Long Excommunicated Poems
Long Excommunicated Poems. Below are the most popular long Excommunicated by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Excommunicated poems by poem length and keyword.
The Pope is dying,
clinging to life like any other shmuck.
When my mother died,
(bless her excommunicated heart),
she lay in State as serene
as a sleeping cat under a fading sun.
Dogs don't care about death,
death is just another bone
to chew upon
as they sleepwalk through their last hours.
Death's doorstep
has been good to me.
I have dwelt upon it before
shivering and naked
holding my penitent
like a tarnished talisman.
Death has been kind to me,
I have shaken its door,
it rattled like an ill-fitting denture.
Behind a hollow lock
I could hear
a dog continuously barking -
a Pontiff pleading with it to stop,
a silky cat purring.
I heard a deeper sound,
my mother's compassionate laughter
for we who were begot
only to wait until.
The Burning of the Books
by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
When the Regime
commanded the unlawful books to be burned,
teams of dull oxen hauled huge cartloads to the bonfires.
Then a banished writer, one of the best,
scanning the list of excommunicated texts,
became enraged: he’d been excluded!
He rushed to his desk, full of contemptuous wrath,
to write fiery letters to the morons in power —
Burn me! he wrote with his blazing pen —
Haven’t I always reported the truth?
Now here you are, treating me like a liar!
Burn me!
Parting
by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
We embrace;
my fingers trace
rich cloth;
yours only threadbare fabric.
A quick hug:
you were invited to the gay soiree
while the law’s minions relentlessly pursue me.
We talk about the weather
and our eternal friendship.
Anything else would be too bitter.
Radio Poem
by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
You, little box, held tightly
to me,
escaping,
so that your delicate tubes do not break;
carried from house to house, from ship to train,
so that my enemies may continue communicating with me
on land and at sea
and even in my bed, to my pain;
the last thing I hear at night, the first thing when I awake,
recounting their many conquests and my litany of cares,
promise me not to go silent all of a sudden,
unawares.
The Mask of Evil
by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
A Japanese carving hangs on my wall –
the mask of an ancient demon, limned with golden lacquer.
Not altogether unsympathetically, I observe
the bulging veins of its forehead, noting
the great effort it takes to be evil.
AN INFAMOUS LEGEND
King Henry XIII was indeed quite a boy,
He had no clue how to spell the word coy,
He was consumed by a quest that
A wife bear,
And give birth to a male heir,
He was fat, red headed and
Dressed with flamboyant flair!
Not quite my thing,
For a ruling King!
He wedded his first wife Catherine of Aragon,
Who did not bear a son
And grew to loathe this noble lady
He had done!
Cromwell, Henry’s adviser was used,
And finally abused, he had
To ask parliament to pass a bill,
Which made divorce a common drill.
One morning King Henry got out of
The wrong side of the bed,
And had Cromwell beheaded,
The executioner had trouble
Severing his head!
This Bill made Henry, head
Of the Protestant faith.
The Pope excommunicated King Henry
From Rome,
A disliked King who sat on
England’s throne!
Catherine now belonged in the past,
Enter Anne Boleyn,
Their marriage was short and ill fated
For she was publicly beheaded!
In between marriages and wives,
Henry had affairs,
One wonders how far his seed was spread,
Let’s not split hairs,
Probably he could fill a today’s
Rugby stadium!
With his family jewels downstairs!
Jane Seymour, his third wife was
Was the love of his life,
She gave birth to an heir, a son,
But his beloved wife died,
Henry was sad and perhaps
A single tear dried!
Now Henry had a son,
But needed to still live his life
So he spied wife number four
Who willingly came to knock
On his door.
But Henry divorced Anne of Cleves,
Wow lucky lady!
And so entered wife number five,
Who was brave and plucky,
She had a short married life,
Tried and sentenced for treason,
This was an excuse for a reason
To have Catherine Howard beheaded,
Soon after they were wedded!
Congratulations to Catherine Parr,
For though she was the last,
She outlived the King by far,
And brought to rest his cast,
And lewd past!
In fifteen hundred and forty seven,
King Henry died,
We doubt he went to Heaven,
And was laid to rest next to Jane,
His third wife, and beloved bride.
Perhaps Henry's family jewels should
Have been shredded or beheaded,
And then he be remembered,
As an infamous legend.
