Long Calumny Poems
Long Calumny Poems. Below are the most popular long Calumny by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Calumny poems by poem length and keyword.
I am African, I affirm that i am Original African
untainted, unblenched, unsoiled.
I am African,
with all the dignity of the first human.
unashamed, unbowed, undaunted. I am African.
unique, culturally so.
I am from the people whose origin birthed all others,
the first creatures of Earth.
I am African,
Boldly I declare,
with this strength and sinews affirming,
though they obscure my origin with fabrication,
and contorted the fact with lies,
Yet, my spirit aligning with the truth undeniable, I am African.
Though the glare of calumny opposes,
and unvoiced spite rent my melanin,
I stand unfettered declaring, I am African.
unrestricted traversing the globe,
from this climes to India,
I carry beauty across continents
sowing seeds everywhere.
I bore the heat unblenched.
I retain the goodness of Gold.
This sun does not affright.
it leaves no particles with the scourge.
When you see me touring the Land with strength,
Remember,
I am African.
Shadow souls flying across the sea
Of my senses they knew, what a mockery,
How do I write the song says the dream?
Whereupon the wanderer falls
In the scribbled pines
Of a forest burnt
In the addled minds
of ruminants
Under the spell
Of prescription drugs
A waterfall falling long
Whispering into nothing
And how does a shadow sing along?
With the words planted
When the mind is gone
The cultured lie pearl
Calumny and drought
Don’t ask me
I don’t know what it means
I just write it down
Medicated monsters flee themselves
In fiery wagons chasing hope
When no earthly vehicle
Can help them now
And the darkness of the drones
The forest-flatteners blocking the sun
With gun-carriage storms
Of all fissile material
Spitting their fish scales
Into our faces
And who wrote the song?
Down by the deadpond
Now that Weyland’s work is done
Tantalite, tungsten, sin, tin and gold
Seem pretty small in your hand there’s a phone
But all over Africa mines are still smouldering
How do I write the song says the dream?
Lord help me I feel the world psyche waking
Whereupon the wanderer falls.
Calumny is a sin which consists in maliciously attributing to another faults
detects which he did not posses
A person commits the sin of calumny or
slander when by lying he injures the good name of another
Laity is a member of the Church that does not belong to the clerical
religious state
Unity is what all people of God is supposed to be in His only Catholic
Roman Catholic Church.
Mass is given from Jesus Christ only Roman Catholic Church
New Covenant is the law and dispensation of Jesus Christ
opposed to the Old Covenant of Moses which it infinitely surpassed
superseded
fulfilled
Yahweh refers to the proper name of God
"WHO AM"
12172011
I am a Victim,
Lured by mascara, and by a pretext piety
Induced through lust by immoral vermin
I am a Victim
Blindfold through cunnings to fest on a plowed field,
“Whore scammed”, trapped in a net by the conspiracy of a blemished womanhood
I am a Victim,
Decoyed through the bait of an illusion to nurse the wound of another.
Oh! The Desdemona from whose path I avoided avowal
I am a victim,
Of marriage in Freetown, the offer of credit in dowry.
And the sharer chokes hastily by licentious and libidinous overwhelm.
I am a Victim,
Of a venomous revenge of a late marriage,
The brunt, the consequence of many abandoned lovers lurking still to watch my shame.
I am a victim,
Hauled from far off climes to be used, dumped after use
Suspended in the gale to fulfil an ambition.
I am a victim,
Of a clandestine unanimity of an unbroken vow,
Lust feigned for friendship dictates and plotted through covert text, my fall their aim
I am a victim
Of the conspiracy of “Exes” plotted by the bed lure,
Of hasty overturn to conceal the fraud by a blinded jury
I am a victim,
Defrauded, demonized, humiliated and ridiculed.
A bespectacled gargoyle masked the visages in the loss
I am a victim
They couldn't find in this clime, but must take a trip to seek,
and by secret oath through the court, concealed from affinity save one
I am a victim,
Semen sapped by a desperation to escape a stigma of nature,
And a sorrowing reflection of an impostor on my innocent seed
I am a victim
By revenges of many woes, still waited to plow on a stranger’s lap
Whose seed was taken through anger for mere gain,
I am a victim,
Bore the spatter of grim loss to a burying place and have since never ceased
I am a victim
Of this highest ambition in the vanity fair,
Ousted when a sincere investment was well worn by trickery
I am a victim
of their jeer, of a collective calumny of their bed tattling
of the usurping of fatherhood, of their banter and this grim gaunt wearied
I am a victim,
A reflective victim of conscience.
Of a story not fully told
I was born in the odds,
I lived through it,
dotted the lines on my path
I was born among hyenas,
these scrambling to stiffen the last breath,
Amidst hurts and hate first from home,
A lot cast in mirage and fantasies,
Hope too soon cut short,
Survival, a struggle,
Unexplainable Fratricidal warfare,
The closer in blood, the more bloodier,
A race without consent
A badge of calumny,
Shot on the heels like Achilles,
Bore cruelty from innocence to adulthood,
Unending miasma, the debacles of a short existence,
Abandoned, secluded,
for reaction occasioned by their own bile,
Childhood stolen,
set on a slippery path as they watch a peradventure slide to my ill.
From ambuscade, they drew their swords,
Their arrows bathed in blood unabated,
Aiming at my marrows,
I groan and mourn in the dark,
Enemies as friends monitoring,
Friends as enemies watching.
This path not by Choice.
I lived through it,
A thousand bands of beasts assaulting,
Into this war, enlisted.
