Best Plenary Poems
Onward Christian Soldiers
(Chivalry Dead)
God’s crusade upon them laid
a stubborn suit of mail brocade.
Knights Templar, Teutonic thugs
Mercenaries out for blood.
In guarantee of resurrection.
Skull bludgeoning insurrection.
For every heathen to the cemetery
Pope so grants indulgence plenary.
Urban calls to cut out “sin.”
with war for Jesus, champion.
Death to every infidel.
Damn them all to endless hell.
Allah-backed brave Saladin
“Jihad” shouts Islamic paladin
Jerusalem. Jerusalem.
Devastated paragon.
Kathy Collins
1/31/14
As if the house had landed on a witch’s vavavavoom,
the door’s ajar, and my boy had alerted me…
surely tornadoes increase the velocity of speed
of a mom, to zero in on, a three year old.
Forget the broom. Hear the prophet speak
of pleasant things. The boundary has fallen
in pleasant places. If ignored the blessing
clears at the speed of light, taken
from the bright eyes of infinity. Listen to the kid,
not the seven dwarfs, nor the munchkins…
“Mom, come here.” The witch’s broom, stored away.
Clearly, at this point, you think me a witch! C’mon!
Teachable moment…parents lean in. When the dumb speak…
clearly, I mean, when your son is willing to share ANYTHING,
just like E. F. Hutton…stop the presses, lean in and listen,
especially if you want him to trust you with future things,
or trust you at all… so I’m on a run…still my heart…
What will this boy impart? Are we invested in Oz?
A side note, just because…we brought him to see
a 3-D short…the witch cackled…he screamed!
Back on Oahu, Aloha…the door is cracked, minah birds
minding theirs or someone else’s business, as they
are gossipers, given to mimicry. The world has opened,
the sun is shining, as the boy points at a plenary rainbow.
Oh my heart…oh my boy… I know they must grow,
but they forget their moms when they marry,
but moms don’t forget or they shouldn’t - the promise,
the flood of memories… I’m over the rainbow!!
You, looking at me
Come and let me look closely
To see what's behind those
Eloquent eyes, restlessly dancing
Bleeding ruby-red
With indecipherable meanings
Are you happy, sad, or in-between?
Do your eyes reveal wholeheartedly
Your inner turmoil and untold secrets?
Your virtues, vices and cardinal sins?
Your scars and demons? Will they explain
The answer behind the answer of you?
Come closer and let me peek
Longingly into the window of your soul
What stories do your eyes tell?
Do they speak of love and understanding?
Perhaps pain and sadness?
Care or cold indifference?
Will your eyes pierce through
My heart like a Cupid's bayonet
And wrap my soul in plenary bliss
Like a pleased dog wagging its tail?
Will they make my soul sing
When you lovingly gaze into my eyes?
Date written: 05/12/2018
I'm Mephistopheles, you, my Faust
I'm to your mind what a fluorescent bulb is...
To a fly. I take perverse pleasure
In trapping you in my undertow
I'm a tireless tease that will break your will
I live in your mind, rent-free. I'm tough to evict
I'm your friend with bad intentions
Always up to mean mischief
I show no mercy to my victims, and I have...
No remorse. I couldn't care less whether
You're a person of virtue or vice
I couldn't care less about your age...
Your race; your religious or political affiliation
Once I've seized plenary control of you
My sole aim is to destroy you, and take your soul
I'm that enticing demon that tempts you...
Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day
Refusing to let you sleep or take a vacation
Wean me off at your peril
My name is addiction
Date written and posted: 05/30/2019
The only genius I ever met was me
Why is it so hard for others not to see?
