Best Clerics Poems
The Easter Celebration
is a day of purest gold
for many sincere people
who believe what they've been told
"The Resurrection of Our Lord
occurred upon this day
and not to recognize it
would be sacrilege," some say.
"The Easter Bunny brought those eggs,"
is what we tell our youth,
for this is so much easier
than teaching them the truth.
Encyclopedias tell us of
a pagan celebration,
a rite of early spring to hail
the rebirth of creation.
The egg is emblematic of
spring's germinating life,
a fresh start from the winter's cold,
its blizzards and its strife.
The rabbit is an ancient sign,
the symbol of fertility;
In sex worship it symbolizes
man's insatiability.
So what if ancient pagans
used this day, protests the pastor,
to feast the Goddess of the Dawn
the Teutons called Eastre.
It's important to remember that
our Lord rose from the grave,
and thus a hope for resurrection
of the dead he gave.
So, a rabbit laying eggs was part
of ancient pagan rite?
He's just the Easter Bunny now
who brings our kids delight.
So what, the clerics cry,
if things we're teaching children might
have come from Devil Worship?
Do I hear, Amen? ...Yeah, Right!
Just another Warrenpiece
….And no one spoke…
protecting all about them from
the perception of impropriety,
insensitivity, misunderstanding
…and no one looked…
shielding their eyes lest their gaze
be taken as an affront to the fashion
choices of a passerby, an insult to
the sanctimonious clerics wardrobe,
an assault on the personal space of
a nearsighted Neanderthal.
…and no one listened….
for fear of hearing anything….
that might offend their sensitivities,
sound a tone that was not in
complete compliance, allow the possibility
of conversation.
So did the monkeys take the throne,
the threesome of denial, risen
to the peak of power because they
heard no evil – spoke no evil – saw no evil
became the dupes of evil - because they
heard no good – spoke no good – saw no good
John G. Lawless
8/13/2015
An Obscenity Trial
by Michael R. Burch
The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints
against whom several critics cited numerous complaints.
They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd,"
and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud.
The prosecutor alleged himself most stylish and best-dressed;
it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed.
He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity;
twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality.
The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind,
though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind.
Clerics called him the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin.
Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in.
The prosecutor began his case
by spitting in the poet's face,
knowing the trial would be a farce.
"It is obscene,"
he screamed,
"to expose the naked heart!"
The recorder (bewildered Society)
greeted this statement with applause.
"This man is no poet.
Just look: his Hallmark shows it.
Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar!
He speaks without a stammer!
His sense of rhythm is too fine!
He does not use recondite words
or conjure ancient Latin verbs.
This man is an imposter!
I ask that his sentence be
the almost perceptible indignity
of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster."
The jury left in tears of joy, literally sequestered.
The defendant sighed in mild despair,
"Please, let me answer to my peers."
But how His Honor giggled then,
seeing no poets were let in.
Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad
and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad.
***
A well-known poet criticized this poem for being "journalistic." But then the poem is written from the point of view of a journalist who's covering the trial of a poet. The poem was completed by the end of my sophomore year in college.
Written: May 22, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Daniel Henry Rodgers
3rd place contest winner
*******************************
They found it in a cellar no one remembered building—
a small box of tarnished brass, hinges soft as old breath,
a warm lid that felt like it had been pondering for a long time.
Scholars termed it a mnemonic engine,
while clerics labeled it a sin-counter.
Children claimed it housed a star that forgot how to shine.
The lady who inherited it—
The one with the quivering hand and the always-paused voice—knew better.
She had seen the way the box listened.
When she approached, the air thickened,
as if the room were holding its breath to avoid spoiling a pledge.
The box never opened for her or anyone else.
It often shifts its weight on the table at night like a dreamer rolling over.
She kept it despite demurs that it buzzed, projected shades in locations,
no lantern may explain, and knew things no object should recall.
When she tried to leave it behind,
the silence in her chest grew heavier, as if the box were
only keeping her unspoken life from collapsing.
She swore she heard it whisper, never words, some nights.
A quiet, rhythmic counting sound.
Counting her unspoken regrets, options, and lost selves.
Maybe the sum of times she walked back from a truth.
The reliquary kept its secret.
It waited, watched, and held what she couldn't say.
After she died, they found the box beside her,
still closed, warm, and listening.
No one dared touch it, but someone claimed they heard it exhale—
a long, relaxed breath, as if it had stopped counting???
“The Great Riddle”
Humanism became a new religion
in a world where romancing gods
at war sanctifying acts of violence
for their own levels of commandments,
became defunct, monotheism at odds
walked inside the vessels of mortal existence
there also,
inside the great
I am,
an image
lives
and speaks
the sacriligious poet
writing and speaking
listening to others
all the words gone wrong
considering rehoming
after death,
there are many houses...there,
what should gods
and warring religions
matter then?
Inside
the great
I am,
heresies romancing apostates
perilous poets and
all consuming clerics
all made
from the one
image of a man
living life
from the confusing words,
read, written and spoken
sleeping together
uncomfortably
like warring lovers
blanketed under harsh covers
of different books
seeking something sweet
riddles to be answered
by judges after their death
when all do meet
standing around
the communal fire
burning all their books
peace came
to be
upon them
no longer
did they
speak in riddles
a common knowledge
all words transparent
one voice heard
its beating heart succinct,
yet terribly misunderstood,
eventually felt
held
in hands
after death
the Reborn,
eventually
understood
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"Out of the eater came something to eat,
and out of the strong came something sweet."
Fires burning, burning bright.
Not for warmth or even light.
Burning flesh seared to the bone.
Was this the sense of martyrdom?
Mary Tudor was the Queen,
return of Popery her dream.
Henry's child without a doubt,
her fathers deeds to turn about.
Men and women, loosing life,
butchers son and bakers wife.
Bishops, clerics, Lords and sires,
Not one spared the holy fires.
Thomas Cranmer was her aim,
he caused her mother so much pain.
Anne Boleyn's most errant knight,
causing Mary's own sad plight.
Hooper, Ridley, Cranmer too,
English folk, all good and true.
All subsumed to appease her bile,
sacrificed on the stakes woodpile.
Fourteen score souls finally died,
entering the flames with pride.
Heretics, each and every one.
Assured of joining God's own son.
As death became well-nigh routine,
The people cried God Save the Queen.
But they, in their hearts, were wary,
amongst themselves called her Bloody Mary.
Fanatical Clerics feed religious fervour,
by rousing fanatics to kill - as an observer
can see almost daily on the TV today.
No thought given to victims, who they
regard as inconsequential in their quest
to become martyrs. When obsessed
by unscrupulous bigots who radicalise
these zealots with promises that hypnotise
and inflames them with a burning passion,
and incites them to commit deeds in a fashion
that all rational thinking men fear! Felo-de-se
is regarded as a badge of honour, and we see
callow youths seeking vainglory recognition,
joining the forces of evil! Without contrition
they engage in the casual slaughter of innocents!
To enact obscene atrocities they don garments
that conceal explosives, then infiltrate a throng,
to detonate their device, as their swan song!
By targetting busy locales in many cities,
they exact great loss of life, with such atrocities,
indiscriminately killing adults and children alike,
they leave survivors to grieve. Isis terrorists strike
at the core of democracy, hoping to promote strife
amongst ethnic groups, showing no sanctity for life:
not even their own! Such hated villains are despised!
These forces of evil, must even leave Satan surprised.
Rhymer. August 4th, 2016.
Felo-de-se - suicide
O love! Tell them, the good men,
In your own old melodious tone:
Let’s again—Return to Nature.
Whatever little or large is left,
Let’s re-adorn her.
And if they won’t!
Let’s—You and I.
Hand-in-hand walk away of the city:
Biharis stay by the smelling slums;
Laid-off-addicts stand in long queues; or the clerics kiss the petty politicians on brows.
Where monsters: War-weopens, Jingoism, Globalization, Modernity, and Machines,
Have spread havoc!
And find our abode, there,
Near the breezy woods, in the calm country;
Where well! I can meditate,
And you’ll have all that childish fun…
Running after the flies, or fighting with the bucks,
Dancing in sultry summer’s bursting rain,
Or mimicking a singing bird.
(the poems is the introductory poem of my poetry collection "TELL THE OLD LADY WAIT AND OTHER POEMS")
Hydra-headed monster, corruption
The master of our nation
In our face and all facets
Our progress' pace, it dictates.
Now it's normal, by christening
Made formal by rebranding
Existing laws are bypassed
News ones? Not needed!
Clerics, step up your say
Teachers, justify your meagre pay
At home, young minds must be disabused
This game, it's high time it ceased!
Blood on our hands.
Extremist hate is on the rise
Are you seeing it with your own eyes?
Hate filled clerics cashing in
A world of terror, death and sin
Speaking out, preaching to the masses
Spewing vile hatred master classes!
Look at our country, it's condition
Feeding these bastards ammunition
It's on our streets & in our jails
Brainwashing convicts in their cells!
What has Great Britain become?
A breeding ground for terrorist scum!
An innocent man on the street
Butchered like a piece of meat!
A British soldier, 1 of our own
Had survived working in a war zone
Murdered by a pair of cowards
They should have hung from the tower!
An eye for an eye should be made law
To eradicate the extremist hoards
Let's stand up tall , let's take the fight
Regain control of our countries plight
Banish them from our hallowed lands
And wash the blood stains from our hands.
