Long Dogma Poems
Long Dogma Poems. Below are the most popular long Dogma by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dogma poems by poem length and keyword.
Undermining the rule of law set on stone
unnatural has began it's reign attacking righteousness
With no holds barred attacking human rights has to stop
their is a public outcry in resistance against the spoken truth
freedom of speech is being attacked by hate without mercy
Power hungry has become a court dealing death in its wake
engaging in efforts to destroy family structure
the minority of ruling class has lost all credit
Pushing dogma against the written word
hiding the underlying facts and figures
corruption is dealing it's cards hard pressed acceptance
Indoctrinating the masses using media as their vehicle coverage
broadcasting using it as a tool to educate incorrectly
within a set belief system manufactured from sin
Uncritically accepting the lunatics brave ideas
and believes almost anything right or wrong from the off
Bullies have a strange way of craving acceptance
they lash people with their tongue cursing with abuse linked
Murdering and spilling blood is all these heathens know
they have a lack of understanding knowledge and wisdom
caring for others and loving all creation is beneath them
Tortured beggars of the fool have no consideration for others
the names you call the innocent to justify your cause
in all my years living we as a world resemble hell
Such ugliness is tolerated by nations as we fall victim
No longer do we hold God as our champion
targeting Christians as scapegoats given over to petition
this amounts to a communist regime cutting this piece short
His Karma ran over his Dogma
His dish ran away with the spoon
He wonders if Destiny's planning
To do away with him soon
He found out the hard way that Free Will
Comes with carrying charges and tax
That between the tenets and credos
There is little room for the facts
She was sure that the Gods had her number
That no matter which road she took
There stood this fellow named Murphy
Writing her name in some book
It seems she was never empowered
To challenge the powers that rule
She simply grew as she flowered
And challenged them all to a duel
9/14/2020
Free Will VS Destiny Poetry Contest
Faith is a cat, treading softly,
with delicacy, with hesitation,
unlike the dog-like dogma
(so aptly named) which seeks
to hold fast a believer in its
proud, fierce and steel-like jaws.
Yes, faith is beyond reason--
how could it not be when the
mystery is more than any mind
can seize and hold and eat....
And faith is a tease, a hope not
fully formed but heavy, unlike
its correspondent, the soul, so
light no scale can weigh it, no
meter can measure--but faith
sweats and breathes and lives
in fear of its own death like the
fragile body and life it inhabits.
Faith can be mocked so easily
by those resolute like stone
whose hearts are sealed and
walled against wonder, magic--
the magic of the world, of air
and sun and moonlight grace.
The deep, deep magic of two
who meet as strangers, then
meld into friends, then bind in
a power greater than death,
a power cloaked in mystery:
'Why do I love him?' and
'Why do I so long for her?'
This power, this mystery will
never be contained, either by
time or place or memories--
it will transcend even eternity.
Thus faith is the child of love,
real love, love unbounded,
fierce, heedless, far beyond
its greeting card counterfeit.
Faith is found in the cracks,
when reason is overwhelmed
and hope seems near death--
then faith, never easy, never,
never truly simple-- then faith
will be tossed and turned and
sometimes die, but more often
thrive as it makes the soul one.
Ecological interdependent systems,
networks non-personified co-relational
non-sectarian
non-reductive
therefore holistic
holy
whole-theistic
trans-theistic
pan-theistic;
EcoTheistic networks
for active cooperation,
if you radically
and democratically
prefer creolization
over OldSchool colonization,
Business As Competitively Usual,
NonSectarian missions with more effective
and historically
and culturally valid cooperative outcomes
than patriarchal missionaries
of verbal dogma over-powering trans-sectarian opportunities,
healthy seeing and hearing integrity experience,
wealthy synergetic hope
Emerged from warm wet wombed
Zero ZenZones of nutritional co-passion
Speaking systemically
of health theo-logical
teleological meaning
ethological purposeful pasts
through transportive futures.
Agnostics mistrust theistic trust,
but mistrust is not actively committed
to distrust powerful muses
and memes.
Cynics mistrust anger and fear management,
but passive cynicism is not actively committed
to anger- and fear-mongering mismanagement
nor capable of leading us
toward everyday radical compassion.
