Long Condescension Poems
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In her heart, she knew the truth.
And its nefarious root.
In a raging storm of wrath.
And, so she took the wrong path.
"Mame Blackwell," he said.
A shiny Eagle in her hand he laid.
"My wife is in need."
"I beg that you do heed."
"She screams out your name."
"And boast of your fame."
The baby is twisting her inner"
And the light in her eyes grows dimmer."
"He said, " I tried to talk her out of being cared for by a Negress wench."
His face was grim, not so much as a flinch.
From the agony of his condescension, she put a plan at play.
She follows him as he leads the way.
Under the impulse and retrospection of veterinary pedagogy.
The acute stress in the room was her burden wholly.
With skillful strategy, she guided the baby into a world of many ills.
But there was no fight for air through his tiny nostrils.
No shrills.
His face was nearly purple and his chest was still.
copy 2016
Beauteously asserting her practical passion for fashion
She dresses up, cognizant of vibrant color combination
Mixing and matching clothes of apt hues’ coordination
Boosting her confidence with their complementing function.
Comfortable covering anchors her fashion’s passion
Choosing quality with budget’s consideration
Wearing what’s best according to her prudent gumption
Midst branded haute couture’s grand promotion.
Oblivious of avant-garde critics’ condescension
She’s well-groomed beyond stylish fashion-passion
Never affected by trending fads’ stiff competition
As she glorifies God Who’s clothed with honour*’s perfection.
*Psalm 104:1 Bless the LORD, O my soul. O LORD my God, thou art very great; thou art clothed with honour and majesty.
November 11, 2019
Honorable Mention, "Fashion" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Julia Ward; judged on 11/30/2019.
Hillary, dear Hillary—where do we begin?
In your tale of deceit and corrupt political spin.
First lady, poor victim—
‘Vast Right Wing’ to blame,
A Chicago born, carpet bagging, New Yorker—how lame.
For over four decades, you ruthlessly fought,
Every virtuous ideal the forefathers sought.
With convictions as sound—as a lifeboat that sinks,
You’re a Chameleon, Hyena, a slithering snake,
who for votes flip flops often—just whatever it takes!
Stolen funds meant for Haiti, Clerical errors to blame,
at the foundation “helping po folks,” that bears your last name,
problem is—no one knows, where this ‘help’ can be seen.
while your net worth exponentially expands to obscene!
Fat chance ‘crooked Hillary,’ parts with the cash
from your “pay to play” system, illegal and brash.
Your condescension exceeds, what most tolerate,
like a child who needs spanking, or a belligerent inmate.
The fawning from media, won’t take you to task,
over emails, Benghazi, Russian Uranium—they won’t ask!
Liberals, dead voters, and criminals don’t care,
‘bout your pile of dead bodies, or ELITIST fanfare.
Just a history of coincidences—corpses intact,
and secret home email server, foreign governments hacked.
while two former presidents’ lies had your back!
You’re the Eva Perón of the United States,
Your red badge of courage—a life of mistakes
As queen of all feminists, their abortion namesake
Whose politically correct mantra remains,
WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?
Beloved souls, hear me as I speak, thus is my life, a hymn of compassion, an eternal psalm of love.
I walked amongst the lowly not with pity but with understanding, for in their suffering, I saw the seeds of the divine. To the broken, I once was a healer.
To the outcast such am I, I to them was a friend.
In my wandering I spoke to the lowliest of the low, not with the weight of condescension, but with compassion of our shared humanity.
My heart beats with empathy for the poor, the wounded, and the forgotten. I turned my gaze to women, not as lesser beings but as equals, with spirits as radiant as the stars.
To the Samaritan woman at the well, I offered the water of my life; to Mary Magdalene, redemption and love.
I see not your labels but your hearts, and through them, I have revealed that the soul has no rank or measure in the kingdom of heaven.
I walked into courthouses and knew indignity, my anger kindled against the corruption that sullied the just.
For I knew that worship without justice is an empty offering, and love without action is a withered vine.
