Best Atheist Poems
Some say you are lost
If you are not found
On their ground
Some think you are blind
If you do not find
What they find
I am an atheist who believes
The universe is a tapestry
Not a thread
The science to chart the stars
Is but a celestial church
That medicine and vaccines
Are answered prayers
That communities
Can save each other
That math and music
Language and learning
Rebuilding destruction
And regretting a wrong
Are inherent miracles
That to plant a tree
Water a garden
Kiss a scar
Soothe a bruise
Give a smile
Hug a sorrow
Cook a meal
Play a song
Clasp a hand
Bandage a cut
Wipe a tear
Hear a need -
Is divine
I believe the soul of nature
Is sacred
and a rainbow's refraction
Is all the more radiant
For the formula it contains
I believe the finitude of life
Makes a more precious day
And, to my friends of other faiths
I believe - we can meet halfway.
4/27/20
(this was inspired by a poem I read by Anil Deo called Any Athiests out there - thank you for your kind response to my novella-of-a-comment, Anil!)
.The first gift of Christmas was love
It was bestowed from above
It was given to all
to both rich and poor
to those who are strong
or who can easily fall
To dark,yellow,and white
To the ones less smart
or those who like first stars shine bright.
To muslims and catholics
buddhists and protestants
To believers and atheists
To the young and the old
To all humankind,to found and lost souls.
The first gift of christmas was love
It was bestowed from above
To those who show compassion
Forgiveness and their care
To those who receive blessings
and know the way to share
To those who look at others
with the warm eyes of a child
and to those who leave an empty space
for our little Jesus Christ.
The first gift of Christmas was love
It was bestowed from above
May We all search deeper
Of this gift be a keeper
May this love transmit joy
that kind of joy which last
That joy radiant on faces
That joy a heart embraces
That joy which comes to visit
and then remain with us.
Happy Christmas
to all my sweet friends
and your families
love you all
Charma.
I have lived a thousand lives, died a thousand deaths.
I have loved women unbounded and fathered an army of children.
I have killed and healed, stolen and blessed, fought and fled.
Jew, Christian, Muslim I have been-- Buddhist, Hindu and Jain, too.
I worshiped the sun and Thor, pagan gods galore....
I was atheist, agnostic, Marxist, and often, just indifferent.
I was cruel, I was kind, I was hateful, I was forgiving.
I laid waste to cities and wrote operas and symphonies
and little songs to dance around forever in your head....
I was poet and philanderer, philosopher and philanthropist,
theologian and scientist-- also guard and prisoner, and
many, many times, false lover or the one betrayed....
All my lives were dreams, each slipping away to be forgotten
early in dawn of the next life, none to be recalled until I awaken
in the time beyond time....
I'm a Catholic,You're a Muslim
I'm an Orthodox ,You're a Protestant
I'm a Hindhuist,You're a Buddhist
You're an Atheist,and I am a Mormon too.
You're an African,I'm American
You're an Asian,I'm a European
You're a Mexican, I'm an Indian
You're an Arab,I'm a Jew
But prior to all our distinct differences
I'm a Mother ,I'm a Father
I'm a Sister,I'm a Brother
I'm a Son,I am a Daughter
and I'm Human just like you.
I revisit this realm where your actions cannot,
Will not,
Stifle my nascence
Never enough,
Never enough
Forward,
I tear away my onion skin
Embattled by a loathing humanity
I throw solaced emotions
Upon rusted turnstiles
Spinning round,
Right round,
Round,
Right round
But, you wouldn’t call me baby.
Good.
Because I was told
That it is better to be hated for who I am,
Then loved for who I am not
So, hate me.
HATE ME!
HATE ME!
Forever…
…always.
Lunge at me with your preconceived notions
Of why I mean(t) the world to you
Open your arms of Fort Knox and
Tell me why I WILL NOT ASCEND
Upon your generic wings
Made of Atheist smiles
Because,
If you don’t believe in anything,
Why
Oh why,
Would you believe in me?
©D.J.E. -11/19/2015
The essential question we have at hand
Was it God who created man
Or was God an invention of a Jewish clan
Is the Bible the word of the Divine
Or a narrative spawned from human minds
Did Jesus arise from the grave
Or was his body simply stolen away
The answer to these questions holds eternal weight
And both sides require an element of faith
My intellect finds more evidence for a risen Jesus
Than for my ancestors evolving from a rhesus
In a forest grove, where shadows dance,
Stands a gnarled tree, a symbol of chance.
Its twisted branches reach towards the sky,
A source of inspiration, none can deny.
Through countless seasons, it stood the test,
Weathering storms, it never lost its zest.
With roots deep and strong, firmly it clings,
Teaching us lessons that inspiration brings.
From its gnarled form, stories unfold,
Whispering secrets, untold and bold.