Those of us living in the USA
too often hear Republican capitalist dogma
of The Great Trickle Down Theory,
in which those who have most
must get more first
so they can hire more who have least,
although perhaps without proficient wage
and without health care if avoidable,
to spread capitalizing wealth around
so we can become better day and night spenders
on all the thneeds and trinkets offered
in exchange for our consuming lives.
And so it was with raised eyebrows
I heard Donald Trump explain
to us unwashed and un-self-insuring masses,
that he paid so very little income taxes
because it is his sacred duty
to himself
his family
his stockholders,
corporately invested infesters,
to pay as little tax and operating fees as legally possible
so there is more to hoard,
and less and less to trickle out.
So, I guess this carries some tension
with Trickle Down,
becoming, more accurately,
The Upper Caste Constipated
minimal trickling out
of capital hoarding.
But, just in case you are listening, Donald,
which I know you are not,
but maybe some more responsible Republican employer,
I am quite sure that Wharton never spoke this lie
that you have any legal, much less moral, obligation
to retain as much wealth as possible
to re-invest in further corporate greed
to act as little trickling out as possible
while speaking in loud nationalistic patriotic
Trickle Down and Out!
to all us little people,
someday
Preferably after this year's self-congratulatory pay out,
made possible by all us humble caregivers
opening your golden ballroom doors for tips
and cleaning your several stressed toilets,
where yellow and brown
too slowly trickle down.
Guy in Guantanamo
Catherine’s wheel spins round the revolution ever since that day her lover died
when both lost the plot and their passion and she cried her grief into Bedlam
Guy jumped to his death to avoid torture hanging in quarters and disembowelment
gonads stuffed into his mouth like hot chestnuts did not appeal much I suppose
He had been a sparkler cracker Jack out of that ordinary box a hero martyr terrorist
criminal but one woman’s arsonist is another one’s flame hot passion crusader of love
Same smoke screens for religion and dogma today with mouldy gunpowder exchanged
for suicide bombings and some misguided faith merely faithful to death and destruction
When lighting a bonne fire today and caught on the ‘right’ side of evil trading life for
collateral damage oiling power in the name of wheel’s fortune and hegemony’s axes
Medals glory decorations await the champion wielding drone’s buttons for the sake of
remote controlled ‘democracy’ but when found reading the Koran Guantanamo beckons
Legality outsourced to Caribbean delights with water music suited for rackets and rockets
of massive destruction and Monopoly played in the board rooms of walled streets where
Playing with fire one does not hear Catherine’s pleas to have mercy without victor’s justice
and as of today I still do not know whether we celebrate Guy’s death or his disorderly guts
Effigies sizzling on feu de joie do not sit well with my statutes and statues of liberty when
hypocrisy measures with double standards and when two wrongs surrender what’s right
15th November
hull loo from the rip tide 'o this eastern sea board
of these united states - no always in a chord
with each other - sum give others hoard
unlike meself, an additional pray 2 zee lord
boot i - cap'n my captain crunchy kangaroo moored
by dental floss tend 2b agnostic n feel
charles darwin scored
with his theory of eve a lou shun -
ass i attest held captive by zoological ward.
this veritable unknown taboo screw sir o'er the net
offered his semi best
width cheers n hmm...tables for any guest
that might stop by at woods edge motley fool doth jest
and ideally nada bee a stinging pest.
spectacular quasi moat toe skinny dipping
like honey dripper preyed purview
while The Idler Wheel Is Wiser than the Driver of the Screw
manned by horton, whom hears a hoo
and Whipping Cords Will Serve You
More than Ropes Will Ever Do
respond if the spirit doth strike
or...tell me to take a hike
along the boulevard o broken dreams
down by the weathered nether land housed dick van dyke.
hens with roosting intuition, this stranger can c
your aura, dogma, karma, patina, persona, uvula
exudes the potential for glee
perhaps even for...me
ordained princess, quite rational, sensible, thoughtful,
unpretentious, vivacious, wise, witty, xyz...
