Long Acolytes Poems
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The hall echoes with the drone of
ecstatic chants and gongs,
‘midst a jungle of jasmine and red lilies.
Steep stairs of tread worn,
silica-laced granite and
indigenous red brick meander.
Yellow-jackets buzz,
and red-robed women with bound hair
and tightly laced hearts
jump rope like children.
Ornate caterpillars crawl fearlessly
among humanities most beautiful hearts;
waterfalls thrash in ecstasy.
Acolytes place the earthly remains
of florescent black and turquoise butterflies on alters;
in tribute to the Osho's garden.
wikipedia.org/wiki/Osho_(Bhagwan_Shree_Rajneesh)
'Tis in a manner far from thrasonical
That I come to you in full canonical
What I chose to do was to instill my love
On acolytes below while I was above
When the holy Church I entered in my prime
I, the Church,entered many, time after time
Those altar cherubs whom I picked out to spoil
I anointed warmly with my sacred oil
How could I resist faces so innocent
Wreathed in the swirl of the thurible's scent
To hold them close tightly and their soft flesh feel
Made my whole self dizzily tingle and reel
How truly uplifting was my fierce,fierce joy
When I had communion with a chosen boy
They knew our closeness was clearly God given
And that in confession would I be shriven
For all the worldly good I did on God's earth
Then entry to heaven is my deserved berth.
Alas,your Grace,you cannot in all conscience enter here
Too much dark concupiscence on your soul sits,I do fear
Too concentrated were you on carnal desire
That leaves you to roast now in the eternal fire
Begone! For scandalising the young
Round your neck must a millstone be hung
And into the depths of Hades will you descend
There to endure your torment without end
There are no shape walls
to bridle one's emotions
creativity is properly ventilated
unbound by meter or syllable count
embracing nakedness
yanked naked in its virginity
The binding belt of chastity
given over to lyrical lovers
Sleeping quietly in the meadows
a pristine area free of squatters
fighting for their rights
with sonnet-crafted homes
and hamlets defined by literature.
Straying away from the norm
acolytes watch as castles are built,
that worships orderly expression
poetic masterpieces,
safeguarded and preserved at all times
metaphors align into a specific subset
pictures look like works of art,
there is a distinct realm
for those unfit to fly in their confines.
Outside of the norm
is a vast nebulous
growing quill flowers from seeds sown
the power of smell to evoke memories,
which one's brain may elect to ignore
when settling at a location of a specific form
is what one's words must imply.
On this trip, there are no rules,
only that burning desire inside
strive to harass the page,
fire getting into the core
from telling someone a mystery,
till the key bares the chest
where other ideas demand rebirth.
1st Place Contest Winner
Written: August 28, 2022
Free Verse - Old Or New Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
5th Place Contest Winner
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Mrs. Holloway polishes her poetry dimly,
Regaling herself with the accoutrements of
Selected poetry, cluttered and less jinxed
By way of satanic slamming by famished,
Idle critics who read The New York Times
Just once in a sugared year.
She chooses her stanzas locally.
By that I mean her stanzas nurse patience,
Drifting from gossips to loose, impotent
Talks held when midnights ail.
She digresses from north’s steady arrow
To the rump of the south, where watersheds
Of a nation’s difficult history are published.
Chances are that her poetry would win a
Contest in a fortnight, but the era of romance
Is jaundiced, which is her constituency and
Her background for coloured matters.
Her abbreviations for the names of her old
Suitors are carved from pillars to posts – reposting
Caryatids as common sentinels on a poisoned bank—
Losing the Greekness required of such adornments.
O Holloway, read, read, read,
Her acolytes pressure her.
Time loses sense of time in its own timeness,
They warn.
That, to me, is the commonest blandishment.
I should never have sipped from her potsherd
Such stale beer as she offered on the day her
Poetry was reviewed by a proscribed newspaper.
