proposition, any statement
or assertion and to declare
what they have concluded to be true.
Or false.
Categories:
acolytes, books, bullying, change, character,
Form:
Free verse
The Boy from the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road
1.
The Boy from the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road
I was born Carl Robert Halling at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road which runs through Shepherds Bush in west London and which in the mid 1960s served as one of the great centres of the Mod movement, whose dandified acolytes were infamous for their vanity and hedonism.
I was raised in nearby Bedford Park, a comparatively genteel district close to the largely working class area of South Acton.
My first school was the Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud, and by the time I was 4 years old, I was already bilingual.
I wasted little time at the Lycee in establishing a reputation as a troublemaker, a popular one admittedly, but a troublemaker nonetheless, constantly in trouble.
I was popular, that much is certain, not just with girls but boys too and blessed with a vivid imagination but I was a near impossible pupil which caused my poor mother a good deal of heartache, and on at least one occasion she drove me home in tears.
I seemed born to controversy, being impatient, disobedient, mischievous, remorselessly attention-seeking, a true imp of a child, on which the full force of the innate depravity of Man appeared to have landed.
At the same time, I was friendly, sincere and open, a good friend, and well-liked.
My Judo teacher at the Budokan in Hammersmith once told someone no doubt with a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach that whenever he heard me he always knew it was Saturday.
I was no less a trial in the quaint little back streets of suburban west London.
My roughness could hardly have been helped by the popular music of the times.
By the time it came for me to leave the Lycee my scholastic standing had improved a little, and after some months spent at Davies Preparatory School, I received the most glittering school report of my entire young life; and was actually declared an excellent pupil.
Categories:
acolytes, child, childhood, children, england,
Form:
Free verse
Eye Sketching
by Odin Roark
Acolytes of inner actualization know…
Upon an oak tree
Scrawls a name,
Never scribed by knife.
Within a crowded sidewalk
Sketches the seductive smile of an
Out of reach dream.
Atop a mountain peak
The etching of above-the-cloud perception
Swirls its heady reward inward.
Afloat in reflection’s calm waters,
Trusted drawings ripple across
Past, present and future pretense.
How healing this alternate world…
In the mind’s eye, time is given little heed.
The impossible embraces imagination,
Never succumbing to reality’s disappointments.
For one’s inner creations never require tools of actuality,
Trusting instead enigma’s eye pencil wisdom,
Needing but an occasional sharpening now and again.
Categories:
acolytes, holiday,
Form:
Free verse
bridges
The kids, their teacher, sprouts and dandelions
the aquarellist and a wet bicycle.
Sit on the worm bench as bytes on the mainframe
wiped pastel of a bright warmth with shades of red
gray
as I look down I find more than wanted
for god sake, it’s the age throbbing you see
and frailty, thy name is woman drifts in
been mine for too long in nobis chesterland
churches
slender cobbled gothics and proud romanesques
the decorum of acolytes and bishop
blesses youthful virginity using gods
eleventh finger prodding at my tongue
Florence, Bruges and Ghent
old cities of Europe
contrast with gadgets
life and hearts
break fast
Categories:
acolytes, allegory, introspection, life, love,
Form:
Free verse
Lenient, odd reciprocity,
chains by chains, combustion of lies,
exposed vulnerability,
an abyss full of screaming cries.
A minute passed by, I commend,
a tenacious wheel in motion,
drifting across its star-crossed end,
trespasses without precaution.
Invocation in the making,
as acolytes conjured a spell,
a ferocious beast, summoning,
from the depths, the abysmal hell.
Without retributions, no doubts,
turbulence beneath the dark clouds,
lies under an encrypted code
so critical, node after node.
Brimstone with sulfur in the brink,
a massacre of massive gore,
hopelessness awaiting such link.
Thud! And then I opened that door
What's in this life, purely trivial,
full of betrayal and deception,
the clock's ticking sentimental,
down until Earth's final motion.
6.21.2015
Categories:
acolytes, bullying, depression, destiny,
Form:
Elegy
None keeps its inventory
But it creeps into a story
A story of a modern society
Which is plural in nature;
Partly of a rural nurture
Partly of an urban stature
Yet must remain together
Lest it falls a part
For unity is strength.
For peace.
To join these pieces to each other
That requires acuteness of thought,
That demands leaders of acuity,
Who are too acquiescent to it,
And well acquainted with it.
As it demands political acumen
That defines the acme of democracy.
Not autocracy,
Detests acidulous rulers,
Who develop quirks
To become acquisitive personalities.
Egocentric.
Raising their hands to quell the feelings
Ever in a querulous tone of voice
Ending up in quibbles
Both with the minorities,
And the majorities,
And sparing not the authorities.
To suck up to them.
To come up with funny quips
As quislings.
That all and sundry
Are left in a quandary;
Since to them
Neither a banana
Nor an orange
Or any other fruit
Can quench its thirst
Without a qualm about their stand.
And virtually nothing comes on a silver platter;
Always there is a price to pay later.
And not their dreams to shatter
Even though they dwell in the gutter.
But indeed a quid pro quo of a kind
That needs a lot of qusto to wind
And seems as distant as a pulsar
Whose drive you can’t quash
Whose desire you must succum
Whose desire is succint
To its acolytes.
Acquitted splendidly in its path
Without acrimony,
Without mean acrobatics.
Sociocentric.
Both full of sympathy,
And empathy,
And the acceptance,
And the appreciation
Of the uniqueness,
Of the diversity,
Of the peoples and cultures,
Nurtured by nature
For this is the real conquest of the quest.
Categories:
acolytes, africa, betrayal, community, conflict,
Form:
Narrative
Watch out for that ideology
Bad effects on your psychology
It bleeds into our sociology
‘Til we hate one another’s biology
Let’s make a pact
To get our facts together
Have no ideology
Whatsoever
Hitler and Stalin and Mao and Amin –
Terminating angels of some fantastic machine
Marx and Weber and Keynes and Rand
Raised a fist of thought in hand
But Peter and Paul and the whole Roman Church
Didn’t wanna leave anyone in the lurch
Ho Chi Minh shoved me on a Mekong barge
Meanwhile, the Castros were living large
Let’s make a pact
To get our facts together
Have no ideology
Whatsoever
Apostles, ideologues, acolytes –
Whatever gets you thru the glassy night
The world is your battleground and you must fight
Just watch for the mines under your short sights
Categories:
acolytes, abuse, anger, discrimination, political,
Form:
Political Verse
Terminator X
A cloud burst into life and rained down acid rain;
The skin peeled from the bodies of those who couldn’t be saved.
The future termination just waiting to send us to our graves,
Means our destiny is already written and we cannot be saved.
So call on Arnie to save or ruin the day,
Here he comes in a rush to redeem or bring rage.
Is he good, is he bad? Let’s write another sequel,
Because we can’t get enough of this cyborg killing people.
Terminator 1, Sarah Connor is forced to face death head on.
This Terminator X is going to rip somebody’s face off
And Terminator 2 saw Arnie as a Hero,
For John Connor likes Guns ‘n’ Roses, look out here comes a truck.
Terminator 3 the machines are on the rise again,
The future is shown to us; it looks like humans live in pain.
We are obsolete; the robots now rule the entire world.
So let’s rebel and give ‘em Hell, one of John acolytes is a hot girl.
So stab your blade shaped arm through a chest
And hope you find the right Sarah Connor.
Dead bodies litter the doorsteps of random nests;
You know he won’t stop until he finds her.
Get Arnie some new clothes to cover his nakedness,
Use nitrogen oxide to put an end to this X-file government,
Conspiracy of robots, they are here to end our lives;
So crush their body and throw this terminator into the fire.
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Categories:
acolytes, future, humanity, men, technology,
Form:
'Tis in a manner far from thrasonical
That I come to you in full canonical
What I chose to do was to instill my love
On acolytes below while I was above
When the holy Church I entered in my prime
I, the Church,entered many, time after time
Those altar cherubs whom I picked out to spoil
I anointed warmly with my sacred oil
How could I resist faces so innocent
Wreathed in the swirl of the thurible's scent
To hold them close tightly and their soft flesh feel
Made my whole self dizzily tingle and reel
How truly uplifting was my fierce,fierce joy
When I had communion with a chosen boy
They knew our closeness was clearly God given
And that in confession would I be shriven
For all the worldly good I did on God's earth
Then entry to heaven is my deserved berth.
Alas,your Grace,you cannot in all conscience enter here
Too much dark concupiscence on your soul sits,I do fear
Too concentrated were you on carnal desire
That leaves you to roast now in the eternal fire
Begone! For scandalising the young
Round your neck must a millstone be hung
And into the depths of Hades will you descend
There to endure your torment without end
Categories:
acolytes, addiction, child abuse, corruption,
Form:
Rhyme