Long Apocryphal Poems
Long Apocryphal Poems. Below are the most popular long Apocryphal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Apocryphal poems by poem length and keyword.
In an old vineyard
When Jesus was just a lamb
His coat eight years old
Working with the chaste Joseph
His father and guide
As the beloved Mary
Kneeled and prayed to God
In their small and humble home
A visitor came
Golden and shining brightly
Like beams of sunlight
Shooting through the home’s window
Shooting from heaven
Shooting down from the clear heights
Mary beheld him
Thinking he was her young son
Putting off his coat
With gentleness the child said
“Where is dear Jesus
My dear brother and brave twin
I want to meet him”
Mary never responded
In fearful blindness
Thinking he was a phantom
From the lightless depths
Rather than light from the heights
She seized his right arm
And tied his arm to the foot
Of the worn, torn bed
Not wishing to scare her more
He remained at peace
Not saying a single word
During this event
Jesus held an empty branch
Observing the wood
As if it were a mirror
Soon he heard Mary
Jabbering in confusion
With tears raining down
In this dim storm of wailing
Jesus heard the words
Breaking through the whirling clouds
“A phantom has come
Dressed in golden apparel
Dressed in bright lightning
Saying “Where is dear Jesus
My twin and brother
I desire to see him”
Joseph please help me”
Only Jesus saw the light
And heard the thunder
For he had wise eyes to see
And had ears to hear
He proclaimed with holy strength
“Mother, where is he
So that I may see the light
Or should I wait here
Waiting for the bright sunlight
To break through this storm”
Jesus said these words in joy
Joseph was startled
Mary wiped away her tears
They entered the house
And found the spirit at peace
Still bound to the bed
Both the parents looked at him
Then looked at Jesus
And found them to be the same
Mary walked further
And unloosed the child angel
He bowed to Mary
He and Jesus said no words
For they were brothers
They hugged with their gentle arms
Gave a holy kiss
The angel child disappeared
For he and Jesus
Became one white pearl of light
Thus the empty branch
Bloomed with delicious almonds
Bloomed with holy life
Thus this town was sanctified
Crowned with golden, shining grace
Poem based on the account from the ancient apocryphal book The Pistis Sophia, Chapter 61.
A wicked council of elders robed in white and crimson,
Sit fat atop a tower to ruminate on sin and manipulation.
Decrees from ancient tomes and texts written in history,
Declare our origins in an operant opera of consecrated mystery.
With pretty puckered lips whose sounds ring farcical pious flops,
They play make-believe games adorned with papal tiaras on their tops.
Fear of demonic entities along with a promise for passing into heaven,
Shepherd their sheepish followers who find superstition in number seven.
Those of us in the audience, however, can see the satire in their theaters,
And applaud with sardonic apathy at these Shakespearian conspirators.
The pope and the rest of his papal and priestly pedophiles deserve a curtain call,
For their meaningless maniacal theatrical actions have, between us, built a wall.
Feed not the golden glutenous greed that devours our unsaved souls,
Of these thespian Vatican witches and wizards who thrive on world control.
Along the lies of the Bible's tales belie Abrahamic codes,
With its triplets, Quran and Tora, who all move by the same old modes.
This triumvirate is but three variations of the same beliefs,
About why we're here yet lie and steal your soul like a pocket thief.
Wars of swords have slashed in bloody and insatiable inquisitions,
Enough human lives with the three religions' powerful positions.
We are here but to be bound together by our ability to love,
And not be bound by books that blind our eyes to what's above.
Believe not what's bound in the apocryphal Abrahamic texts,
And learn to empirically learn and see what for us is next.