But her urge for anything dead and horrid,
Egged me on, especially when she narrated
The murder of seven sisters by seven creatures that
Very Sunday morning when the taverns closed
Before they opened.
Holloway shocked me with the gory details.
Oh, I forgot to tell you she hankers after things
Truly, truly hebdomadal.
I call her Mrs. Holloway the Hebdomadalist.
Seven churches, seven trumpets,
Seven seals, seven heads, seven horns... and now
Seven sisters murdered by seven creatures.
That’s why her poetry is cluttered.
Full of nerves and airs of salutes,
Mrs. Holloway’s poetry thunders.
She presumes that time will, like the morning
Dew, settle on the sinews of her poetry.
(And I agree with her) .
And smoothen it —yes, time, the masseur of
All time.
Smoothen it.
Oil it.
Massage it.
And level it.
At least to street level.
(And I agree with her) .
As the days shorten and skies darken
Greenwich meantime feels like a lean time.
With a heavier coat I go out scarfed,
my hat pulled down, to find those last leaves
compact in corners and crevices.
With whitening fingers gloved I crouch
and pluck them for leaf mould; while wood lice
watched by a robin, head cocked, alert,
are plucked as he darts for a morsel,
as blackbirds too pluck the last berries.
As a north-easterly blast attacks,
it is time to retreat from the chill
wind into a defensive shelter,
to sharpen secateurs for pruning
apples, blackcurrants and gooseberries.
Winter battles as the rain rattles
on the windows, probing and testing.
I bring in some logs and lay the fire –
match to kindling it begins to roar.
Now dusk it's time the curtains to draw.
Hot drink clasped, I behold a new moon
crescent up into a clearing sky.
There beneath the starlit canopy
snowdrops begin to poke through the grass
as if to reflect the countless stars.
In the morn I rake moss from the lawn
to keep warm – it pays to keep moving –
with aconites as if acolytes
soon to join a vernal procession
into the promise of renewed life.
Watch out for that ideology
Bad effects on your psychology
It bleeds into our sociology
‘Til we hate one another’s biology
Let’s make a pact
To get our facts together
Have no ideology
Whatsoever
Hitler and Stalin and Mao and Amin –
Terminating angels of some fantastic machine
Marx and Weber and Keynes and Rand
Raised a fist of thought in hand
But Peter and Paul and the whole Roman Church
Didn’t wanna leave anyone in the lurch
Ho Chi Minh shoved me on a Mekong barge
Meanwhile, the Castros were living large
Let’s make a pact
To get our facts together
Have no ideology
Whatsoever
Apostles, ideologues, acolytes –
Whatever gets you thru the glassy night
The world is your battleground and you must fight
Just watch for the mines under your short sights
Let us just for argument sake a moment contemplate
or imagine ?
Something is amiss with the world ?
Not that it is flat still round more like
missing ?
Maybe flight MH-50 accidentally came across ?
Like it not appearing on radar or has been wipped from off the global map erased and hidden to the enquiring eye ?
Say 2 missing continent or island we have been lead to believe or view as nothing more than uncharted ocean ?
1 which was rather in fact a parallel universe or testing ground for social experimentation ?
Researching the consequences and effects of such
thing's as political upheaval , viral outbreaks and extraterrestrial visitation would have on
the human psychy in the end of worst case scenario armageddon or the apocalypse was ever to occur ?
And the 2nd an island paradise where they can start again
and still remain and stay in power, protect and keep their wealth in tact ?
Beside the vaccine and cure to every known human
disease and alternative green abundant fuel source
and neither a jail nor policeman on it ?
A paradise heaven on earth where no 1
gets sick and everyone's gets along and
thinks alike
That is still not enough and before long
begins a race between former acolytes
To see who can make it back 1st
to plant his flag in the smoldering
ashes
In order so he in fact can profess to
take his rightful true place as the new
Messiah the 2nd coming of Christ
Terminator X
A cloud burst into life and rained down acid rain;
The skin peeled from the bodies of those who couldn’t be saved.
The future termination just waiting to send us to our graves,
Means our destiny is already written and we cannot be saved.
So call on Arnie to save or ruin the day,
Here he comes in a rush to redeem or bring rage.
Is he good, is he bad? Let’s write another sequel,
Because we can’t get enough of this cyborg killing people.
Terminator 1, Sarah Connor is forced to face death head on.
This Terminator X is going to rip somebody’s face off
And Terminator 2 saw Arnie as a Hero,
For John Connor likes Guns ‘n’ Roses, look out here comes a truck.
Terminator 3 the machines are on the rise again,
The future is shown to us; it looks like humans live in pain.
We are obsolete; the robots now rule the entire world.
So let’s rebel and give ‘em Hell, one of John acolytes is a hot girl.
So stab your blade shaped arm through a chest
And hope you find the right Sarah Connor.
Dead bodies litter the doorsteps of random nests;
You know he won’t stop until he finds her.
Get Arnie some new clothes to cover his nakedness,
Use nitrogen oxide to put an end to this X-file government,
Conspiracy of robots, they are here to end our lives;
So crush their body and throw this terminator into the fire.
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Eye Sketching
by Odin Roark
Acolytes of inner actualization know…
Upon an oak tree
Scrawls a name,
Never scribed by knife.
Within a crowded sidewalk
Sketches the seductive smile of an
Out of reach dream.
Atop a mountain peak
The etching of above-the-cloud perception
Swirls its heady reward inward.
Afloat in reflection’s calm waters,
Trusted drawings ripple across
Past, present and future pretense.
How healing this alternate world…
In the mind’s eye, time is given little heed.
The impossible embraces imagination,
Never succumbing to reality’s disappointments.
For one’s inner creations never require tools of actuality,
Trusting instead enigma’s eye pencil wisdom,
Needing but an occasional sharpening now and again.
And therefore, whensoever death shall close my eyes,
I charge you thus to solemnize my doom:
let there be then no long ancestral parade of masks,
nor empty cry of trumpet for my end,
nor spread me a catafalque inlaid with ivory,
nor lay my corpse out on a cloth-of-gold;
no ranks of acolytes with incense heaped on trays:
the plain last rites of a common man be mine.
Grand enough my cortege, if it bears a few slim books,
my ultimate offering to Persephone.
But you, your naked breast all torn, shall follow after,
nor ever weary of calling out my name,
and press your final kisses upon my frigid lips,
while Syrian unguent pours from the onyx jar.
Then last, when the fire kindled beneath has burned me to ash,
consign my relics to a fragile urn,
and plant a laurel spreading over my simple tomb,
to shade the burnt-out cinders of my pyre,
and write: HERE LIES A MOUND OF COARSE, IGNOBLE DUST,
THAT ONCE WAS VASSAL TO A SINGLE LOVE.
My sepulcher shall then achieve no less renown
than has the Phthian hero’s bloodstained tomb.
You also, when your fate draws near, remember me,
and come white-haired to these memorial stones;
meanwhile, have care lest you be faithless to my grave:
this earth will not be wholly dead to truth.
If only in my cradle one of the Sisters Three
had ruled that then I should yield up my soul!
What use to cherish so life’s too precarious breath?
Seek Nestor, who lived three long ages: dust.
Yet if his doom of lingering age had been revoked
on Ilium’s rampart by some Carian’s spear,
he never would have seen Antilochus’s corpse entombed,
nor cried, “O death! Why come to me so late?”
Yet you sometimes shall mourn the lover you have lost:
love lasting is the meed of vanished men;
as, when the savage boar smote delicate Adonis
while hunting once, high on Idalium’s crown,
they say that in those marshes his beauty was laid low,
and that you, Venus, came with loosened hair;
but Cynthia, vainly you will summon back my ghost:
what answer could my crumbled bones return?
— translated from the Latin
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