My hands, calloused from state slavery, lifted the fallen and gave up knowledge to the hungry.
to them my voice, was gentle yet firm, and I call for a love that burns brighter than gold and a faith that stands stronger than the mountain that once was moved.
I know that the pain of life and the shadow of death, yet I have embraced both with open arms.
For in This life, I have taught you to live boldly, to love freely.
In my coming death, to you there is hope eternally, to rise again anew.
So, let us learn to speak, not with hurtful words, but with empathetic deeds that bloom from the garden of our hearts, tending to the lowly, the forgotten, and to love each other.
Amen.
Jesus, no doubt, is my hero and friend,
Till the end.
Was he perfect? Don’t know? But if So?
When he told the Pharisees that they were of their father the devil?
Was he sinning? Was he hating? Such that others could mock and revel?
In their own superiority? And his motives inferior?
My God, I feel wearier, every day,
That I feel the weight of the maternal scolds, and belittling things that folks say.
“Get a job!” “Get off the street?!”
“You’re just a burden as you sit there and beg at my feet!”
“You’re not a victim, so leave the past in the past!”
“That’s not nice, my little child, you’d better straighten up fast!”
Jesus, no doubt, is my hero and friend.
Till the end.
Was he perfect? Don’t know? But even if not?
I strive to be like him, and love him a lot.
And just as my Savior, got angry, I too,
Feel the fury of bias and the rage of pointed fingers.
Like singers, singing a song of condescension,
It reminds me of days that I am censured to mention,
When my dad was denied his pension,
Because of the tension,
Of his skin tone and refusal,
To be sheepish and bamboozled,
Am I Jesus, or even much like him?
Not really, I must admit?
But still he’s my Savior, even when I throw a fit.
And thank God he sees me truly,
Even when others scoff and chide.
And thank God he gives me courage,
For I refuse to run and hide.
For those like me, who started from the beginning at the bottom,
Our culture tends to view us as oh just a wee bit rotten,
And at the slightest hint of fury, seek to hunt us like Ben Laden.
So when I lose it? Yes I choose it?
This consequential crucifixion,
For I although others tend to want me silenced, prostrate in submission,
I have a savior, King, and best friend too, who never fails to listen.
My dream vacation flies me to the Holy Land
where my Saviour spent His earthly existence sublime…
There in Bethlehem, I will behold the Emmanuel’s humble birthplace
and be seized with gripping condescension-pangs
cognizant that the glorious King of kings in His fleshly nature
was a “babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger*
having farm animals as first greeters and jubilant shepherds as guests.
Then I will bask under the azure sky while visiting the Jordan River
to witness by faith the baptism of Jesus Christ, manifesting the Triune God
with the Holy Ghost descending “in a bodily shape like a dove upon him…”
and be awed by God the Father’s voice out from a bright cloud saying
“This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased; hear ye him.”**
Surely, I will delight to venture out to the Sea of Galilee
where the Lord calmed the storm with His “Peace be still”***
as well as in the Garden of Gethsemane and be drawn to persist with Him
in His supplication-struggle, since “in an agony he prayed more earnestly:
and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.”
Oh, I will trek along Mt. Calvary where the Redeemer ascended
to be crucified for mankind’s salvation, freeing sinners from damnation
and be grateful for His glorious assertion, “It is finished.”****
Never will I exempt the Garden Tomb to worship the Almighty with praise
and be enthralled with the assertion: “He is not here; He is risen.”*****
By the grace of God
I claim for fruitful seeds
as this dream vacation blossoms.
*Luke 2:12; **Luke 3:22; ***Mark 4:39; ****John 19:30; *****Matthew 28:6.
March 21, 2022
5th place, "MY DREAM VACATION" Imagism Poetry Writing Premiere Contest Sponsored by L MILTON HANKINS; judged on 4/1/2022.