I peer quite nervously about,
to wonder at the goings on,
how much of what is said,
is speculation on my part,
and how this dwelling rose,
from a clouded past milieu,
tales of the apocryphal I’d guess,
imagination stirred off course,
uncanny gothic motto purblind,
blue ink mist curtain veil stoke,
vivid mind’s black night visual,
amulet of congested fantasy,
macabre plot on the strain,
what surreal restlessness within,
dormant interregnum cast,
yet one seems drawn toward,
that dim lit swirling sight,
nest for midnight dervish,
and other brazen species,
dare I enter from afar,
perforce I court danger,
when nosey to a fault,
but therein lies the trap,
to be fascinated is one thing,
to stray beyond another,
why would one be so tempted,
by an entity with dark omens,
superstition is a term used,
to smear that which is unknown,
it is however justified,
when carefully used methinks,
a shrouded raven perched,
stoic, solemn sage as sentry,
ravens circulating chimney top,
symbolic ghost appearing numb,
somehow I cannot summon,
pluck up that innate gumption,
to confront a crippling fear,
before it duly swallows me,
now I feel driven without rein,
zany impulse at the whelm,
enigmatic pathway underfoot,
reluctant step a heavy booth lurch,
shattered eaves, torn leaves,
giant concrete slab tumble,
frail broken window smithereened,
taut ghoulish splinters glisten,
I dash against elemental angst,
when peeping warily into the void
Surfing You Tube, I come upon
“Til The World Ends” by
Three Dog Night. It was a lesser
hit of theirs from 1975, but
it always reminded me of you,
and that time we were
going to up to Lake Erie
between semesters.
I’d squandered my summer steel
mill cash on Black Russians,
and was nebulous about the trip
in a nimbus way. So, when you asked
me if it was about the money,
that night on my grandfather’s
front porch swing
---of course, it wasn’t---
So, we went to Lake Erie
for the time of our untold lives.
I can evoke “The Return of the Pink
Panther”, a yellow hair dryer,
and waking up from a particular nap.
But, given our model of
discourse, it is not
surprising that we didn’t
attain the apocryphal It
--despite our subsequent
engagement—
And that’s because life
is a business,
and we were a lemonade stand.
All of which is a cul de sac
looping back to those
three dog nights, which is an Eskimo
expression, some say, long before
Eli’s Coming, and Joy to the World,
referring to those coldest of nights
when it took three dogs on the bed to keep
us...and them... from freezing---
Symbiosis---to employ a more scientific
term where poetry doesn’t apply anymore.
“Til the World Ends” cracked the
Top 40 to number 32, the Dog’s
last hop upon the mattress. But
those soaring falsetto peals
on the fade out....Oh yes, that’s it.
I have seen the pretentious woman residing within my minds hologram….
She believes herself to be a wise messiah…
She teaches her apocryphal beliefs to other seekers…
She has deep roots of stubborn illusions planted within her intentions…
She teaches to be revered actually living with great fear…
She wants to be loved, her demise being forcing her will of fear…
She consumes shots of green gel calling it her breath of life…
The divine grandmother challenged the false inner profits message…
Enraging her with threats of revealing to me real truth…
She chanted, pounded her mislead fists together, manifesting a sword of crystal and light…
Piercing through her own throat refusing to evolve her beliefs…
Creating again all of her low vibration grief…
Why is she here covering her veil of confusion over my eyes?
Preventing me from believing the light of oneness god exists…
Why does she desire to create suffering within the temple?
What is her mission’s purpose?
Working for the Cabal; a mental program construct of peace destruction…
Consumed with greed and power wishing to feel divine…
Poisoning everyone from birth with this tainted sour wine…
I banish you…
You scared old stubborn crow…
I swim within my god’s love light of truth…
So take your pathetic self and go…
Go to the white light, transforming your tyranny within my being into delight…
I give my life to the wind; to
the fossils, the spirit, and the earth.
I leave my thoughts to the termites that
linger beneath the sod, to the falcon in the
firmament, and to the animals that mate on
our planet floor.
To my mother: a word and a prayer.
I sew my being to her cosmos.
I am the planet, the weed, the bird, the
antelope, and the babe begotten by
Mother Nature.
To nature: I speak from naked thoughts — with
a primal mind and a void conscience. With
bare feet I tread — without cause or reason.
For loneliness is futile when corn sprout and
birds wait for harvest.
The harvest is within: like tubers within the
earth, like the mammoth decayed within the
grave, like my heart shelved within my ribs.
I leave the rib, the garment, and my lance to
the vultures and the sparrows of the Amazon.
To the crowd: I commit a dirge.
I take the hymn, the flute, and the lyric from
dead men, from monsters, from skirmished souls and
demigods raving in isolation.
To the bird, I commit a song; the seer, a
revelation; to the eagle, the eyes of an owl, the
Iguana, talons, and to my unborn child, a crown.
