Best Profaned Poems
Graffiti frames a tunneled tomb, beneath the city's core
where writings stretch upon the wall in dialects profaned
A hallmark and a tell-tale sign, but somehow, no one sees
Unspoken fears have set apart the lives that mingle here
In every shade the masses grow, and mingle side by side
Day, by day, the same routine, sardines until they die
The writing on the tunneled walls is just a sign to come
that walls have grown to come between the hands of humankind
They board as one, but coldness churns through veins beneath the ground
Habits honed have deafened ears to echoes all around
Distance tumbles through the aisles, small words too frail to say
"How are you, what can I do to help you smile today?"
Too occupied for reaching out to be the other's friend
No glance, no chance to say hello to the stranger by your side
No hands to grasp, no questions asked, just eyes in downward glance,
A phone in hand, whatever land, beyond all human touch
As seasons pass, left in the dust the silence breeds and feeds
more apathy, that beats the heart, as cold and hard as stone..
The sound of silence just rumbles on, until the walls come down
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4/27/18
Swift bee, the gilded messenger of bliss,
Begirt with golden stars of Heaven’s span,
What draws you to the clover’s gentle kiss?
Sweet nectars, that the strongest drinker can
Carouse with dreams and dizzy waves of sleep,
Or mocks the freshest breath of summer’s clime?
Swift bee, a flame-plumed star of black and gold,
Why do you with your mouth, completely reap
The liquors that each golden bud does hold,
And lulls with somnolence the might of time?
Oh, bee, you spread the tufted pollen clouds
Like nebulae of opal stars crossways
The delicate, soft digitalis crowds,
Which passionately garner sunbeam rays
Within their coral shells. I can’t express
How much your toil’s worth to coming spring,
And how so passioned glide your wings around
The purple, gentle harebell’s loosened dress,
And make, through pretty hums, spring’s hopeful sound
Oft too profaned by your most fearsome sting!
Oh, pretty hummer! Hearty worker! Bee!
I see you roaming round the garden’s bend,
Where sweet, white daisies wreathe a canopy,
And make you but a hearty, cheerful friend.
Swift bee, the aching, swollen heart of mine
Desires comfort where pain knows no ruth
The buds hold, like rich garners golden grain,
Ambrosia of the gods, dream’s honeyed wine
So bring and let dear bee, such moisture stain
My lips and warm my heart with spring’s bright youth!
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov
The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween.
(She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.)
With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene
and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene
by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more
except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar,
which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore,
and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War.
The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage
to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage,
but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age.
At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire,
attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher),
while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher);
and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre.
Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar,
and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire,
the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire.
The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny,
the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky.
The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”,
and bittersweet, from Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply:
“The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply;
the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.”
The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies
where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies.
Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise,
and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries...
End
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
erred against God's omnipotent will
sacrosanct commandments profaned
myriad chances bestowed
squandered - still sins exist
all are imperfect
but must do good
now, squealing
being
JUDGED.
===========================================
jun-jun villanueva
IMAGINATION
Broken “Perfect”
Blowout Preventer
Billowing Petroleum
Burning Profusely
Bodies Paining
Burning Peeling
Bleeding Pleading
Buried Passing
Blighted Preserve
Bayous Profaned
Beaches Polluted
Biosphere Poisoned
Banned Products
Boats Parked
Businesses Pinched
Breadwinners Penniless
Beleaguered President
Bluntly Proposed
“Billions Promptly”
BP Provided
British Petroleum
Blind Profiteers
Bloody Pumpers
BRUTAL PERFORMERS!
British Petroleum
Broke Permits
Betrayed Public
BRUTAL PERFORMANCE!
Sonnets After
Midnight #1 (Far
Destined Winds)
Far destined winds, port a love song for me.
Send silent heart-thoughts of hope in the air,
To her left standing far across the sea--
Gazing from a tower to see me from there.
Oh wind have a breeze her soft brow caresse;
Send flowing waves to whisper in her ear
My unheard music of love's tenderness
I would sing to her if I cold be near.
Winds for me stroke with gossamer fingertips
Her ebony long tresses whose soft touch I miss.
And for me touch her purest trembling lips
Never once profaned by my unworthy kiss.
