Best Scribes Poems
"Poets are scribes from heaven...sent to earth to help better it one word at a time."
Aug.28.2016
One Quote - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Rick Parise
Carved and hued In solid bed rock are locked the voices
Echoes of the ancient past, blood shavings of symbolic
Expressions, that whispers ever so softly within the desert
Winds, beneath our cryptic dons lay the tombs of pharaoh’s
Kings and Queens.
Living stone bleed’s sacred blood from the hardened heart,
Of nature’s rocky ridged souls quarry, dragging it’s marble
Spinel column then shoving it upwards to heaven’s might
And glory, behold the shimmering monolith displacing
The height of Egyptian power, etched in rock forever.
Creeping shadows of the fallen guardian’s watch towers,
Statues frozen faces transfixed, with fierceness’s veracity,
Lay in wait to strike, at any outlander whom may trade
Within this sacred valley of the dead.
Whisper do the walls in forgotten tongues lost languages,
Hammered by the scribes of the dust, cures ruins of long ago,
Foretelling the death to grave robbers whom defile these
Treasured tombs of the Pharaohs.
Idle worshipers altars flames remain extinguished,
Yet the firer of the Egyptian people still burns with prides
Honor, blazing within the stars of the heavens, igniting
The spark of legacies divinities to smile down upon them,
From a far.
In historical ruins stone of red brick the falcons soars
On wards into the everlasting sun, it’s feathers never
Waver and its eyes of emerald brilliance shine, as it’s
Break bites at the evenings stars tail, screaming the
Names of the Pharaoh’s evermore.
Carved and hued In solid bed rock are locked the voices
Echoes of the ancient past, blood shavings of symbolic
Expressions, that whispers ever so softly within the desert
Winds, beneath our cryptic dons lay the tombs of pharaoh’s
Kings and Queens.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
"Well hath Esaias prophesied of you hypocrites, as it is written"
Yet the Pharisees were not at all shy in so being very smitten
As they had absolutely no clue as to whom had just spoke
It was our Lord and Savior and yet still nothing inside awoke
They pursued Him upon His way testing Him time and time again
Oh the words that Jesus would say surely the King of all men
For even the devil himself had tried in trying three times in fact
So poignantly had he lied for in the Word you shall never lack
"You keep your own tradition yet reject all God's Commandments"
Sometimes it may be repetition that's the cause to whom repents
Not coming from within but coming from God's own given Word
All of mankind is so full of sin thus Heaven without Jesus is absurd
Miracles too numerous to repeat, crowds as far as the eye can see
To the Father He is Seated to the Right is perfectly obvious to me
If you are of that Pharisee mindset and so stubborn in your ways
Then there shall be nothing you get at the end of such futile days
Matthew 16:26
For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world,
and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?
Though unlived ages defter poets shall bring,
And blur all rhymes woven in my barren span;
May young pupil-scribes with like relish savor
These yellowing tropes as sworn zealots can.
Despite the flurrying crop of many sharper wits,
Let new apprentices of fine art read these lines;
And gratefully gain inspiration from olden writs,
Fresh as dateless gems in death-hidden mines.
And should new vibes rather greatly outshine
This dusty craft and they still dissatisfied pine,
Abiding honor for founding feats will here keep
Future pliant eyes that for fallen warriors weep.
Not for incurable want of well-winding nuance
May youth disdain this tart ink ten eons hence.
Think of all gone generations' fluids of the vine:
Piling time betters stale rhyme like bottled wine!
Muse forbid that future versifiers should deem
These musings an exaggerated antique dream.
It takes a lot of tricks to write a good poem
It's not easy to understand the theorem
The magic, the divine essence of being a Poet
These days everybody is one: the Muffet pet
And the puppet. Everybody should express
Their feelings on paper. Even if it is a mess
If you are very famous like Michael Jackson
Whatever crap you write has teeth and bone
Everybody wants to read, all debris become viral
The Press is writing about it. Oh! This thing is genial
Oh! How wonderful to forget
Once you're famous, you can get
A lot of stuff for free: free marketing
Free publicity, famous writers are writing
About your works in the latest edition
Of the New Yorker magazine. This a sensation
And your poem is on the first page. Big
Business wants you. In a flash your pink pig
Is sniffling the red carpet, because you're
A superstar, you're a genius. The main door
Is wide open. A singer needs a poet, a writer
A poet is a great lyricist. A writer appreciates a singer
Like Jacques Brel. What a genius! He was different.
His songs were like poems. He had style. He had talent
He put Louis Aragon in heaven. Suddenly, our tears will dry
No woman, no cries. Bob Marley now lives above the sky
With the angels and the saints. They have gone forward
And we, the aliens of Earth, are willing to go downward.
Copyright © December 2017, Hebert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Woe unto you,
scribes and Pharisees,
hypocrites!
Matt. 23:13
You tell men that God has changed,
that the Holy Ancient One today is not the same
Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!