I try so hard to teach everything I know
And all I hear from folks is where to go
It's my cross to bear, this brain of mine
Such inherent brilliance, I can't confine
This glimmering light shines to all inanity
To bring hope for this plenary of insanity
Everyone should listen, and listen well
Because there's no place for me in hell
All the souls, you see, that made it there
Didn't heed the virtuosity I tried to share
It's a plague, this scintillating mind I wield
Oh, but if such lucidity were left unrevealed
The consequences of such a horrid travesty
Would for you to be just another casualty
If only I can rise up and go there
There to market place of Mercy
That I meet generous Charity,
The wealthy merchant that she is
The hidden Samaritan none knows
With plenary powers of giving
If only I can reach there
In her ears I would whisper
Names of those that go hungry
And those that are homeless
That misery dangles in their eyes
And football played in their bellies
All wants could vanish in horizon
With the setting sun
Funeral in 1963
Beveled dusty cracked glass shielding Mother Mary enthroned,
Amidst flying angelic devotions atop whipped clouds of icy air,
Enslaved by an antique miracle made manifest in stained blood,
With silent invisible memorized prayers uttered in ancient Latin refrains,
Bowed before upright holy statues and a gold-encrusted grand altar,
He stood back-turned under a dead Jesus hiding his whispering sanctified face,
And the mysterious movements of his ten pious anointing fingers;
As with an airy fountain, he hosed Unction’s graces to the stone seekers,
Bestowing divine mercies by sealed envelope and a black vestment,
The lofty partial indulgences, the immaculate plenary indulgences,
Abundantly delivered and received using withy baskets and black beads.
Hollow dry penances offered up in a confessing private darkness of sorrow,
Within the squeezing superior stares of the priestly knot and the white Alb,
Altar boys on knees beckoning the impulsive turning of the holy human heart;
The struggled speaking of final toxic words on a red bleeding gurney;
Unsaid rosaries and scapular penances finding rusted, grinding precisions;
Broken trust and scarred faith wilting within clay idols and bloody crosses.
There is imminent death in the still waiting, there is red agony without the pain.
Black funeral wallowing within the hushed bereaved church at noon tide in 1963,
Sunken gray corpse of a woman serene, reposing waxlike in her beige groping coffin;
Grieving-suited witnesses and black-devouring shades standing wooden in dreadful silence,
Wondering when it will be their turn, their moment, to jump from this terrified earth,
These undead survivors, these breathing refugees of Unction’s graces,
Remembering now, their concealed matinee kissing games at the seedy Pillbox.
I canceled my death for you
a postponement on the inevitable
the choice had come
I could have walked away
but all things considered
and considering how much I love you
I chose to stay
This decision has had its price
for to relinquish life meant I would reunite
and to remain would surely break my heart
but I am no martyr
I do not wish to hang myself upon some bleeding thorn
but to your sorrows alter
impart my faith
In you
Yes I know you are broken
and in auspicious form so bitterly hidden
to reap your tears
shall bring to low your hearts desires
and in the garments of lies
hang you so with all your fears
until, until you praise them
This courtship of the beguiled
plenary to your sanction
would seek heroins and heroes such as you
to free yourselves
and may such honor find itself impromptu
in such stalwart souls ambition
to impart your faith
In others
pulled from the mouth of self-destruction,
demons threatening to swallow him
head to toe by plenary
surrender to power
greater than himself;
now transformed by
faith in God
he is
free
Date written: 04/19/2022
Tonight we’ll share the heavens;
Souls knitted into one,
Fly together we, the ochre moontrails,
on gossamer wings.
The decanter overflows with nectar;
its sweetness permeates the ethereal void,
like ephemerous orbs when touched
by the hands of a child.
The secret Garden’s lit by Eos’ mirth;
polychromatic hues emanate from glassine showers;
Gait filling the place, radiating in splendor,
Warming every psyche in its solace.
Silence may, yet rule the void;
Plenary peace acquiesced e’en for a nanosecond.
Then from some aperture, a tiny tingle crescendos,
as the angelic host thunder their majestic heralds.
Come with me now my beloved;
Dry I your tears with lotus petals,
Come with me now, reach out your hand
and together we’ll share a millennium in a succinct moment
in this paradise called DREAMS.