Messenger unseen, to her in her land,
Go where I may not stretch forth my own hand.
originally written to a paramour in Strasbourg, France, probably in 1982
Where the Osages' God almighty once reigned
The almighty dollar their proud life- blood drained
As man- made arteries pumped out the rich black oil
Making a mockery of their sacred soil
Their native American dream withered and died
A bounty built on bodies the thieves satisfied
Slick concords duped and dealt deceit
Gilt edged profit a one way street
Guilt hardened minds plundered their lands
Blood and oil both besmirching their sands
With their sacred lands profaned ,laid bare and dry
Vengeance is their spectral spirits' only cry
yet the people rebelled against me
in the wilderness locusts and wild honey
he poured out his wrath on them
yet i did what would keep it
from profaned in the eyes
of the fighting nations
do not follow the idols of your ancestors
the sacred river flowing dirt
remnants of burnt carcass
yellow flowers merging with clotted blood
naked sanyasis dancing in the charnel ground
post mortem rituals ego transcending
tantric liturgy molding the mind and desposition
prayer beads, flower pujas ,yajna ,mortification
of the rotten flesh, summer solstice
esoteric dharmic traditions
archetypal liminality surface
chthonic dieties dragging
will you defile yourself
what are the roots that clutch
what branches grow out of serpents
Can you feel?
Can you feel the tremor?
That rocks your world
That shakes the cage
Like a beast trapped outside
A beast raging against the bars
It lifts, it throws, it rages
Can you feel it?
And in the aftermath,
You can hear the cooing, cajoling
Of puppeteers laying strings before your bars
And they croon and cluck like fretting hens
Petting your bars and calling for you
to reach out and take these strings
Tie them where they cannot reach
Deep within, where no one else goes
And let these good people in,
They preen and you shake your head
Seeing the gleam in their eyes
Oh so like the ape’s
Cooing, cajoling... cawing
And oh, how you can feel it...
But I’m here so hold on
I’ll sit by your bars,
I’ll sit by the door
right beneath that lock that turns from within
And I won’t rage, or set the siren’s call upon you
I’ll sit by your bars, and keep you company
My friend;
But Cold bars let through a breeze friend...
Your sharp breath is not secreted away
And with every breath you take
Your lungs are profaned
And you cannot hide
Behind bars
You cannot hide
From My voice, or my presence, or my eyes
My eyes that see too clear
And you cannot hide from what I see
What you can feel
Pressing in, from us all
So just let us in
My friend,
Let us in, for we will not be kept out
Life does not surrender, life does not hold back
Life seeps through
Every crack,
And be sure, there are cracks everywhere
Where there are breaths to be shared, there are bars to let them through,
And you feel it don’t you?
That which you see deep in my eyes
You feel it
That feeling so clearly reflected
When I look into your soul
That fear alive in my eyes
That rages within you,
But don’t fear a battle you have lost
Do not fear the day you must face the world
The world, friend, has never
Turned its face from you
And the rest of us:
Well we are not so brave
We are not iron bars moulded to flesh
That fear you see is real
And it is ours all
But we cannot hide
From what burns within
And I will not die
Hiding from life
And I will not cower when I tremble inside
I will not rest in a cage when I am tired
And I, friend, I am so tired
Of living between bars.
The force of the righteous is full of the misguided, a forsaken realm to which we're never invited. The gullible minds of weakness, led by their own obliqueness. "Take your children (Psalms) and thrash them about the sharp edged rocks"...Thus is one of the many reasons that I continually put forward these endless mocks. I can't believe that an all loving, all forgiving gOD cast down the suicide self, As well as the innocent smited children are molested, accused and abused torturers women, and those with mental health. Justified in disguise the light is not as holy as it seems. Consider them monstrous like the most horrific of dreams. They need to pay for their mistakes and quit using our souls as the stakes. Stop the infection, expel falsehood's, refuse the lie, accept it's contradiction and reject the reposed. Religions built on scriptures, with words that are 96% fictitious and written by man then juxtaposed. Fu*k me! I will not believe that the victims of the depressed and self-sufferers are to be condemned. All the while the predators and the profaned are running around free and 'forgiven', no I refuse to pretend. I will not lend a hand nor accept this malevolence as benevolence. Mine eyes cannot live inside this disbelief or believe and accept a King James version full on pretense. I could never have my own faith in this creation gOD, who is more evil than that of those so called "Satanist". When you lay down the holy and unholy bibles... The laws, the sins, the rules side by side. You to will be aghast that the supposed wicked have true morality, character, and pride in which to abide. Devastated that our lives are denied by dreams and disillusions, Some where in time we were misled straight into misinterpreted confusions.
