Best Inquisitors Poems
Once, inquisitors would torture a witch
and strip her naked down to the last stitch.
And fear in the people reached fever pitch
encouraged by the clergy and the rich.
It's like scratching that unreachable itch
crushing skulls of succubus that bewitch.
And procuring an informant or snitch
the church used faith as a means to enrich.
Burnt alive or hug, so's to watch them twitch
practiced for centuries with naught a glitch.
Finally, attitudes began to switch
and today, witches fill an occult niche.
With a witch, an itch, a glitch, and a twitch,
the war on women runs without a hitch.
Subjugated women are labeled B*tch
raped murdered and disposed of in a ditch.
(Monorhyme)
10/24/2019
Itch, witch, glitch or twitch Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nina Parmenter
Roman capital punishment,
crucifixion morphed into
another raised gravity depravity
Guillotine justice dropping down —
off with the heads of the enemy!
Sleepy Hollow gangsters Herod-ing into town
Time pendulum swinging ...
death sentence methods changing again
Face the firing squad
Termination by little lead sledgehammers
hitting the head bullet hard
That final granted death wish stick smoke last seen
came from the barrel of smoking guns
The temporal blade is ever swinging
in kaleidoscopic frenzy fatally spun
Change the reel on the snuff film again
Strap the condemned into an electric chair;
place the rubber cap on their head,
after shaving off the hair
Gov’ment gotta get a false witness or two
to make the charges stick
Media static permeates the air,
news flash:
Executioner has the day off,
a nurse said the death doctor was sick
Then the metal switch morphed into a plastic syringe
Lethal injection with enough poison
to make a grown elephant of a man cringe
Tear a futuristic page from ancient history,
fact check the story if you need ...
DNA results came back: it said
the death row candidate was innocent
But the brigandine centurions wouldn’t listen;
they turned an adder deaf ear, they didn’t wanna viper hear
Pilate decree taking place as scheduled —
never mind that the convicted is innocent,
State sanctioned murder must go on
Although, the torture inquisitors can’t yet prove it,
they know the condemned did something wrong
Three days later, the psychic judges were told
the dead body was resurrection exhumed
The next termination iteration
is weaponized sonic waves, I presume
Right from before birth,
All men has got the talent of being
A philosopher.
There we where,
Still pondering,
Should we go?
Should we not come?
Before mother
Without our permission
Pushed us out.
Some said we cried tears of joy,
But was it?
As a child,
We always wondered
So many things
That even father and mother
Stopped to bother.
Is the bird a plane?
Is the plane a bird?
We never thought wrong
Of walking about with pants,
But we always wondered
Why does she bends to pee?
Any why do I stand to wee-wee?
Growing older,
Into a teenager,
We kept the questions on
Is the moon round and beautiful?
Is the moon C shaped like we see?
Where is the sun at night?
Does the star sleeps by day?
And though we've been told not to,
We still will ask,
Should I love?
Why should I not have sex?
One rather 'wise' question
We shall never cease to ask,
Some ask themselves,
Others, ask others;
Does love really exists?
Its quite funny,
How the questions never cease
And how they hardly repeats,
With different questions,
At different times
On manytimes different things.
Even when the God-given
Beautiful black hair turns grey.
We still inquire,
When will death come?
How will she come?
Even now as you read, you ask;
What do we learn from this?
As some will also ponder;
Did he really do this?
Won't you?
Despite I am here, still asking
Should we stop pondering?
Same me, still thinking,
Should I have written this?
As I view flat prairie with mountain range beyond, morning sunshine warms me
and I know by afternoon, fierce storms may gather without warning.
I envy not the urban dweller rushing to and fro amidst stark cement barriers.
Yes, small town life suits me…
I’ll not trade nights laying head on pillow as moonlight pierces the darkness
and coyotes cry to the far reaches like their ancestors before…No, never!
I could not, would not, give up the freedom found in these open spaces
where peaceful Amish plow behind horses harnessed in leather strap.
I proudly tell inquisitors, I met my husband dancing at the old grange hall,
then settled on the ranch his kin claimed and worked three generations back.
I feel safe, protected here among friends in this quaint little town.
Crime is not a factor—not a priority one deals with on a daily basis.
Trips to market bring no snarled traffic, no changing lights of red, yellow, green.
Welcome is felt, not heard from silent voices behind familiar smiling eyes.
On unpaved roads I return as dust fills nose and eyes, making me sneeze
but it’s joy rather than nuisance as I jog along in our old pickup truck.
Here the family is strong, unified—respect for elders required,
blending generations of those who tamed the land before us.
Sunday church services overflow with scrubbed and shining faces
as preachers spread harmony and warnings from the Good Book.
Camaraderie and sportsmanship are taught in this small town.
Proud parents gather in crowds to support their team at each and every event.
Discipline and morals form traditional characteristics of the region,
and authority is respected on all levels, patriotism honored.
Our children do not stray to the bright lights of the city
vandalizing, joining lost souls seeking acceptance on mean streets.
Early evening sounds of slumber echo thru’ thin walls of this old farmhouse
for morning chores greet our kids, us, in this game of sweet survival.
No, I do not envy city folks or opportunities I may have missed therein,
nor do I allow them to bring me scorn, or take pity on my soul.
I gain my worth from one greater, wiser, more forgiving than mere mortals…
I hear the voice of my Creator, and I follow where He leads.
I bring you a live commentary match between Sin and Grace
Sin are inches away to the box
Lust shots, Self-Control reacts well and blocks
Longsuffering has been fouled at the 18-yard
Pride has been booked, he gets a yellow card
Envy probing for a goal, last week he scored a brace
Sin camping on the edge of Grace
A change for Sin, Lust out for fornication
Game resumes, an untimely clearance by abortion
A lengthy spell of Sin possession
They are playing with so much aggression
Pressure still mounting on Grace
Pride dribbles past a marker and finds space
Anger is booked for pulling Gentleness
A shot! And Truth denies Falseness
And another glorious chanced missed
Envy out for murder on the final substitution list
The minute is ticking away and Grace are standing firm
A long drive by Revelries, a great save by Peace! What a gem!
A handball by goodness at the halfway line
But ref. Mercy says No! She waves play on! Mine! Oh mine!!
Self-Control goes for shoulder-to-shoulder with Anger
And he wins the battle of defender
Oh! Outbursts of wrath as he fires over the bar
Wrath burst forward again and finds murder afar
But Self-Control masterminded that move
What a game he has had! He’s surely improved
Four minutes to stoppage time, a long searching ball to Joy
He shots! And is a goal! Amazing goal!! Oh boy!!!
Sin were exposed, and Joy curled the ball pass Sorrow
Am flabbergasted! For Sin, the road to the final looks narrow
Grace are just a seconds away to the World Crown Final
And it’s all over here! Grace are in the World Crown Final!
An astonishing game! An undeserved victory!
Grace wins by a lone goal and Grace makes history!
What a graceful display from the visitors!
As they vanquished the inquisitors!
What should we say? Should we wallow in sin, so that God's Grace will overflow?
God’s [mercy] forbid! If we are dead to sin and alive in Christ, how can we go on sinning? [Romans 6:1-2: The Poet Preacher’s Version]
Verbal gymnastics
twist the real meaning of this barbarous truth
To kill is called to sanction,
deliver the package is black ops captured proof
Approval of torture
moves a scared society 911 degrees
to the medieval reprobate melting phase
Blood flowers of a Nazi security horticulture
gets pruned and propaganda presented as being vitally necessary
By lovers of the philosophy of Marquis de Sade
Enhanced techniques of interrogation
is such a sterile term
Clinical desensitized dark suit pain inquisitors
favor methods of food and sleep deprivation
Give the screamers an amplified sip of electrical sperm,
treat the enemy combatants like ovulated planarian visitors
Torture is not for the squeamish heart ...
Cruel breakers of the body
like wearing the cloaked title of Roman toga civility
Closely check the polygraph chart,
see the shattered souls lay beaten with eyes empty
Classified secrets justify enhanced techniques;
flayed flesh of revenge satiate their bloodlust need,
give the vampire drinkers a full chalice of grapes of wrath plead
Lovers of life hate crucified words that morally bleed
Slum
Where hard looks and thin soup oppose,
the spider, cockroach, rat, and mouse dispute
in patient litigation or in border raids
our title to this world.
There is no mystery, it boils down to food.
Our ruined lunches providing theirs
as Roman baths provided stones
for abbeys of a different creed.
They too win converts. With earbite and cold fear,
patient, persistent, numerous,
their inquisitors huddle together in dim light
to study our disgust.
Greyly, brownly, blackly surpliced
they muse on our improbable millennium.
Poker Sketch “The Brotherhood of Eternal Love”
What did we contemplate;
while at the fire-front, sooted:
Hot faced, In three D:
In those long minutes, of pleasant ;
extended hours of misguided endless,
diluted from an unseen “two named” hourglass !
Dripping; its sandy content.
It the darkness ; crept, It
sat behind our thin shoulders:
And hair strewn thinnish necks:
Levi collared rough stitched !
Thread bare to time. What ? did we consider ;
Pushing that heavy poker;
cold brassed, not utilised ever by Leonardo !
Sketching dreams, in the long cold ashes;
While Peters, "Supernatural"
soothed our innocently: dirty minds and egos.
It had no identity name ! Just night;
It may have been Winter outside
as coals spit, and sparks spat,
bare wrists sting ! But ; you continue the ash sketch.
What did we concoct ?
Wild ! in that balmy warmth
picking apart bristles: Stretching upward,
Glancing a fleeting glimpse,
at the tick tocked face, with muted bell,
its loose hands skipped,
falling quickly too six.
It didn't matter;
Warming the poker, Maybe !
To brand, the early hours,
making all of those hours ours,
proven marks; proof,
vainly legal, safe from
inquisitors, and hungry dogs.