Your written and spoken words are the forger of chains
With your unrighteous pens,
you’ve swapped out the word of God,
and inserted the traditions of men
Saying that the children should be honored,
and not the parents
Woe woe woe to you hypocrites!
Blind guides leading the blind,
and you’re both gonna fall into a ditch
Open up the bottomless pit,
and watch ‘em all fall in
Lovers of unrighteousness,
practitioners of sin
Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!
You bear rule over the people,
teaching them things that are not good
in the sight of God
Teaching them to respect wickedness,
to give praise to the voices that speak not right
Telling them to walk naked in the dark,
to put out the candles that give forth light
Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!
Your written and spoken words are the killer of men
Dip your pens in the blood ink ...
do testify against yourselves —
Condemned souls whose names are blotted out
of the Book of Life
Dip your pens once again in the blood ink ...
do testify against yourselves —
When your souls get destroyed in an eye blink
Mornings are made for paper and pens
In the hands of a would-be scribe,
At each day’s awakening between sun and shade
And silence is coming alive.
From out of the dark, the touch of a spark
Of light on the distant shore,
This time of day has always been made
For would-be scribes for sure.
When the mourning doves and whippoorwills
Begin their ritual songs of life
Of cooing, wooing and renewing
Everything in sound or sight.
And the would-be scribe tries not to hide
His or her thoughts too deep,
But let them all rise like dew in the sky
And eagles to snowy mountain peaks.
Let the words come forth
Like cool water from a riverbed,
Bringing thoughtfulness, kindness and ponderings
Wherever hearts and minds are led.
Let no one cease this ancient peace
Of writing in early hours,
The writer’s way of flying away
Turning tragedy and tears into wildflowers.
Let their words be heard and hearts be stirred
In the twilight of the day,
Excelsior to the would-be scribes
And all they have to say.
© Terrell Martin, 01/25/2025
O'Yes, Braver Still Are Well-Hidden Scribes
Only the empty darkness dared to taunt
for even the great hero had his wants
not for gold or any treasure at all
yet is not common for greatest heroes to fall
What about those brave that live not to see
the empty phoniness of both you and me
O'Yes, braver still are well-hidden scribes
Are we all members of the same old tribe.
Is hope a gem that humanity seeks
With its bloody claws, hidden ghosts that peek
From cracks in olden walls that are laid bare
ghosts longing to spit that horrific stare
Why are we afraid of the ghastly dark
Tis true, that demons dance as a mere lark.
Robert J. Lindley, 5-25-2023
Sonnet
Entrusted with divine oracles
reverberating with “Thus saith the Lord”
of wondrous historical chronicles
proclaimed as “Thy Word”...
you documented sovereign miracles
on scrolls, through frayed, cannot be vanquished by evil sword.
Hence, you are honoured with your diligence
along heavenly vision-iridescence
to publish the Creator’s statements
not using any pen, but crude scribbling implements.
Inditing* blessed Scriptures
you are ancient writers of spiritual calling
endowed with wisdom of grandfathers' scribe-features
exposing Genesis patriarchs in their faith fulfilling
never under desk lamp but upon the Holy Ghost’s illumining ventures
assured by God’s power, never failing.
Thus, your devotion is commended indeed
by what you’ve done, many souls have been freed
reached with the Almighty’s love and grace
blessed while reading His living Book with trust and praise.
*Psalm 45:1 My heart is inditing a good matter: I speak of the things which I have made touching the king: my tongue is the pen of a ready writer.
July 9, 2020
...who nurtures with hope
cares with conviction
cherishes dreams
mends lost minds
remedies surrender
relieves hemlock of time
fills broken chalices
quenches thirst for belief
he or she is a faith healer
a fathomless feather
an ink pot of stories untold
who heals with faith
nurses from doubt
restores faith to heal
narratives change
fabulations retire
to the scrap-yarn
of vanished mistrust
and the poet embraces
reliable emotions
for the sake of being
a surgeon of despair ...
01st December 2020
You blankly stated,
On which I write my thoughts
Some of them are strong and bold
While others are soft and polite.
You are my canvas,
Landing tall at ten fleeting doves
I splash colored oiled pigments
Here and there and down our halls
You can see it down on our walls.
The brush strokes it on through,
The pigmented oils of
The hair hues of blue
They've painted.
Hair waiving through line after line.
With shade after shade
As if the ink was there.
Led by star,
Wise men came
to worship.
The Scribes connived;
or were they just
naive about
the secret plot
and very evil
intent of the King?
Oh, what irony!
He believed Scripture,
but used it to kill.
121923PS
P-oems
R-emain
I-n
N-iceness
C-reatively
E-xpressing
L-ovely
L-ine's
E-xcellent
E-ternal
V-alues
A-s
S-cribes
C-ontinuously
O-perate
Topic: Birthday of Princelle B. Evasco (March 02)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic