Best Sanctimony Poems
Here
In this centrifuge of sanctimony
Where I sip the atrophied air of my ancestors
The shipwrecked tide of my unborn children
Angels dangle from a precipice of silence
Strained by strings of a theoretical God
Sung by eyes of defiance
Which navigate the jagged epitaphs below
Searching
For that one sediment of salvation
That one moment of submission
Hoping he will see
His wonders, atrocities, his indifference
To cast a shadow of conviction
Over shivering light
There
Across the inlet where ivory columns crumbled
And modernity now deftly mumbles
Its fleets of fortune baptized
Nigh the bronze dust of golden millennia
Where history lies with its victims
A fugue of fossilized souls
A silent prayer remains
Here
Deja Vu
Alas, we compose poetry to impress others with our brilliant
brains, hapless wit, sexy bodies, or holy sanctimony.
All foolhardiness if you think of it, and an exercise in utter, grandiose
egotistical folly!
Just be you, never hurt another poet here.
Because when you do, Deja Vu is coming for you next, my dear!
December 8, 2019
Babygirl, someone needs to say
you can't go on acting this way.
If you don't learn another tune,
the party will be over soon.
Rude, without a clue
know-it-all, that's you.
Good intentions aside,
you don't deserve this ride.
That phony, baloney,
holy sanctimony
is not lost on me.
Just let it be.
Insecure, immature,
but there's a cure.
Life's journey mocks
the school of hard knocks.
Daddy's spoiled child;
He always smiled.
Welcome to what's real.
How ya gonna deal?
Play it out.
Leave no doubt.
Take a stand.
Play your hand.
So, what's up?
Go grow up.
Be a woman,
Know you can.
July 5, 2015
Since remarks from the T.V, and a stocking of my soul to breathe...
I relax eagerly when I await the heat and see that nothing come's out of me unless I can be free-
now they said in many many books that this is how we plead,
the defiance of a boarder stronger and foreigner as the hoarder from outer space descends,
but like my mentor contends with me as I ease into the heavenly shrine above mine,
I allow for only a sanctimony of time,
like I would wonder if my gun no longer shined-
and my face only ate pine,
and my body enveloped love of binds rather than the free floating chime...
I was a walker and yet no more than the other stalker a boat bought in a saunter.
Is it a farce to lean on Lent
to receive the black ash Cross
on our foreheads, to walk
home in humble pride alive
to people's puzzlement;
to look forward to Holy Week
not to correct our weak wills?
Is it false to keep a True Lent
to tell others it is our intent
an unholy act to practice?
Is it to quit the dish of our
failings , to fill our hearts with
sanctimony , to have pride
in our many dreadful duties?
Is it to conpete for favour on our
Lenten voyage of spiritual quest
to show the comedy of our worth?
Is it to mock materialism that God
provides by putting it upon others
to show its limitation in our lives?
Is it to show false humility for our
road of rights not our responsibility,
to apologise for the flesh of Christ
in case it so offends our fellows?
It is to keep a True Lent by the boon
of Jesus Christ's Resurrection?
First off-
you're E~did,
fawned like frozen in a wrong beam of time-
God is only justified by his own usury,
and we don't do the forgotten as a figurine...
We all are falling,
forwardly and softly forestalled,
faked,
forgiving four fickle frogs,
finding our fifty nine frot foe,
just as we fizzle the fantastic flowing fight, fitted-
if that's enough to gloat see me stuck in the next simple dictionary-
having nothing to say to the ears of men who listen,
children who dream,
women who can misinterpret.
Sleeping is optional,
sojourn is an ancient land full of those flaws,
free,
we are not this-
fleet,
we are so fast at adeptly encouraging the sanctimony of the next...
Quiet speaks much,
Till my heart says no quit;
Conscience or guilt,
One is stronger, and I won’t know which,
Cause’ I don’t know how you keep them both,
It happened before and,
It happened after choice,
6 down after choice,
In lifting up a voice, that’s 6,
A couple months ago = 6,
How do you explain it?
The disappearance
Of the weak in appearance,
Seeing it you claim never,
What then, do you not have surveillance?