Each twist and turn, a tale of resilience,
A reminder to find strength in our existence.
In a world of faith, a gnarled atheist stands,
Defying beliefs, questioning the divine's demands.
With a mind unyielding, and thoughts unbound,
They traverse the realm of reason, profound.
No prayers whispered, no gods to adore,
Their path is paved with skepticism and more.
Through logic's lens, they seek to explore,
The mysteries of life, its essence to restore.
But in the depths of their skeptical soul,
Lies a yearning for truth, an eternal goal.
They seek understanding, beyond what we see,
In the wonders of science, in knowledge set free.
In the depths of time, a soul so old,
A gnarled person, weathered and bold.
Lines etched deeply upon their face,
A map of wisdom, earned through grace.
Their hands, like branches, twisted and bent,
Each wrinkle a story, a life well spent.
With every step, a slow, steady gait,
A testament to battles fought, never too late.
Their eyes, like windows, weathered and wise,
Reflecting the world, its lows and its highs.
Through storms and sorrows, they've stood tall,
A beacon of strength, through it all.
Their voice, like whispers, gravelly and low,
Carries echoes of wisdom, of stories untold.
Each word, a nugget of truth and insight,
Guiding lost souls towards the light.
God, if you're listening,
I haven't heard from you in a long time.
I thought we had a great thing going here, but my prayers have yet to be answered.
I know this sounds crazy, but I think that I am dead.
That must be the only answer. That I must be stuck in this spiral of hell for my sins.
That he murdered me that day when he pierced through me. That I must be lying there dead this very minute, left alone on that splintering, cold, hard floor.
God, if you're listening,
Is this some sort of punishment? If this isn't hell, then what messed up purgatory is this? What is my test? To see if I can make it out alive? Or, better yet, to see if I turn to you in my time of need?
God, if you're listening,
Here's the thing. Why put me in this place?
Why give your "strongest soldiers your hardest battles"?
Why give me so much pain that I must reflect it on my skin?
Why make me feel shame for tarnishing my porcelain hips with marks that burn like a scarlet letter?
God, if you're listening,
I don't think I quite understand how all of this is part of "your plan".
What exactly is your plan?
Whatever it is, since it apparently involves me having to relive my most traumatic moments in my head from dusk till dawn, I do not want any part in it.
God, if you're listening,
I'm sorry if I am coming off too harsh, but don't you see that I am angry?
How can I worship you when there is so much pain in the world?
For someone who claims to love all of their children, sir I would be calling CPS for child neglect.
God, if you're listening,
Your children are crying and suffering. No matter how many times we go down on bended knees, proclaiming our dedication to you and our love to you, it seems as if it will never be enough.
So, God, if you're listening,
Go to hell.
Science defines my virtue.
Factual and fictional books are my domain.
Don’t speak to me of pixies, fairies, and unicorns,
Or of your monopoly on morality, love, faith, and shame.
I am what I am
And of what I do I claim my own.
I fight for my survival
Of which need not be told, judged or shown.
There is no all knowing
Or an immortal god of my fate he will judge.
For when my heart ceases to beat
It will return from whence it came, a kind of primordial sludge.
And when I die
I will not be present to lend a single care.
I spent my life living
Where cowards do not dare.
Do not ask me to have faith.
Do not ask me to prove love.
Do not ask me to define absolutes.
For I know absolutely, there is no god above.
I claim we are all one human race,
Merely here because of some random demise.
The purpose of my existence,
Is equal to other humans, including apes, birds, and flies.
Nothing of life can be proven,
Nor of life I can disprove.
I live by a faith in myself;
I am my own god, a perfect image of myself which cannot be improved.
( The poem is based on the biographical details with quotes of Lord Byron the renaissance poet. The poem is Stand By Me appeal to the criticism of Byron being an outspoken, atheist and passionate poet)
By accident his left leg was twisted
Mary nursed it though he resisted.
A day came when Mary died and
Her dying words about him were at the end
“All for the love of the child, she nursed in lieu”
He said then, “I can put on a simple shoe”
He asked himself, “Why should I weep?
Her matchless spirit sweeps
In the shade of her bower
I remember the hours
We shall meet
In this rural retreat
Now we will see each other no more
One last look what we were before”
Pleasure became a pain to him
At the sight of people’s screams.
+++
January 21, 2015
Form: Rhyme
Fifth Place win
Contest: Stand By Me
Death is but life and life is death, I wonder,
Where does the spirit go when it's released?
Many beliefs have a different thought,
The body is just breathing that has ceased.
We wonder how many years we have left,
We live them like there is no tomorrow,
We dance in sunshine and run from thunder,
Death is but life and life is death, I wonder.
Everyone has their own personal sins,
Hiding in a closet they built of fear,
All have free will to have them unleashed,
Where does this spirit go when it's released?
