Long Heresy Poems
Long Heresy Poems. Below are the most popular long Heresy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Heresy poems by poem length and keyword.
The elliptical hums its sibylline canticle,
counting aeons in the marrow of my thorax.
Trainer whispers conspiracies;
I vault Himalayan escarpments, breath argent wind,
limbs pendulums of forgotten constellations.
Neon acolytes scroll ephemeral auguries;
mirrors, obsidian tribunals, reflect only decrepitude.
I seize dumbbells—orb of primordial sovereignty;
sweat ignites into microcosmic heliospheres,
celebrating the heresy of vitality
in a sanctum devoted to fragility.
The clipboard combusts in incense of imagined awe;
I pedal, I lift, I breathe—
each motion an imperial edict: mountain, river, comet.
I am venerable, absurd, immortal, human;
my laughter detonates Olympus beneath fluorescent firmaments.
This quest arose for Jeanne d'Arc,
A peasant girl engrossed in prayer.
When voices deep inside her head,
Spoke of her future, saving France.
During the passing march of time,
Wise words transcended Jeanne's belief.
With eloquence she did proclaim,
The Dauphin Charles would be crowned king.
Jeanne's duty now, to free Orleans,
Which Englands army had besieged.
Her strategy of no retreat,
Caused panic in the English camp.
When cannon fire created haze,
Two arrows pierced Jeanne's armour plate.
Despite her wounds she battled on.
With victory lifting the siege.
The road to Reims to crown Charles king,
Was fraught with danger near Patay.
Jeanne's orders were, to ride with spurs.
The English drums beat out retreat,
French knights on horseback giving chase
Were almost ambushed by their foe.
A startled stag caused disarray.
The French knights spilling English blood.
Jeanne kneeling down, tearfully prayed,
Betwixt those dying and the dead.
With Charles crowned king, and wanting peace
Jeanne's siege of Paris did surcease.
Her power was his great concern,
Consigning her to free Compiegne.
A skirmish by the city walls
Ended with Jeanne's captivity.
The trial of the Orleans maid
A charge of heresy was placed
Which Jeanne as always did deny.
With threats of torture or confess,
Those voices past, she did retract
Only to say, it was Gods will.
So weary now, she knew her fate.
For modesty, she wore mens clothes
Convicting her of heresy.
Within Rouen's old market place
Jeanne's death was burning at the stake.
An English guard made her a cross
He wept then cried, we've burnt a saint.
9/ 15/ 2015.
Joan of Arc was the holiest one living in an era of kill-and-take,
she led the French army against the British who were slowly advancing;
was she forced to disguise herself as astutely as she could by wearing
soldier's clothes to prevent brutal attacks and possible rape?
Tied to a pillar like the Witches of Salem,
she screamed in fiery blazes invoking angels for comfort while she was dying;
they accused her of heresy, but her humble words were true and convincing...
" I proclaim truth as Jesus of Bethlehem! "
" Burn, warrior, burn for your lies until your bones turn into ashes! "
Were the cruel insults of the raging British soldiers blocking out mercy;
" I have seen saints, not demons: I ask for compassion, not sympathy! "
Joan of Arc shouted Christ's name overwhelmed by smoke and flames.
Who was to blame for her atrocious death? The British? The French? The Clergy?
Who didn't have a tarnished conscience, not believing she was a true saint?
" I forgive you for your madness; free me now, spare me the pain of agony! "
She begged the mocking soldiers who didn't feel a bit of pity but continued to chant.
Where ere befell a guiding light
Shining eyes beheld a glory
Holp toward a muted purpose—
A distant feigning glimmer,
Beyond the pale of words.
An aching need to be remade,
A sculptor's hand; a brutal vision
A child; a blank canvas,
A naivety, a submissive nature,
An eagerness to please.
Lead them to a dimming light,
There amidst our dying shadows;
There betwixt the Sun and Night,
Where line the winding gallows.
Where shame forsakes the birth-right
That a darker voice be heard.
And offer up their souls of light
Like the flourishing of birds.
The blinding faith sees not the wraith
Whose night has coiled a cold embrace.