Below the gray blah canopy
Suffering from bad attitude
and seasonal psychosis
The human race sprints
No finish line required
and Everyone wins gold
Music blaring
Bikini tops daring
Exposed guts not caring
Rooftop gogo dancer staring
At me
Ok, maybe that's vice versa
Its a poolside, post-graduate MTV Spring Break
Some of us much more "post" than others
The glaze and haze of Vegas
Sprawling in the manner built for Caesar
Decadence is the Neighborhood Watch
Where every citizen is
On patrol
On Patron
All far gone
Judgment
By them or ourselves
Left town for lent
Or excommunicated at the stake
Where loungers and readers
And tricksters and treaters
are one
Tighter than conjoined twins
playing with crazy glue in Texas heat
And the ways that used to be
And the ways we wish there were
And the ways we can rent by glass
Are included in the price of admission
Guilt not included
As everyone drops their towels
Hoping for someone to pick them up.
(9/7/13)
"And Today's Special is Wine and Cheese"
Some wine and cheese
If you would please
Depressed, I cannot express myself for I’m being oppressed and repressed
Yet, I reside in the west, my lines are treated as an unwelcome guest
I’ve ornamented ideas that will go unheard
Reading them will be seen as a vulture transcribed word
“A Stale Birthday Cake,” could be submitted
But a lot of terms are not permitted
If I leave those texts out to describe my rage
It might as well be written in the stone age
Here’s an example, “ , ” substantial white noise is found on this page
“The Penetralia Ruby Queen,” hint, the anatomy
But, is there no shame, outcry, how dare I, the audacity
It conveys about some person with a dancing nymph’s fantasy
But it altercates against the morals of Christianity
Here’s an example, “ , ” undeniably excommunicated for blasphemy
The villainous bark, scream, “Cultures Dark Theme”
It’s something written from a nightmare’s dream
If submitted, it would drive the masses into insanity
Yet, this piece of work prohibits the usage of profanity
Here’s an example, “ , ” silenced because others must be spared of its inhumanity
“The World’s Playground” still waiting to see if it gets banned
Negligent in comprehending the rules beforehand
The lyrics uses a word to describe a person who gets paid
In an ideal world, I could just switch the rhyme to being laid
Here’s an example, “ ,” my apologies for the cross realm alabaster masquerade
Finally, “Unzipped Apple Core,” was written as a rant indeed
Bitten by the fire ant, I was hoping it would supplant a seed
But apparently the flying monkey festival has everyone strapped to a ticking time bomb
Another useless firework display to a bromide poem, so turn the page to end this sitcom
The doctor said, "Take this. It will cure the social disease”
So, for my last supper please, I would like some wine and cheese
Updated 5/14/2019
Form:
Don't Be a Nazi
Flee the yoke of woke
and unlearn the hate inside,
and be a human
reaching out with love to share.
Tell the universe, “I care!”
***
Note:
As an infant, Adolf Hitler (1889–1945) was baptized in the Roman Catholic Church and avowed his sacrament of Confirmation in accordance with the Catechism of the Catholic Church at the age of fifteen in 1904. Though history books and the Catholic Church intentionally or unintentionally blur and misrepresent the truth with biased, opinionated arguments, Adolf Hitler never officially renounced his Catholic faith, nor was he excommunicated from the Roman Catholic Church.
Adolf Hitler served as the leader (führer) of the “National Socialist German Workers’ Party (Nazi Party)” from 1921 to 1945 and Chancellor (1933) and Führer (1934) of Germany until his suicidal death in 1945.
Adolf Hitler, “Tell a lie loud enough and long enough and people will believe it.”
"Phenomonology"
time drips through
the lens of philosophy
phenomonology melts
the solid realisation;
was all that time
spent inconsequential,
the purpose of it all
bought abruptly,
for an expected cost
(for this annal
somewhere soft
and vaseline-lensed,
we anticipate, it is never
an unexpected cost,
we know the cost
of all things eventually),
fraught and contradictory
brought into alignment
with a loose end,
that’s a wrap
and nothing tied,
question mark;
semicolan, pause
avoid that full stop;
simply being before thought
yolk and white separate
cracked and measured
flaws in the reasoning
of existence,
there is no rational
explanation beyond
faith and belief,
monastic pantheists
flinch to the hymns
of science’s abrasive voice
it has its answers for
substance
through the gate racing
on the get-go
phyrronism
scorches everything;
Everything,
raises its hand
palm open – there’s that
measured full stop.
structures of consciousness
shakey foundations experienced
through a First person view
beggars belief
in trust,
yet nothing tangible;
we speak to ourselves
and our internal gods;
Spinoza confers with
some of us,
excommunicated,
we understand that,
in one way or another
and we are just like
the others
but different,
waiting for validation
and logical answers
to form on our tongues
like words we swallow
to speak into life.
