Long Clerics Poems
Long Clerics Poems. Below are the most popular long Clerics by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clerics poems by poem length and keyword.
The twin towers topped New York City,
symbols of freedom, they scraped the sky.
Hollow mountains reduced to pity,
but a nation’s dreams refused to die.
America suffered a hate crime
as the world watched planes pierce concrete.
And religious zealots swore, this time
the devastation would be complete.
Structurally slit, as with a knife,
fire melted through girders of steel.
And the impact of life striking life
made the devastation surreal.
Choking on smoke, with no escape found,
people lived out their worst nightmare dreams.
For desperate souls leaped to the ground,
their lives lost amidst the panicked screams.
Defining freedom’s ultimate state,
shapes the soul and heart of a nation.
And yet, Muslim clerics filled with hate
proudly praised this abomination.
(Quatrain)
8/2/2017
Like God amassing gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh,
vain potentates, possessed by pride that riches will confer,
depleted pillaged villages in pagan days of old…
With penetration privileges, their fortunes were foretold.
In feudal times, chaste clerics, cloaked, wrapped rings around the mind
with hymns of magic, mystic myths and figurines enshrined,
while blessing bayonet-like blades that mutilate and maim…
With penetration privileges, believers bore no blame.
In search of caramel colonies, some sailors set their sails
to conquer puppet provinces, for sovereignty prevails,
purloining wicked treasure troves which others claimed their own…
With penetration privileges, such sins sustained the throne.
Well, nowadays the quest proceeds, this time for ebon oil,
so peoples once again are caught within the serpent’s coil
and, pierced by fangs of greed and lust, death yields benign escape…
With penetration privileges, you’re free to rip and rape.
We wave the flags and beat the drums and often kneel to pray
to glorify our victories, bold, that happen far away;
but none salute the severed souls impaled upon a pike…
With penetration privileges, the riffraff look alike.
One day the moguls won’t agree on how to slice the pie;
they’ll spit and spat and, tit-for-tat, atomic barbs will fly -
but when the button’s finally pressed, they too will grace the heap…
With penetration privileges, the hole that’s hewn is deep.
Written: May 22, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Daniel Henry Rodgers
3rd place contest winner
*******************************
They found it in a cellar no one remembered building—
a small box of tarnished brass, hinges soft as old breath,
a warm lid that felt like it had been pondering for a long time.
Scholars termed it a mnemonic engine,
while clerics labeled it a sin-counter.
Children claimed it housed a star that forgot how to shine.
The lady who inherited it—
The one with the quivering hand and the always-paused voice—knew better.
She had seen the way the box listened.
When she approached, the air thickened,
as if the room were holding its breath to avoid spoiling a pledge.
The box never opened for her or anyone else.
It often shifts its weight on the table at night like a dreamer rolling over.
She kept it despite demurs that it buzzed, projected shades in locations,
no lantern may explain, and knew things no object should recall.
When she tried to leave it behind,
the silence in her chest grew heavier, as if the box were
only keeping her unspoken life from collapsing.
She swore she heard it whisper, never words, some nights.
A quiet, rhythmic counting sound.
Counting her unspoken regrets, options, and lost selves.
Maybe the sum of times she walked back from a truth.
The reliquary kept its secret.
It waited, watched, and held what she couldn't say.
After she died, they found the box beside her,
still closed, warm, and listening.
No one dared touch it, but someone claimed they heard it exhale—
a long, relaxed breath, as if it had stopped counting???
We sense the sacred in these peaceful walls
Yet men have died in places that appal
Women too and children then unborn
Fell into cold dark earth in lands forlorn
As our weapons grow, our hearts are hard
The people live in Gaza behind bars
The water all polluted as taps drip
Is this war or is it vengeance fit?
In Britain, it’s the poor who lose the war
As it was when Jesus Mary bore
Yet here are clerics blessing marching bands
A military show for all the land
The genocide in Europe of the Jews
The self destructive actions of the proud
The fields of France filled sick with blood and bone
Who are we to cast judgemental stones?
The War’s not over when the fighting stops
The soldiers and the tortured suffer shock
The widows and the parents all bereaved.
The unborn children hover in unease
We let the prisoners out from camps of death
But who would take them in or take their path?
The injuries will travel down the years
As still we fight and still we live in fear
It’s Europe’s grasp and greed which was the cause
Of death in Gaza, Syria, in long wars
Yet we judge we are more civilised
When we self defend with bitter lies
……. Holy Poets……
If you don’t like a poets views take a long walk.
Don’t beat anyone over the head, with endless
God talk.
They may be Jewish, Buddhist, Islamic,Atheist
whatever!
It’s none of your business to hog tie them with a
Christian tether.
They don’t need you...who are you the Pope?
Moralistic monks posing at poets with hope??
At least, the Hare Krishna folk can dance!
You have spiritual, Savior “ants in your pants”
Many practicing, good Christians, already are here.
Take your own moral inventory, before condemning
other poets, far better than you, be of great cheer.
Jesus was right on the money!
“Judge yourself, before you judge anyone”was pure,
clear, ESUS honey!
This is a place for poetry, not eternal salvation.