Or ever;
Its acrimony in the coerce of your intelligence’
Forever;
Sanctimony so-long we killed by the state intelligence,
Is it Clever’ for one to kill the ones he sworn to protect?
It’s what they are skilled, and I just don’t see the relevance,
Again i fail to see the significance
Of not being strong,
Never;
You proved it wrong for your reverence,
Not long after we discovered antimony,
By the time we lacked hand and licked the sand;
To Stand wrong for our rights;
Out of the pain, pain of your reign,
But then I’m sorry,
Its Over;
Since you never give an epitaph,
But then you claim the epiphany,
Who’s to claim, we’re dying,
All dying and you not crying,
Sad to say it’s over
But the Voice remaineth,
It’s 7 in mourning,7 huts mourn,in one equation,
Save every missed morning,and one under the moon,for same question,
Before it went over,
And it’s over.
A tableau of brass sits with serious intent;
A Court it is of the martial bent.
And before it I stand stiff with pride,
I did my duty with nothing to hide.
My men they were , my very kind,
Hardened soldiers, the best you can find,
More than brothers of same mothers born,
Out of war's dirty entrails were we torn.
The dust of battle was scarcely settled,
By the enemy's ambush we were sorely nettled.
Then suddenly appeared a mother and son,
In my sniper scope they appeared as one.
How unnatural was the scene to my trained eye,
One small mistake , my comrades would die.
My heart did flutter, my finger did twitch,
I spied through the scope a dead-man's switch.
The seconds ticked by, they would be within range,
My mind clicked shut, I felt something strange.
I let out two shots, the bullets went true,
We were then evac-ed, myself and my crew.
The brass at the desk in sanctimony asked,
Tell me, my worthy, with what were you tasked?
Can you justify, the death of a child
Of his mother, or did you run wild?
I was tasked to do my duty, which I did well,
I put aside my emotions, I went through my hell;
For the life of my brothers is worth more than their wage,
And war asks no creed, no gender, no age.
Men, we are, victory and survival is our goal,
You may condemn me, the Lord will commend my soul.
~13 Jun 2016~
Of what you know to be beautiful
never becomes a real thought,
of how you seek it out-
the lessoning of everything combined,
sanctimony as tree's can do when they listen to one another,
serious mistaken identities are just like the reason you came here was to die completely.
Late but received her first cheque for alimony
Shot off to this new market based on a raving testimony
She circled and circled… was the ad phony?
No signs… no arrows… was it hidden this Chez Tony?
Suddenly a little hole in the wall behind some random pony!
Groceries for one, a dose of reality, the fish was bony
The smell reminiscent of rancid sanctimony
She settled for cheese and macaroni
a pound of baloney
in honour of their matrimony
and a devil cake for the irony
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Submitted on March 26, 2018 for contest A HIDDEN MARKET sponsored by JULIA WARD - RANKED 1ST
Begins with an appreciation of ledgers,
Clear, true and definite in appearance,
While a long journey through the never evers,
Finding fallacy in every reverence.
As much As I can I try to never,
Subdue that darkness within, such pain severed.
Sweats and strength wasted as it recur,
Anguished in thoughts of constant repeats and anger.
Truth be told of tales so epic in yawns,
A few incantation of deceit. A Fraud!
How can I expect the precision when I am fabricating pawns,
Selling axiom like lush apples hiding all the rot.
The sanctimony of speech hassling for honesty.
Cage it in. Suppress with overflowing control,
Never again a lie or any casuistry.
In hopes to speak rightness and be bold.
An inventor. A story teller. A fictional character.
The emphasis of unjust letters that story unworldly.
Never a point of view. Always an actor.
Only the point from you. Yours Sincerely,
Clutching the premise of these various words and thoughts,
Baptising the impurity within thee,
For only I will know the the battle raging in from GOD.
My truth. I will always try. Believe me.
PLEA BARGAIN
If justice can be carted away on a platter of gold
And repaid with a moribund emerald,
Then let Law swallow its loquacious pride—
Let the rays of the sun drop its shines
Let the glitters of the moon hands down
And let the twinkles of the stars un-twinkle its prickles.