To this voice, I write an echo; the heavens, I
weave wonder; the gods, I commune with
contrite words.
And to poetry, I leave my soul.
When apocryphal bedlam spreads its crazy pinions
Fake news holds court in the newspaper's dominion
Incessant lies convert to self-righteous 'truth' in print
I light a fire with a fact check stone cold sparky flint
Surely I respect pluralism and free speech for everyone
Search for opinions and do not object well put clever pun
But when evil misinformation threatens valid certitude
I wish the evil propaganda would be null and void and mute
Yet what can I do I'm just a humble poet with a tiny quill
Can shout from nanoscopic roof tops or the window sill
Reach deep into a shallow ink pot with my fountain pen
Cannot compete though with the glitzy giant liars' den
I won't bow to how the big shots misinform and cheat
Challenge crude populism and reject unopposed defeat
Call out to fellow writers' voice to heed the call of obligation
Will not be handcuffed or straightjacketed within my narration
Honesty holds virtue and ethos can be clothed in rhymes
Rhythm dash meaning and figures speech onto the lines
When right becomes so very wrong duty is to write until
I'm bound and gagged knowing the skewed battle is uphill
04th April 2020
Just untangle and snip the threads and you will be fine. In the luminous labyrinth of society, a kaleidoscope of perspectives unfolds, where idiosyncratic souls shatter certainties, embracing the abyssal void. We, the insular inhabitants, mistake tenebrous convictions for apocryphal truths, perpetuating a tortuous cycle of rancorous comparison. In the diaphanous murk of our minds, we grasp the eclipsian reality: no crimson right, only a gauzy tapestry of behemoth wrongs, each one a necromantic reflection of our xenial uniqueness. We tantalize the iridescent horizon of growth, where luminescent minds oscillate between the bucolic past and the resplendent future. In the sultry depths of our heterogeneous souls, we coruscate with an anathema to the status quo, a vehement desire to dissemble the ossuary of our Memento Mori-bund understanding. We festinate in the nadir of our mephistophelean nature, comparing the fathomless depths of our own growth to the xenophobic other, a catafalque of jettatura that obfuscates the vellichor of our inexorable ineffable nature is the fact that conformity and shackles only bind those who wish to be the same, who tend to throw shade at us who are different.
She had many sad stories,
they were filed away, labeled,
color coded;
tales presented as apocryphal bibles.
He would listen as she pulled them out
of her droning breast,
intoned then as if reciting
poetry to an acolyte sponge.
Her stories festered the air
with pitiful sorrows,
scratched yet more stigmata
upon hide-bound woes.
White paper moths would fly up to his eyes
as if to illustrate her narratives;
tissue thin, he would see within them
the many skeletons of her living ghosts,
bones free now of all minerality,
fish-wet and wriggling
in the gel of a long preserved plasma.
He often closed his ears
to make his lips numb. The nasal gnarl
of her broken voice
coated his tongue with sticky commiserations,
a jejune sympathy
that had the texture of mildewed goatskin.
Her words mechanically ticked off
every injustice and persecution
ever heaped upon a martyred mind.
Eventually though, her deep well of mopes
dried to a blubber of sighs.
Then all those emaciated moths
would flutter around her
anointing her echoing skull
with a seeping urine-like substance
she called love.
(“Citadel of Light Merit Badge”, 2016, original pen and ink)
The Great Debate
The great debate in buddhism
Specifically in ancient Tibet,
Was between the sudden and gradualist schools.
Even though the event is apocryphal
And never actually happened,
It’s a good and relevant story
Because it is the debate that happens to this day
Between students and teachers,
Dharma brothers and sisters
And within our own heart,
Because it concerns the nature of actual enlightenment.
You see,
The two schools view and conceive
The nature of reality,
And thus nature of ourselves,
Fundamentally differently.
The gradual school says life is like a dream
While the sudden school says it is a dream.
Disregard for a moment
The popular row row row your boat song
Which somehow inexplicably
Gave us all in the West
The sudden school lesson,
The vast majority of spiritual aspirants
Are of the gradual path
While only the very few are sudden types.
But the bottom line
Is that everyone is a gradual path type
Until they are a sudden enlightenment type.
(8/11/25)