How I recall my thralldom as a man!
Base troths with idols, rituals of lust,
Hellish haven, hot blood; too late thou learn'st
Drowning desire and pleasure-profaned ban.
But sin may lead where virtue never can:
I - burning, thirsting, bleeding, dying - thirst
For love. Abandoned I, by mandrake curs't,
My lech'rous limbs cry out t'embrace a lamb.
Dear God! My bed a beam becomes. Blessed
Light, in which tearful floods and baser blood
Are rudely mixt, melded, hammered into good,
Grant unto me eternal love and rest!
Our natures thus cros't, I, like bedded bride,
Delight to sleep here, ever at Thy side.
THE MYTH CALLED BROTHER BERNARD
Brother Bernard is just a name
but a name that has saturated fame,
notoriety in Nigeria and it's the same
that evokes comical blunders.
Hope Bernard isn't one of your brothers.
Man dreams of a trip to Peru,
had a dream he was eating his shoe,
then woke up at night after a mouth-full,
as the call of "Brother Bernard" sails through
He finds out his dream had come true.
Yet, they say "Brother Bernard" is just a name.
Oh okay! Any dissimilar notion is just lame!
It's becoming a myth though just a name.
Brother Bernard is like a whistle in a game.
There's unanimity that everybody has a name;
Some are short, some are long.
Dick is a short name but can be strong,
Virginia is name-modified known agelong
and can never be ignored or go wrong.
If there's a name that has attained
realms of societal ridicule & is carelessly profaned,
then it's the mythical phrase "Brother Bernard".
No jury or advocate will annul "this" case.
Does the name create an unseen force?
Our people have caved their superstitions,
greatly influenced by Social Mediacians.
Some say "Brother Bernard is just a name"!
Methinks, that and other names ain't the same!
Though the meme didn't mellow, what a shame!
A fellow opined it is more than a name.
The empirical enquire the memes aim:
And entreat the source of your mythical claim"?
But...I pledge to relish in this euphoria, my lord,
bask in the blunders of the madness galore,
to seize the comical moments with my bare hand.
Revel in the emphatic mention of "Brother Bernard"!
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhymes
Copyright ©? 14th April 2023.
Preposterous! These prophets professed, just
Profaned, have taken o'er the sacred vault
With wholly hostile holidays. I must
Deceive, with holey lowly praise exalt.
Must I submit this unjust cult of damning's
Worth my worship? No. Call me lunatic
And write me off, I'll tax with culture jamming,
Reveal your frauds, conceive a heretic.
Discover must, and what must you perceive?
The dismal band and burglar ring of ills,
The disgrace crooks and maul-hearts. All receive
And dispense naught but doles for gains and kills.
This preacher's fruit just takes and takes and takes,
Poor apple's Eve just breaks and aches and snakes.
Were I enamored by a pleasant fragrance,
like a magnet, I would draw sniffers to me.
If I were covered with filth, I would draw flies.
A profaned loud mouth would draw angry ears.
A childhood friend drew many girls to himself.
On the other hand, they showed no interest in me.
I inquired of him a reason for the difference.
He said, "Some guys have it; some guys don't".
To my annoyance, he never said what he had.
And I only knew that I did not have 'it'.
I think 'it' was some innate magnetism.
Perhaps he had no idea what 'it' was.
I only knew that magnetism was inside of him.
He didn't put 'it' there and couldn't give 'it' to me.
101222PSCtest, Our Innate Magnetism.
Unseeking Seeker
Vision
A zephyr with
breaths of April after rain
whispered:
“sleep not this summer day.”
He stirred, woke up
and saw a heavenly face
eyes blue as the sky
and the skin of the apparition
had the hue of
un-profaned lips
only the newly born possess.
He smiled reached out
to touch the divine being,
but it had disappeared in a miasma
of the everlasting,
but leaving behind a hope as sweet
scent of jasmine.