Best Stigmata Poems
Spontaneous sulfurous stigmata sinisterly surfacing
Membranous molecules meticulously masterfully marshaling
Tangible tempestuous tears tangling thoughts
Radical revelation revealing ruinous rots
Pious priests patronize punishable penance
Impious illusions intrigue impacting independence
Narcotizing nefarious noxious naves navigate
Prioritizing pains portal pandemic perpetrate
False fixation fumigates fragmental fatal fury
Defaults determine damaged destructive demons dreary
Jan.18.2020
Eight-word challenge 1 2020
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
Placed 3'rd...Thank You
these are my hands,
and you have seen them before.
you stare between my eyes,
much like how I imagined God
would stare at His
wayward worshipers.
these are my palms,
with lines that match the
novels of the planets,
and stars, and heavenly rocks.
my hands are small,
and are never broken.
my palms are wretched,
as I grip on this barbed-wire fence.
I see you across the border,
but I do not worship.
my hands will fit yours,
but my palms are already bleeding.
I was free man, my Nation was great.
Now, I am living in artificial Reservation.
I was the master,
but they took my possessions.
They put stigmata on my Nation.
They say it will be obliterated,
your ancient language forgotten.
Your Nation will be extinct.
Look at their fire and fury,
my hands are bleeding.
They curse me with their words,
punch me and push me till I fall.
They restrained me as an elephant,
lashed my back and forced me to Reservation.
Drinking water they polluted
and they call me, all degrading names.
To say one has loved
but lost...is to say one
has never loved; for
love is a wonderful
stigmata – an indelible
pressed upon the heart
of eternity, out-shinning
all lesser lights, even
those of heaven’s brilliant
while implosive stars –
love not only standing the
tests of time, but those
lesions of dimensions
separating hearts from
their immortal soul-bodies
boastful science stumble
over while poets
loyally reveal –
One does not simply love
but, in fact, becomes love –
the Pure Substance and Will
of God seamlessly woven
throughout His Creation,
a stitch never dropped
nor hole ever manifest
needing mending….
Wringing feelings
Like a sponge…
The words dripped down
From my lips
Onto the page
—staining my soul
(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2016)
Every house has a history,
some come with apparitions
and latent memories,
Yet, the house that comes alive
from a simple spirit,
wreaks havoc while occupants
are in it,
Manifestations of a stigmata begins
when the house wants to confess
the previous owners' sins,
Plaguing its new inhabitants with
all sorts of woes from their heads
to their toes,
Mischievous games of hide 'n' go seek,
confusing utensils and items in the path
of the metaphysical,
The only help that soothes are biblical verses,
without those holy words the plagues worsen,
Once the stories have been told and spirits get
released,
The evil that exists decide it's time to leave.......
Wringing feelings
Like a sponge…
The words dripped down
My lips
Onto the page
—staining my soul
(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2016)
On the restless road of existence,
Winding through beatnik midnight dreams,
I met a wanderer with stigmata palms,
Tales carved into hands like nomadic streams.
Under the neon hum of jazz club nights,
His scars sang stories of holy flights,
How the weight of the cross bore heavy and true,
On hearts searching for redemption’s hue.
He’d seen angels in every corner dive,
Playing saxophones, making dead souls revive,
For the sacred and profane were one and the same,
On this mad, mad journey with no name.
In every gas station gospel, every roadside psalm,
He sought the peace, the transcendent calm,
His hands bled not of pain but passion's flame,
Calling to the wild, the outcast, the untamed.
He whispered of a love so vast and profound,
That in every hitchhiker's thumb it could be found,
For the universe pulsed in a beatnik’s heart,
And stigmata redemption was the ultimate art.
In the dharma of the road, the rhythm of the train,
Lay the answers to suffering, joy, and pain,
And as the dawn broke and he vanished from sight,
I knew redemption lived in the endless night.
Did ChatGPT write this poem
Stigmata Redemption / Jack Kerouac style
ChatGPT
No, I did not write that poem. It appears to be a creative piece inspired by the style of Jack Kerouac, known for his spontaneous prose and exploration of the Beat Generation's themes. If you have any specific questions or if there's anything else you'd like to discuss about the poem, feel free to let me know!
christ is my passion
soul's stigmata devotion
sacred eternal
salutations
salivating
salvation
situation
i sit and
behave
and now that
youre home
i'll lick the
salt from
your palms
and feet