The sun shall nevermore break
Where the twilight, some sayeth,
Precedes its visage upon the lake.
Darkness shall have usurp'd the day
And those who needed believe
Shall have naught to say,
Atop the boroughs as they grieve,
Bearing the known regrets
And we—
The freedom used to deceive,
To let embolden depravity,
To watch the flames spread despair and misery.
The freedom to preach hate and heresy,
To wrongfully endure—
For which we all shall sorely pay.
As the battle raged in the war of thrones
Between the English and the French
A peasant girl would become known
As the heroine of the French defense
It was in the town of Donremy
Where Joan of Arc was born
Angelic visions affirmed her destiny
And to Charles VII her loyalty was sworn
She managed to convince the prince
To let her ride to the battle scene
To the besieged city of Orleans
Where victory she had foreseen
Indeed, this battle she did win
Shortly after Charles VII was crowned King
But Joan soon fell into enemy hands
When she was captured by the Burgundians
She was tried for witchcraft and heresy
In a trial that was a travesty
Then her life they did take
And Joan of Arc was burned at the stake
A statue stands in Place des Pyramides
To honor her heroic deeds
Where the peasant girl from Donremy
Rides upon her trusty steed
----
You have compose stories of old of how the universe came about; you have brainwashed the world with the existence of old and frivolous literature that your ancestors have written; they cannot be tested or proven by the world’s greatest scientist, mathematician and astrologist; they cannot be tested in the lab and when I read those stories they really make me feel sad.
They are filled with dishonest and fraudulent men, incest and rape, assassinations and plots and consistent fighting baked in the conscience of well groomed men. The biblical war never cease and it has brought modern-day men down on their feet.
The biblical literature of old pronounced wickedness upon the world, it invokes sickness upon man and death and destruction upon the land, man set himself on fire for its written in the holy scripture as if the crucifixion of Christ wasn’t enough, you have led the world into a religious fuss and on Sundays you pretend to be holy.
I have searched for the truth my entire life and I have made hundreds of heartfelt sacrifice and I am convinced that there is a presence stronger than man and it is not written on those ancient pages or what we have studied in the ages, it is an individual encounter with something that is bigger and more powerful than man. We have learnt about it in the ages and god itself is lost in it, and if god could read it, it would be unhappy with mankind’s greed and man’s promiscuous beliefs.
More than a billion analyst have broken the literature down and find no truth in it but you continue to walk around in long gowns deceiving the people in the pew with verses of old that are not true, the house of Lords will not hear you and the house of commons cannot accommodate you, you have been living a lie and deceiving the people with fake cries.
You talk of angels emerging from the sky and the world coming to an end with a pigeon and a hen oh what blatant heresy of un-confounded religious men.
Adam and eve came on the scene with a wild and mysterious dream; the passion was so high that they ate the forbidden fruit and die.; and your man-made Santa clause has tricked children both at home and abroad and you have to rid yourselves of the old dusty, confounding stories about heaven and glory and teach about the truth in stories of love.
—Prithee, Beloved, Tarry Yet Awhile—
Lo! from the crypts where buried hours conspire,
the past came flooding with a nameless force,
and pulverised the dreams of obsidian fire
I bore within my eyes along their course;
yet thee, beloved, whom those dreams enclosed,
the ruin could not wholly discompose.
A childhood afternoon returned entire—
dust silvering a bicycle's worn chain,
the iron scent that follows sudden rain,
a whistle thinning through the telegraph wire;
such trifles, entombed beneath the years,
rose armed with teeth and drank my inward tears.
Then memory unsealed its subterranean sea:
old names, old faces, departures without graves,
a schoolbell striking through the dusk at me,
the smell of wet earth from forgotten days;
each recollection smote the inward glass
and drove another century through the past.
Prithee, beloved, tarry yet awhile;
I carry thee where dream and vision meet.
Touch not the fragments glittering round thy smile;
their edges have grown treacherously acute.
I know not which small splinter shelters thee,
nor which has learnt the shape of wounding me.