At the marketplace of ignominy
Law traded its most valuable destiny—
A penny paid in exchange for quashing mutiny
A hominy given in exchange for shrinking felony
A litany offered in erasure of criminal sanctimony
Mutiny for a penny
Felony for a hominy
Sanctimony for a litany
Justice is the end, the fabrics and destiny of Law
If criminality can be bargained to legality—
A poplar will soon turn an undergrowth
A mountain will soon turn a rock
An ocean will soon turn a river
A tree will soon turn a stalk
An imago to a pupa
A pupa to a larva
A larva to an egg
An egg to an atom
And what is left of Law is a shadow of its true self.
Mutiny for a penny
Felony for a hominy
Sanctimony for a litany
--Bolaji Ramos,Esq.
When hope is lost and love is gone.
There's just no reason to go on.
A poet's lament ain't worth a dime.
Nobody wants to hear that rhyme.
The world is for the lucky ones.
Not for those the shadow shuns.
I pray each night my soul to take.
And hope that I may not awake.
I buy my ticket in hopes I win.
But I'm still paying for my sin.
The end can't come for me too soon.
I'm tired of singing this same ole tune.
I don't want to live no more.
The sanctimony is such a bore.
So I will not apologize.
For there's more to life than being wise.
P.S. The double negative in the last verse kind of wrote itself. HMM.
Herd-mongers, schoolmarms and glorious twats
Piloting leased arks through drenched parking lots
Cadillacs cleansed of a fine week’s debris
Just in time for the polish of sanctimony
A river of swine, like the Jordan, it crosses
Over deserts of disheartened workers and bosses
The fracas of worshippers, beanied and veiled –
In the Third World, could pass for a fish market sale
There are loaves, there are nets – there’s nothing to eat
There’s so little legroom; there are beads on my seat!
There’s a mountain of missals, there’s a tower of babblers
And a nice hidden room for perpetual hagglers
There’s prime VIP seating, a great view of a tomb
Completely adjacent to the activities room
There’s most anything anyone could need or want,
So long as it comes from a baptismal font
When in walks a figure, so stiff and ordained,
You know in a moment he must be a saint
He’ll heal a few cripples, a Lazarus or two
And distribute those wafers that keep us renewed
Then we offer up thanks to some white-beard in the ether
With all of the joy of a rheumatic fever
And spill from the pews, lemmings on marble tile
And back onto the ark for brunches-du-style
‘cause the deluge has cornered-down many a mile
And sacrificed many a kind word and smile
Tolerance chiseled, evolution defiled –
Maybe let’s keep its hooks off the last decent child
Tolerance chiseled, evolution defiled –
Maybe let’s keep its hooks off the last decent child.
Compassion sings in velvet vibrato violin strokes, thrumming upon
an ivory frame suffused in dulcimer tones of need.
Half deaf we echo broken words, sharp jagged phrases, defining
the borders of empathy, binding the reach of the heart.
Compassion lays bittersweet trails on the tongue, late fall berries,
bursting in a celebration of triumph and sorrow.
Half starved, we feast on spoils, too drunk on victory to discern
the salt-sweet retch of blood from the bitter poison of lies.
Compassion streams in surreal ashen hues - the rose tainted
glow of golden wildfire skies. A sanctity of devastation.
Half blind we stumble backward, peering through filtered lenses
at remnants of truth, polarized illusions of light and shadow.
Compassion has a feel to it. Silken swirls, brushing coarse burlap weave,
abraded, fraying strands writhing and twisting to knots.
Yearning for touch, we seethe. Flames of passion spent in bursts, numbing
balms of hatred, clutches of greed, belie the cold of our isolation.
Compassion carries a scent. Ancient and innate, its musk permeates
with an overwhelming fear for the suffering of another.
Senses blurred, anointed, incensed, we shed our stigmata of tenderness,
cowering in the purloined stench of our pernicious sanctimony.
Compassion has a secret seed, bound to the strivings of our soul, nurtured
in endless streams of hope, rooted in the sustenance of courage.
Correlations confound conclusions. Half deaf and blind we crawl, fragile
unadorned. Braving thorns, we guard compassion’s trembling stalk.
©Ilona Rapp 2017 All Rights Reserved