I do not
believe in God...
There, it is said.
But before you throw
your hands into the air,
I testify, "God Is"
and that is quite the fair
assessment of what I know, you see,
for there is not a human thought
which may enlighten me
about a deity that one might
with a certainty believe in,
worship for the sake of humankind,
nor bless; not us,
nor even all the clerics you may find.
I do like the appurtenances
of faith. I appreciate
the great cathedrals, lofty art,
the music filling us with
thoughts of beauty and of sacrifice
or indeed, that love alone
may serve as the epitome
of any God one thinks about.
But there it is, and then the counterpart
that I at length must face.
for anguish too will take its place.
Perhaps my murky thoughts
allow some muddy exercise;
any thought of God I entertain
embraces glory to be sure
and turmoil will confound the mix.
The creed of William Alexander Percy
says it best:
"The peace of God, it is no peace
but strife closed in the sod.
Yet brothers, pray for just one thing--
the marvelous peace of God."
~
Does it really matter that i conform to the norms of the day?
What perfect blueprint is there for the journey called life?
Who are you to chastise me for being filled with flaws?
Only one was made perfect.
who deems it otherwise?
Who made you judge and jury over the morally bankrupt?
How dare you raise your nose when your anus is filthy?
Aren't we all on this journey to utopia?
what being dares claim arrival?
That life is fraught with connundrums and challenges is not far fron the turth.
That humans of different races will be judged alike is up for debate.
I'm filled with vices, and so are you
but thou hipocrisy shields your misdeeds.
Listen, fellow weaklings
Take caution as you condescend,
for the descent is inevitable.
What fun is there to life if we dont fall and rise?
What story will be told if we dont lose and repossess?
How would we become fitter if we are not faced with storms?
Who can best define our cause on devil's roof?
Is it survival or procreation?
Is it strifes or oppression?
No one really can tell, only HIM knows
Clerics hold us bondage to selfish doctrines,
and we gullibly oblige.
Like a procession of zombies,
yearning for the release their words present,
unable to put our reasoning to test,
and lose the cloak of vulnerability.
Who exactly are we?
puppets of nature?
or rivals in the ring of life?
Do you wonder why harmony dwell scarce in the elements?
Or why philophobia lives in the heart of men?
I'm speechless, i tremor
at the level of discord we habour
Can humans ever really change?
do we just suppress some deeds at whim?
and display others when we desire.
Will we ever be whole?
Locked in the pages of a book
I find sanctuary, a quiet nook,
Where I often retreat and find
the kindest heart, the vilest mind.
Whenever I feel like getting away
From the rigors of life on any day,
I step through the portals of a book
into a fantasy world and take a look:
At the mythical realms of dragons
Fairies, nymphs, demons, gorgons,
At the dreams, adventures and magic
of life and death purpose and logic;
Folktales of love, miracles, covenants
Of knights, heroes and revenants,
Of saints, seers, demigods and mystics,
Priests, pundits, mullahs and clerics.
A vast chronicle of betrayal of trust
of reverence, innocence and lust,
Of deceit, debauchery and debacles
of witches, vampires and oracles.
Deeds of dictators, despots, czars
The chaotic world of wasteful wars,
swarming with malicious mobs,
fawners, snivelers and slimy slobs.
Be it poetry, mystery or tragedy
Racy romance, fantasy, comedy,
Oh, just give me but a book any
I will forgo a damsel’s company.
In the Library contest by Isaiah Zerbst
The Body of Christ has been mutilated,
Placed on scale balances for bidders,
His blood used yet still in profanity-
Drunk by freemasons and the guilty.
The devil has seized it, in it he bathes and laughs!
Why not? why not?
Our Holy Lord has been desecrated
By clerical cupidity and nominal indiferences.
Look ahead son, look over there!
beneath that roof where congregates
menfolk and clerics
The Body of Christ
is being weighed for the buyers.
Stipulations of mild stripy animals can be seen even in a misted monument. As money is a molestation and global percentages is often hazardous. Such jeopardy in high ranking offices. Wow. Penalisation of a queue of poor is a sour and act of radicalised clerics whose antics displease the wibble wobbling signature lines of many a balanced sky temple. So skit not a wild free grass skirted cat. For it us the beams of life that will induce freedom formations. When leaping over a hurdle of biscuits take care not to erode timeless meaninglessness chatter as boxes are utilised to contain essences so do not dare to argue with a rolling pin nor discuss dietary requirements with angelical mildew mops. Moving on. Zombified trolley dashing wisdom lacking duped. La la la.and I am laughing haha *** dramatically shimmering chimney stack in a tropical weave. Xxxx mysticism xxxx clip clop