(after Irene)
It’s a ravaged town down in these parts
The jobless faces and those heavy hearts
The sun barely makes it in before it disappears
A cold cold sky, clouds corrupt
Even the billboards won’t look up
‘cause goodness hasn’t come this way in years
Bone kids living outta tinted Fords
Barely separate from the cord
Innocence tied to the stake and surrounded by spears
I used to know happiness and love
Now I cry out to whatever’s above
‘cause goodness hasn’t come this way in years
Some camouflaged personnel roll by
I go to salute but don’t wonder why
I guess I bought into the dogma of courage and fear
When all the protection and virtues cease,
I might even kill for one moment’s peace
‘cause goodness hasn’t come this way in years
The water is receding after the flood
Baptizing a Lutheran church in mud
It’s all the space left to pray and weep acolyte’s tears
Forgive us our trespasses into crime
Our holy ghosts live on borrowed time
When goodness hasn’t come this way in years
The folksinger died in a burning crash –
A whole culture paid for his pine box in cash
While his own kids parade their scars in front of the mirror
But by then, there won’t be music left
When a scene dies, it dies a megaton death
And goodness will not come this way for years.
2011
he got up at bedtime stretched and gathered the sheets
shook up the pillows sorted the pages and went to his desk
thoughts and emotions dripped from fine ink on paper
looked at a day’s worth of poetry philosophy and reflection
laced with emotions intuition and balance to be embraced
when he stumbled on seeming inconsistencies and doubts
he tickled his fancy with a feathered quill and let out a sigh
arranged reconstructed and narrated what should have been
meanwhile the roof was leaking and the fireplace was in ashes
for he was poor and his writings would never pay the bills
a mouldy loaf starred at him when he opened the fridge
at least the electricity supply had not yet been disconnected
his heart warmed with pleasure at the sight of some pasta
no sauce and no cheese but a drop of milk for his thirst
food for thought would carry him through hours of hunger
metaphors happily mingled with synonyms and anagrams
states of subconscious flow enlightened transcendence
grammatical constraints had never been his strongest suit
and he was still in his nightgown exuding musk and dust
a lonely semicolon was confused as it looked for its place
cheap coffee and a few fags encouraged further creations
of a lost wonder world with dreams and mysterious events
he would shape his past and his future in fantasy and magic
shed normative pressures conventions and crude dogma
leave them in plain sight to remind him of his true calling
he sought independence and freedom rather than money
critiqued and portrayed the sad state of deceptive affairs
that surrounded him unless he dipped deep into the inkpot
scratched and scribbled prologues sequences and an epitaph
maybe one day he might be given kind posthumous acclaim
30th August 2020
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Contest: All In A Day
A little lie, like a thin veil covering the truth in the night of crystal,
A little candor, like a moonbeam gently piercing the darkness,
Forgetfulness does not weep, for tears have dried on the cheeks of lost memories,
Folly doesn't hurt, for it remains like a shadow silently slipping through time.
So many falls into temptation happen, like leaves dancing in the autumn wind,
As if even dogma is drowsy, like a dream asleep under an apathetic sky,
Ready to die beneath the wet horizons, where clouds weave the fabric of oblivion,
Nothing is seen, for the darkness becomes a sea swallowing the light.
Nothing is heard, except the whispers of the wind telling forgotten legends,
Nothing rises, for the wings of hope are broken by the weight of silence,
Nothing bows, for pride remains a solitary stone tower,
A little remorse, like a pale flame flickering in the depths of the soul.
A little light, like a wandering star on the infinite night sky,
A little forgiveness, like a caress on a forehead tired of thoughts,
A little hope, like a blade of grass sprouting from scorched earth,
Formal and empty, like an echo lost in the valleys of forgetfulness.
Tears are in vain, when the day is fading and shadows stretch over the world,
And from nowhere comes a rogue night, with secret steps and a heart of fire,
Absurd and blind, like a story told by a voiceless bard,
Strong in its axe, like a fate that shatters dreams with an iron hand.
To burn, to break, to cut, to steal, like a thief of time leaving no trace,
The little that love still carries, like a treasure hidden from the world's eyes,
In its palms, with a name of fate, like an unwritten covenant between heaven and earth.