Let me stoop slowly through this inward wreck
and lift each broken heaven from its place;
for some shards still retain the vanished speck
of dawn that once inhabited thy face.
One enters flesh; another enters thought—
I bear thy vision where the wound becomes an eye.
Then, without wind, the splinters turned to rain;
the dead stars climbed the wounds they once had made,
and every wound became a seeing vein;
the heavens broke, yet nothing fell or stayed.
I touched the glass—and understood at last:
the shard was not the thing the years had cast.
So tarry. Let me finish what I must,
lest memory's bright wreck should enter thee;
I shall remove the fragments, not the dust
of all the years that taught my eyes to see.
And when the final shard lies still apart,
I shall not seek thee. Thou wilt be the sight.
ICE NINE
The sourceling of anti-matter,
morphed in, a slithering form.
From Darkness's anteroom chamber-
The wormhole, in escape-
The place where disobedience was born.
A
S
p
i
r
a
l
staircase, passage-
from Satan's spawning floor.
The full embrace of the fall, from grace-
Leading to a pit, a chasm within,
a vacuous sore.....
(The Abyss)
An Epitaph to Hopes Epiphany,
suffocation of man's denial.
Viper's soliloquy on Life's Headstone-
singing Hade's Reprisal.
The Manacle Frost seeped in, absolute,
in a stigma of waves.
Grasping, ill repute,
adorning its crystal plague.
Sculpting a stoic coffin,
for the Deads Winter.
Thematic serum, preserving decay,
reserving sinners -to it's chaotic
pain of spread-eagle splay.
Delivering retribution of hydrous tentacles-
A black mosaic, sadistic, iced anti-miracles.
What once were flowing streams,
now, solid, cataracts, in the shade of heresy.
Clogged arteries,
unstirring unto Death's Trident.
Neptune's chill, unforgiving, arrant.
Blood rigid, arresting the heart of Heretics.
A frozen mirror casts justice's like image,
reflecting back from the Abyss.
Unrelenting, this visage, to the fiends,
strewn about the thick of it.
Icy fangs sink in their eternal repress.
Yes.
The Sickle of Death's Angel.
The Fog of Hade's Breath.
Where is the line,
You know the one,
The line from which you start your judgement,
Because let’s be honest,
You only go back far enough to prove your cause,
The history is heresy to you,
Looking through naive little yes,
You don’t even see half the picture,
Worst is - you don’t want to.
As long as you can see far enough to call me guilty,
And what about your past transgressions ?
Sorry,
Your off limits,
Your twisted little hypocrisy works for you does it,
Let’s you sleep soundly in your dumb little bed,
With your dumb little ideals,
May god have mercy on your moments of weakness,
I hope when your judgement comes,
It’s with the same blind stubbornness that you’ve shown me,
We all have a past,
I can’t change it,
I can’t condone it -
I own it - That’s it,
It part of me and who I am.
Go find someone that meets your expectations,
What you want is a good little slave,
That will take your bull and make you feel special,
Your pathetic and I’m not playing your game anymore,
Get a grip,
Get a life,
And get to .
On Memorial of St. Dominic
We remember that man who sought to teach the truth in service to Father Christ
The Master Teacher
Every age has its errors
As Dominic encountered with Albigensian heresy over 800 years ago
In our time
We are likewise called to proclaim the truth both clarity
Charity
No matter our state in life Eternal God calls us to serve within our own unique capacities
Circumstances
Talents
The closer we grow to the Lord
The more dispenses the grace to persevere in holiness
Just as Saint Dominic followed Eternal God piously to lead the wayward to repentance
So
Too
Should we look inwardly and then outwardly to embrace the Gospel
Heavenly Eternal Father
Our world is full of confusion
Dissent from the truth
As we seek to live Your holy will
May we look the example of Saint Dominic
Who only spoke to You
About You
We pray this in Father Christ’ holy Name
Justin McClain, O.P.
Turned to Poetry: Jacqueline R. Mendoza
Poetry Form: Free Verse/Narrative
Date turned to Poetry: 8032024
Time turned to Poetry: 9:18pm