What did we digest ?
Through these nights of -
“The Brotherhood of Eternal Love"
until ; that creeping dawn,
broke the Witches spell while along we rode
In those ashes of dreams forbidden
and coldly stagnant: Our days closed.
I think after all grace fails –
man not, in time, making it
far enough out~ too late bails
to a fresh planet uninhabited,
much like ours before consuming
and mating, as if a vibrant garden
could not be overly rabbited
(you know, what I mean~
after the big one dropped
or some miraculous vaccine
has totally flopped)
yet, somehow, some way,
in a twisted sort of divine display,
pigeons, rats and roaches, will be
the Big Blue Marble's, by default,
newly ordained goodwill
ambassadors and spiritual
coaches –
(a banner hung in
near space inviting alien visitors --
unfortunately too late arriving
to be humanity's saving inquisitors --
“To Thee we will pay homage,
another eclectic, semi-intelligent species needed –
bring lots of garbage....”)
“Do you hear gratings creak
Upon the cellar bricks?”
…Just autumn winds that wreak
Deceptive, noisy tricks.
“And did you hear the knell
Of bells from long ago?”
…The belfry long since fell
In ruins, this I know.
“Who calls your name aloud
Outside your bolted door?”
…I sleep. No one’s allowed
To rouse me while I snore.
“Excuse us, please forgive
Our frivolous remarks—
You’ve moments left to live—
Our claws will leave red marks!”
At What Cost Shall We Ransom This God
At what cost shall we ransom this God!
Held hostage in the towers of sanctity
by the scurrilous usurpers of His throne.
We pay homage to the hierarchic harlots
bow and scrape to the gnomish gatekeepers
pray to the hollow echo of an empty dome
worship at the bloody feet of tyrants
begging for their intercessory indulgences
weeping at the feet of sainted idols.
What is this God, this silent myth,
this silent, helpless, savior
mocked by those that call him Master.
When will He show his hand,
His mercy, His power, His love
to those who cower in the shadows,
struggle to exist outside the temple walls
hold hungry children in the scent of feasts
offered to the fattened inquisitors.
At what cost shall we ransom this God
free Him from the confines of His keepers
share a crust of bread, a moments peace?
4/17/2016
submitted to – Any Poem Written In April 2016
sponsor – Laura Loo
Stretched to the limit,
past breaking point,
On the torturers rack,
bones popping out of joint,
Gone too far already,
sinews and tendons tear,
Now the skin is breaking,
blood spurts into open air
All this suffering, to get a
forced confession,
At the mercy of an inquisitors,
demonic obsession,
You believe in false gods,
and practice black magic,
Admit Admit, your a
pernicious messianic.
Wretched soul says anything,
to try halt the pain,
Tormentors delight,
in the methods of their gain,
Now kiss the cross,
and repent all your sin,
Left to die from injuries,
torn limb from limb,
This is Middle Ages,
height of inquisition,
Pain and torture rampant,
on a road to perdition,
Evil has taken over,
look crooked get burnt to death,
Say a wrong word,
cut the tongue out of your head
All this insanity,
done in the so
called name of god,
The body of the church,
is a murderous hit squad,
These bloodthirsty fanatics,
dregs of human race,
Bottomless pit of evil,
an enduring disgrace,
Was this the result,
of choosing the wrong religion,
No just an excuse,
to achieve total submission,
Another form of dictatorship,
under the guise of a Bible
Led by the papacy,
to ensure their own survival.
By
David Kavanagh
surrounded
by the inquisitive
the thinkers, searchers
binky dependent
“toddleresque”
Inquisitors
exploring
in tactile glee
a world of wonder.
I am blessed
for they invite me
to feel
to investigate
the simplicity
of knowledge.
John G. Lawless
©1/7/2023
You!
Harbinger of wars
Impeder of enlightenment
I beseech you
Begone, begone with you
Cease beguiling
The weak, the meek
With atonement
For alleged sins
Cease spearing
The flesh of the simple
With your evil seed
Behind the vespers
In the corrupted house
Of your alleged God
For my eyes are open
I see the veracity
Behind the fraud
Scoundrels that you are
You think you own
By lies sown
Spewed forth from
The house of Rome
Intimidators of purgatory
And hell
Inquisitors of death
I pity you
For, you
Rule by fear
And fear alone
The politics of religion,
its statues on fire
All martyred saints burning
in canonized pyre
As cardinals of vengeance
seek new hearts to be stoned
Inquisitors ramble,
the Creator on loan
The religion of politics,
papal decrees
Guilt laden promises,
salvationists fee
Crusaders on horseback,
twelve Apostles alone
Which is more dangerous,
the Word or the throne
(Chorus)
“Raise the curtain—praise the Lord,
darkness censures fast
Faith though blind, still hope to find,
beyond iconoclasts
“With eyes wide open, see the light,
all else to render lies
His love unending, given free,
eternal life the prize”
(The New Room: April, 2022)