in the beginning
there was the word
but before that,
the thoughts;
from the mind
sits Epoché’s nature
Ataraxia
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
a bee
invaded our car in
nineteen fifty four
while we were driving
to the jersey shore
flew in my open back window
of our two tone ford custom
pea green top black bottom
hurtling down the highway
four kids two adults
doing sixty
our kid arms outside the windows
flailing and pushing the wind
no cares
must have looked from above
like some giant green beetle
lotsa wiggly white legs
once the bee was inside
it was havoc
screaming and screeching
kids curled up in fear
in the rear
mom and dad barking out orders
we knew it had a stinger
it wanted to get us
stab us
never really saw its sticky spear
scary when needles are near
it buzzed all about
for a minute or two
up to the windshield
back near my ear
mom tried to thwack it
with her home journal
but missed
it disappeared
we all wanted to kill it
that is what you do with bees
waited and waited
no bee
then in a fury it came out
from under the front seat
hiding in a sea of springs
plotting for its moment
its chance to escape
we must have gone twenty miles
with it in our car
so out it came
buzzed a bit
then flew out my window
gone
we all took a sigh of relief
the villain excommunicated
after the yapping stopped
silence for a few miles
then i got a slow sadness
how will it find its home
it was very very far away
i thought if i was the bee
maybe i would feel lost
i remember when mom
found me in wanamakers
in toys
mom leaned over the front seat
and said
his home is everywhere
huh
that was enough for me
even though i had no clue
what it all meant what to do
my first lesson in empathy
taught by a teeny thing so wee
a bee
free verse 74 lines 326 words
Pen illustration G. Gaul
Sunsphere
Sunsphere, purple to orange,
yellow in the middle,
setting at the rear.
Behind the wheel, gripping the steel,
Apollo, anxious, scans for falling flowers
along the roadside.
My petal scent
permeates the Lumina —
maroon in colour,
interior tone matching.
It is his ride,
our style.
I will never leave, even if we wreck
at breakneck speed.
I’ve got the need;
he’s got the deed.
My own Jimmy Dean —
flashing red and green,
amber
and lean,
colours of the scene,
of the chase.
The urban heart paces
its own race to the climax,
where it might end,
where it might dissolve away
in a state of perfect pink bliss.
The body’s calibrated systems all lined up
for twenty seconds of elation.
I tune the station.
He smiles at the recognition.
This song carried us along —
all the pit stops, all the speed bumps.
It first played eons past:
sweet sixteen, neon skies blast
green wonder overhead.
He was not there; we had not met.
A song that touched the loneliness inside.
I realized I was not like everyone else;
I excommunicated myself.
And when I found him, I denied this song existed.
It reminded me of that time before my heart enlisted
in the endless dream.
I pretended I had never experienced sadness.
I was in pure spirit —
not doctored by my own health
or chemistry.
I was strong,
untouched by the dirty empires.
But it was false.
I had already fallen in the mud.
Music was the rope
holding me close.
No one offered their arms,
no one offered their charms
to save me from dismay.
I clung to whole notes
and registers —
treble and bass.
I only had theory to seal my edges.
I was not restrained, not in feeling
nor in the larynx.
I was fixated on expression,
the lexicon of my wounded soul.
He smiles at the remembrance
as the song plays again —
not because the lyrics are happy
or because it calls back pleasant polaroids.
We are still here,
cohabiting the vessel of our escapade,
together,
rolling through the hills of sonic recollection.
And here, in the passenger seat of an old Chevy,
I can finally name my sorrow
I can let the tears rise
if they wanted to break the levy of my eyes —
forest-coloured iris —
if I had reason to cry
Unorthodox grace
is not limited to restoring healthy face
that your ***** sexual wealthy place
is not your disgrace;
Deviation from hetero-statistical means
is your sacred gift
from EarthQueen
Outstanding difference
is not only
and always
your heavy depleting responsibility;
but also your socially enlightened
and culturally empowering opportunity.
We are not illegitimately unknown
and excommunicated
first and foremost by seed planters
overruling births that could not feel more legitimate
to those innocently born
and those giving graced birth
through organic solidarity--
graced labor rights
of compassionate re-creation.
We are also not legitimately known
by who or what we hate;
But we can become redeemed
by who and what we love.
We may have no more choice
about who
and what
and when
and where
and why
and how we express love
than choice to respond with awe
and wonder,
or boredom
and disdain,
to Earth's natural inspiring
holistic spirited Beauty
Truths of trusted grace
Revisited each dawn and dusk,
each spring and autumn,
each ocean surf and mountain breeze,
each deepening sea and elevating land,
each plant and harvest,
each beginning and ending
empowering light and dark muses
Of graced beauty
which feels racing true
and recasting healthy,
of the highest
and deepest EarthMother legitimacy,
for safest
universally uniting resilience,
Resonantly robust
multicolored wealth
of unorthodox mind
embodied grace.