Honey did not leave me,
Just robbed me of my sweetness.
While scarlet desires still emanate from the evergreen memories,
Under the moonlit sky,
I mourn over the ascetic turmoil...
Like an invisible shrine,
It has become the bastion of our prayers,
Like a plenary indulgence,
It has effaced the objects of our affection.
Seldom do I tread on lustrous promenades
The tall trees with slender alluring fingers
Call me in repertoire
Like silky waves on an already tainted beach,
Heaven must not be pure,
As heavenly deeds are always veiled by nonexistence and retrospection,
The fruit of love
Is,since ageless times ,
The coveted poison,
The guardian angel of broken souls,
That puts to sleep
A hollow existence,
Forever freeing from the futility in the form of Life.
Molest, mark
a hazardous notation
a plenary indulgence
imparting a linkage
with or without symbolism
The club recruits fresh people—in session plenary.
Of wealth, generosity, enthusiasm, and education.
Sang a Peppa Pig song when we looted the—treasury.
Bullingdon boys with elegant looks joined—damnation.
They still swag public funds with no hesitation.
Of their country, which has been—witness.
At Oxford's Riot Club, a posh eating location.
The Riot ring is akin to real life under—darkness.
Taking advantage of the current—situation.
As written, it might or might not come to pass.
This is the only logical reason for— inflation.
The large bulk now constitutes an—underclass.
Oxford club—solely for men—meant to foster cricket.
P.M David Cameron, Boris Johnson—both tied the club
A riot ring rated—R for voice, fear, and wee wicket.
By a ritzy dress of blue, gold, ivory, and skin scrub.
Young lords destroy restaurants—pay in cash.
It's how we teach the ruling class to sing and lead.
Chant Rah Rah—Bullingdon Boys were bred to clash.
Buller! Buller—Crime pays—Bullingdon lads ahead.
Rah, Rah, Rah! The Bullingdon Boys were born to reign.
Riches run wild, lawyers stay silent— Bullers remain.
Written: March 11, 2023
2nd place contest winner
Bullingdon boys Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
Concerto D'amor
Whenever I'm with you,
Other things are amnesia.
Every single moment with you,
Suits decades in a catatonia.
If you were Bermuda triangle,
I'd often tread on the blast of shangri-la;
A picnic in the devil's triangle,
Run-of-the-mill than millenniums in ball park.
You're the Bermuda triangle.
I, being a wanderer.
The strong storm of South-America pulling me to you,
And down towards your smile I totter.
If you were an Iceberg,
I'd pull my Titanic towards you,
Rejoicing as you break me apart
Waters drowning the consciousness I'd built.
You're the iceberg;
Sybaritic, pudgy and turbingly symmetrical.
And I lost in the lust of the traverse,
With my patois feels your viscera.
Be whatever you choose:
A stark lasso repressing the rim of the sea?
But by bid can you loose,
Letting your waves gulp my plenary?
My heart through its mouth bleeds yearning,
Of how often for you I did fall.
Christ on a horse! I'm crazy 'bout you, honey!
This is my seven lives concerto d'amor.
19:05:01:16:48
Ancestor. Ancestral Pen. Ancestral piece. Concerto D'amor.
Something I’m sure is wrong with Tom,
His laughter crushing like burst bomb:
Men having to bear Cruel Chapter
And wounds keep licking long after…
Tom does the fullest delight find
In gushing blood that might one blind,
Clinching absurd satisfaction
From mischief by Hard-Skinned Faction.
I had this guess from Tom’s answer,
With words suddenly a dancer:
When shredded are combatants’ clothes,
“If the Torn Things Tom like or loathes?”
A case of The Wrong Obsession
Forward pushing like A Procession…
Tom I hate like A Recession:
A Fruitless Plenary Session…
Really, it had been a puzzle
Why Tom excuses The Nozzle.