So many religions do not agree,
The true path to God is forever sought,
I choose to chase spirituality,
Many beliefs have a different thought.
We all have struggles way down deep inside,
With cracks and holes and roads that have now creased,
Believer, atheist, agnostic, all.
The body is just breathing that has ceased.
All you've done is done, no reason to cry,
There is much more as far as I can see,
Did you once try to help humanity?
Is this your blown up personality?
Death is but life.
The sea’s silver ripples gently undulate
to call upon the coast and tease my feet.
I am but a child. A threat, not a sign;
they let me play in the breeze and brine.
Waves in wild gyration join my summer dance,
to flash and crash upon the rocks and sand;
on to the sea, they buck then rush back to shore.
Bruised, I grope... fall...try to rise once more.
Ocean tides, crimsoned by the alpenglow,
toss garbage and sacks of religious debris.
The atheists, thieves and the devotees, watch
the spit of the evil one stick back to his own lips.
Hourglass sands are mostly unnoticed gray,
and when the tempest comes wailing, thrashing
from the sea, how disappointed it must be.
I, the child, the lost, am safe and anchored...shored!
Inspired by Craig's Seashore Theme - Not for Contest
06 February 2016
I am a waterfall , cascading , descending , trickling down
all over your sunkissed shoulders , and a hundred bare thoughts .
Smell me , A delicate fragrance like that of drying cotton linen
perched on the line of an early Spring morn.
Hear me .Listen to my swish-swoosh sound
a distant echo of a babbling brook within your silence.
Taste me . Quench your thirst from the smooth outpour of my waters.
Have me . Have all I own , rippled palettes where I stirred
crimsons , whites and blues , to give you lilacs .
Moist velvet lilacs that tickle softly along your back ,
between your toes ,against the arms of your resistance.
Feel me, feel my fresh gushes extinguish embers
which burned too quick your camping hammock
and ripped you off a million candle dreams.
Let me be . Let me become the bed of promise in your lone night.
Let me stay . I'll stay , I sway and play. Like a mandarin's lullaby ,
I'll rock you slowly into sleep beneath a canopy of forest trees.
I am the waterfall , where once in yesterday your fingers tossed
the last of of coins , with atheistic need.
Here on the edge , I'm waiting for you , to grant your wish and your release.
Till you return I keep on falling , flowing down freely from mountain creeks.
There's no such thing as a Hindu horse, nor a Catholic cat
There's no such thing as a Protestant parrot, you can always be sure of that
There's no such thing as a Rasta rabbit, nor a Mormon mouse
There's no such thing as a sheep thats a Sikh, on that you can bet your house
These creatures have no religion at all, no sectarian divide
Their only ''rules'' are created by nature; and nature will provide
If only the ''clever'' human race had no superstitions
There'd be no more wars at all, no more senseless missions
For religion is based on superstition, filled with legend and myth
Telling you how to live your life and whom you should walk with
Back to that nesting bird in the tree, or even that wild boar
Have you ever heard of an animal that created a world war ?
Where were you so long ago?
All those eons before a tot.
In some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You were not.
On a shelf of surplus stock,
A soul dressed up in heavens frock.
Perhaps a spirit not yet wrought,
No. Not there. You were not.
Then began your book of life,
It’s made in volumes three.
The past, the present,
And the yet to be.
Will you write only pleasant,
As you pen volume present?
Avoiding matters to disavow,
Parting life’s waves by your prow.
Crashing the crest before the break,
Leaving burst bubbles in your wake.
What great act earns its worth,
And a lasting mark upon the earth?
Is that mark worth the grind,
Should your labor be realigned?
The train of life rolls on rails of time,
And travel stops at the end of the line.
When that ending word is writ,
The final one that you submit.
When there is no more yet-to-be,
You close the cover on volume three.
The tome is closed. Where do you go?
To the place you were taught?
To some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You are not.
Your Book of Life, a mere spark,
Bounded by bookends of eternal dark.Where were you so long ago?
All those eons before a tot.
In some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You were not.
On a shelf of surplus stock,
A soul dressed up in heavenly frock.
Perhaps a spirit not yet wrought,
No. Not there. You were not.
Then began your book of life,
It’s made in volumes three.
The past, the present,
And the yet to be.
Will you write only pleasant,
As you pen volume present?
Avoiding matters to disavow,
Parting life’s waves by your prow.
Crashing the crest before the break,
Leaving burst bubbles in your wake.
What great act earns its worth,
And a lasting mark upon the earth?
Is that mark worth the grind,
Should your labor be realigned?
The train of life rolls on rails of time,
And travel stops at the end of the line.
When that ending word is writ,
The final one that you submit.
When there is no more yet-to-be,
You close the cover on volume three.
The tome is closed. Where do you go?
To the place you were taught?
To some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You are not.
Your Book of Life, a mere spark,
Bounded by bookends of eternal dark.