I was born there, buoyed by troubadour,
Somewhere in Africa,
My right are taken away from me,
Where laws are drafted by criminals,
Where the police pay themselves on the streets,
Where certificate are mere papers with payments,
I was born there ,
Where criminals are protected and sanity deemed madness,
Somewhere in West Africa
where compassion is extinct
The survival of the fittest,
Street boys kills to survive,
Scholars abandon politics to simpleton,
Where the brightest are critics and cadres prevents the ambitious
I live there,
Where certificate is a document to escape,
Lawyers now charge and bail for survival,
Doctors protesting like urchins
Poets selling cosmetics,
bankers riding "Okada",
Amongst drug peddlers,
Amongst cultist,
Where clergymen induce the gullible,
In this cage we call country.
I was born there.
Talking about other people can hurt you and them
Even if you meant no harm
You could be guilty of a serious sin called, “calumny.”
If you believe the negative reports you hear about others without verifying the facts
You will be guilty of rash judgment
False reports contributed to Jesus’ condemnation and death
Having suffered from them
One can imagine that Jesus takes a dim view of calumny and rash judgment
“Detraction”
Another serious sin that involves disclosing someone’s faults or misdeeds to listeners who didn’t know about them
Without an objectively good reason
Such a disclosure almost always impacts a reputation
Rather than risk hurting someone or sinning yourself
Follow grandma’s wise advise “If you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything at all.”
Craven cupidity, contemptible crow
Your talking is squawking as black as your soul
If birds of a feather would gather your hem
A collection of seamstresses darker than them
Would weave from hole cloth a pattern of lies
From a harvest of calumny dark'ning the skies
Who rates this performance, whose benefit there
With bait this enormous just fit for a bear
Who else in the forest could relish this feast
Galumphing, triumphing, it must be a beast
Wallowing, swallowing, swampy at best
Content to recline there and dine on the rest
Immobile as a trophy, stuffed for display
On future repast, blackened feather filet
Blow hard and bellow with yellowing cries
Gather like fellows who feast on these lies
If chapels had been churches, your cathedral would loom
'stead of gathering shadows in this canyon of gloom
With your bins full of blight and your gather of smut
We hasten to bid you not good night but... what?
We wonder still under quick'ning despair
In search of escape, it must be here but... where?
There must be some light lest this darkness o'erwhelm
We must brave the night til the Good take the helm
I am as a hammer.' Weilded by God.' Upon the rockface of
False piety.' O're which human blood pours; in great floods.' In power i
Assail it.' With blows of great might.' I am come for this
Epoch..' at this deepest midnight' I assault in this darkness every, twenty four hours.' The smoke from each
Impact echoes' deafening many with raw power.' A stench
Of acridity emmanates and surrounds.' There are shreiks
From the demons.' As they loose un-holy grounds.' I feel the
Tremor of volcanos.' As all humanity.' Starts to see! into; and through the confusion.' That has stood, ages overwhelmingly.'
The bitter taste of demise.'in my stomach now deeply lies'
Yet His words taste 'as sweetest honey' as I aim.! The summit in my eyes' The
Seat of all evil and calumny.' The end draws now apace .' God is readying His
Troops.. soon He will remove; every trace.' Every track
Of inquitys cloven hoof placed.' Every sacrifice to baal; and hate.' By the Word of His
Power we are all destined to our fate.' Lo' He raises an army.! to
Clear away the dark groves mates.' This very hour.! He is active' and all sin will be thrown
Down' when He Himself ( in all His Heavens fully shows) with true! Power echoing around!)
I look back to the halcyon days
When Mrs Johnson,
A comely widow, ran fruitful
Errands for the new railway, and for
Our undeveloped district.
A frail, little maid in green cardigan
And sable wool hat for new mourners,
She read the New Testament
With zest, from Matthew to Revelation.
And she battled with the stress of inheritance
At the foot of her husband’s death in a
Civil war.
Her only son had died in civil stress. . .
Before then,
She was a merry image of festal seasons,
Full of godly gap-toothed mirth.
Her inheritance, from the ceremony of death,
Were mere effigies
With hearts of calumny —like cruel
Neighbours who gossip from dawn
To dusk, speaking no iota of truth in
January, nor bearing good witness in
December.
Among them?
Divorcees, viragoes, astute harlots, and
Celebrated proprietors of bordellos.
Mrs Johnson laments the presence
Of a blinding yellow equatorial sun.
Says she, ”Misery in equator courses
Across the waist of here;
Stress and agony have built adobes
Among us,
And the Harmattan has departed with her
Cold . . .”
In the pall of this agony,
Snakes!
Now, shadows of floods rise high,
Like the tsunamis of restless Asia,
The height of disconsolate mountains.
Grey elephants trumpet in trepidation
Sallow, ululating leopards break the skins of
Their drums while summoning their kinsmen
For a hurried parley before the sun sinks . . .
Poor Mrs Johnson is in the midst of it all —
Like an eye in its own storm!
Bricks of pain heaved on feeble frame
Hell’s ring tone in fragile ears
Exits incomparable in life’s little memory
A goddess gone, the pillar of a heart’s strength.
Lured above reason by fables,
By mean mortals of and kings of calumny
“They said, and the tattlers said”
to the end of a structure so rare.
This trust is tested,
As hope crumbles
Among dark rumors by strange marauders,
A heart nurtured for stranger’s gains
An Oprah’s regret found in Ruth.
All entreaties as weak words they fall,
And so must I let the bird fly to her nest,
Into hideouts carved by her lust and greed,
Seeking a heaven in hell’s lies.
A foretelling powers of bygone times
Pronounced this exit by lightning's speed.
Goodbye to true parleys of the heart,
An End to the dream by imputed fables.
A shaking of wind, a tossing of sea
A tornado of earth’s fires
A true test of oaths and love
Goodbye to what men call love.
now and forever know.
Eros is a stranger to agape