No Luck For The Masses
Reversed into a corner where there is no way out
Rehearsed by a performer who likes to scream and shout
Inverses like a reformer who doesn’t know what he’s talking about
A curse that comes from former earnings not to go without
Multinational corporations that occupy the economic terrain
Unilateral conflagrations that teach you best of all to abstain
Collateral in the conversations that leave you grimacing in pain
Bilateral renunciations that leave the desert drenched in rain
Devastations that demand solutions in order to comply to convention
Remonstrations of absolution that deny the condescension
Aberrations of convolution that are a bone of mass contention
Admirations of the communions of the divine Ressurection
Profoundly seeking absolution from a person bound by grief
Resounding personal solutions that require the blessing of a chief
Confounding immolations that imply the working of a thief
Impounding the convolutions that you want to remain brief
Stupefaction of the masses staring at their screens
Abstraction comes in flashes of animations, adverts and memes
Extraction of the molasses as they’re diluting your dreams
Retraction of the colossus that invokes a high pitched scream
No luck for the poor the broken the tired the vulnerable or maimed
A truck of sure defiance that protesting will remain
The stuck realm of more reliance is a place of unhealthy terrain
While the crux that bore all of this violence leaves you back out in that desert rain.
Copyright The End Elizabeth Moroz
August 15 Relationship to God Bible Meditations Based on Ezekiel 45-48
Key Verse – Ezekiel 45:1 Moreover, when ye shall divide by lot the land for inheritance, ye shall offer an oblation unto the LORD, an holy portion of the land…
LORD GOD, YOU ARE MY OBLATION APPRAISER
Lord God, You are my oblation Appraiser inside Your sanctuary
Thank You for keeping me in Your everlasting salvation’s territory
Indeed removing from my heart the spoil of sin-misery
So I can offer myself for Your honour and glory.
Lord God, You are my oblation Appraiser inside Your pasture
Thank You for giving me opportunities toward Your service-venture
Indeed making my faith increase with Your Word’s nurture
So I can yield myself to Your ministry with loving gesture.
Lord God, You are my oblation Appraiser inside Your place of worship
Thank You for cleansing me to enjoy Your fellowship
Indeed instilling in my stewardship the lessons of biblical discipleship
So I can submit myself to Your workmanship midst grand partnership.
Lord God, You are my oblation Appraiser inside Your divine ordinance
Thank You for allowing me to optimize Your granted liberty-assurance
Indeed insuring my meekness against attacking arrogance
So I can abase myself while possessing heavenly inheritance.
Lord God, You are my oblation Appraiser inside Your altar’s holiness
Thank You for bringing me to Your throne of graciousness
Indeed forgiving my sins, confessed with humbleness
So I can surrender myself to You with complete obedience and faithfulness.
Lord God, You are my oblation Appraiser inside Your fortress of compassion
Thank You for supplying me with Your abundant provision
Indeed meeting my needs against scarcity’s condescension
So I can entrust myself to You from selfishness-possession.
Lord God, You are my oblation Appraiser inside Your eternal city
Thank You for guiding me toward spirituality’s prosperity
Indeed enclosing my commitment with seal of security
So I can sacrifice myself for Your name with utmost sincerity.
August 15, 2023
Poor or too rich,
different in form or race?
Remain slave to no opinion,
identity is a label for a can of beans.
Nothing living and upright
need bow
to a tribal or common hitch or halter.
When they call you this and that,
every badge they pin on you
is a disguised condescension.
To them you will always be
a victim of low expectations.
Man is your name and woman your truth.
When they come to you
with their polls, clipboards,
their pandering unctuousness,
look them in the eye,
say: ‘I am one of a kind,
a race of becoming giants,
a living spirit of God,
imperfect - yes
but I can be seen clearly,
while you
live in the shadow of a lie.’
We think of these only at New Years Eve at midnight.
How terribly wrong we are!
Each sunrise is a day of fresh might.
With the setting of the last twinkling star.
Reborn, each morning you are.
Yesterday is but history.
Today you are its brightest star.
You are today’s glory and mystery.
Each poem you pen,that you measure
No, its not condescension.
Gems from your heart that we treasure.
You lift us to another glimmering soul
dimension!
12/31/2021
*Dedicated to my Supporters*
In Appreciation,
~Panagiota~