Quit playing clerics and sending poets to eternal
damnation!
Do pray, in humility, for all you “think” that are lost!
Remove your white collar, alienating dear poets is not
worth the cost!
Poetry is about honest self_expression at its best!
If you think it’s about judging, worse, destroying others,
you are on the wrong quest!
There are Christian poetry sites you can participate in... and
Being non-Christian here, is no requirement, nor is it a sin!
Look at all the countries represented here.
Give each one space, respect them and be of good cheer!
10/2/2021
Jesusita
God only had a daughter,
Jesuitta, whom he gave to teach us love.
She was a good little girl with blond, curly hair, and often helped her mother
with the washing up and other household chores.
As she grew up and became a shapely young woman,
she coveted by men, who could not grasp her preaching
of unconditional love was not about sex;
They began talking behind her back.
Rumors had it she had twelve lovers
there was talk of orgies with wine, fried fish, and fresh bread.
She went to the church, demanded to be heard, and asked why there were no women priests and why they let sleazy merchants sell overpriced artifacts.
The clerics, who had had enough of this noisy woman, told Pilatus to do something.
He first raped her and, to his shock, realized that Jesuitta was a virgin;
This knowledge haunted him for the rest of his life.
Nevertheless, he threw her to his Roman Legionnaires as a usual tart. And the men taunted her:
“Is this what you meant by calling love absolute,
they bawled.
Their women said nothing.
They put her on the cross as the semen of a thousand soldiers
ran down her legs, she died with forgiveness in her heart.
If your'e going to preach it brother.? Hit-em with the Gospel
For its like no other; Spell' Speak of mercy..And the flames of hell' and ring out the message like a ten ton bell.' Tell the truth
'The world is round' like Isaiah shouted.' He really went to
Town.' Also the village for that to matters.' No doubt giving
The matrons a feast of natters.' Yes tell of the King! With a
Sceptre of iron.' Ruler of Nations the one so much better,' by
Leaps and leauges.' Yet a donkey His steed! the pharisees bane.' He allowed them to keep their greeds.' Yes preach of
Life and tbe riches of God.' To all those destined to go under
The sod.' Some clerics may repent.?To turn away? from the
Gasp-ell of death they gasp out today.' Nothing is new as
Solomon put.' Just whitewashed tombs on top thats it.' The
Bones of this matter.' Wont be raised at all.' Who have gasp-ed
Out the message of slavery and thrall.' Its hotter than this
Poem.'The place they must go.' If you don't want to join them 'just let Jesus know.'
….And no one spoke…
protecting all about them from
the perception of impropriety,
insensitivity, misunderstanding
…and no one looked…
shielding their eyes lest their gaze
be taken as an affront to the fashion
choices of a passerby, an insult to
the sanctimonious clerics wardrobe,
an assault on the personal space of
a nearsighted Neanderthal.
…and no one listened….
for fear of hearing anything….
that might offend their sensitivities,
sound a tone that was not in
complete compliance, allow the possibility
of conversation.
So did the monkeys take the throne,
the threesome of denial, risen
to the peak of power because they
heard no evil – spoke no evil – saw no evil
became the dupes of evil - because they
heard no good – spoke no good – saw no good
John G. Lawless
8/13/2015
History
Will tell
His story
He gives hell
To everyone
And to the world
As he lies and lied, he swirled
Like the leaves of autumn.
Everyone has a story
History will not absolve this one
Who is guilty
Of so much: racism,
Sexism, nepotism
Hypocrisy and weapon
Of mass destruction
No reason
To abuse power and position
Since both are ephemeral
This short-lived role
Will pass like any other season
Only God is eternal
All wars are illegal
In accordance with the Scriptures
Said the High Priest along with the vicars.
History
Will tell
His story
Ring the huge bell
Of the Cathedral
Only God is eternal
This is only a short summary
Of his biography
And not his one-page eulogy
For insulting and hurting Humanity.
Copyright © April 2026 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
An Obscenity Trial
by Michael R. Burch
The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints
against whom several critics cited numerous complaints.
They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd,"
and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud.
The prosecutor alleged himself most stylish and best-dressed;
it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed.
He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity;
twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality.
The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind,
though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind.
Clerics called him the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin.
Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in.
The prosecutor began his case
by spitting in the poet's face,
knowing the trial would be a farce.
"It is obscene,"
he screamed,
"to expose the naked heart!"
The recorder (bewildered Society)
greeted this statement with applause.
"This man is no poet.
Just look: his Hallmark shows it.
Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar!
He speaks without a stammer!
His sense of rhythm is too fine!
He does not use recondite words
or conjure ancient Latin verbs.
This man is an imposter!
I ask that his sentence be
the almost perceptible indignity
of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster."
The jury left in tears of joy, literally sequestered.
The defendant sighed in mild despair,
"Please, let me answer to my peers."
But how His Honor giggled then,
seeing no poets were let in.
Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad
and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad.
***
A well-known poet criticized this poem for being "journalistic." But then the poem is written from the point of view of a journalist who's covering the trial of a poet. The poem was completed by the end of my sophomore year in college.