Long Iconoclasts Poems
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You walk in hoping for solace or a smile,
instead you’re ostracized by iconoclasts.
Oh what irony!
Becoming what you profess to be against,
don’t you see what a joke that is?
Now we’re overrun with hypocrites.
Safe spaces aren’t so free,
they’re not open to all who enter;
Copying a cadence shouting their beliefs,
rhetoric gets you in the ‘In’ crowd.
Somewhere art’s been left to flounder,
shy behind all their shallow noise.
No desire to speak,
that’s been tried before.
Can’t open up when the response
is so utterly phony.
Safe spaces aren’t so free,
they’re not open to all who enter;
You’re not backed up when you’re gone.
Don’t think you’re exempt from their rules.
Only truly welcome with a cave-ate,
be a catalyst for their agenda.
God forbid you hold your own opinion
perhaps it’s better to remain exposed.
Safe spaces aren’t so free,
they’re not open to all who enter.
Written: September 04, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
**********
Death approaches, yes—
But we do not recoil.
We stand, not wan, but strong,
a flexible group of iconoclasts
who shine in the shadows
of eternity’s silent hush.
Let the deceitful chatter,
let the careless souls soothe their dread
with hackneyed prayers and ugly regrets.
We extemporize our eulogies
with miraculous zeal,
our throes a zeugma of pain and pride.
We are the svelte sojourners,
rakish in our riparian grace,
vivacious in the face of the pyre.
Our desire is not for effortless solutions,
but for the beauty of truth—
even when it highlights our flaws.
When God questions us,
We will not gaze into katabatic abyssal
nor lazily plead for reprieve.
We will speak in many tongues,
if need be—
a blend of every soul we have ever been.
Our claim to fame is not conquest,
But the seraphic refusal to flinch.
We are the summary of our scars,
the quintessence of our quiddity,
the panoply of every Petrichor
that ever made us weep and rise.
So let the maelstrom come.
We are agog with grace.
We are the squalor and the sapidity.
We are the pulsing, zoetic nexus
between the pyrrhic and the divine.
Echo blasts,
as it's all hunky-dorey in an iconoclasts contrasts,
displacement of my courageousness on a dumb-fast
tele~cast,
the resumed movement 28 days later wasn't even just as fast;
it was what was all along in my
aged economical forestry please-
in a delved and dormant door-mat that I once seized-
it came and went like a breeze,
but over came me,
it even behaved like the beast.
But with all this loss of law please-
unveil for a prince his own memory,
travel for the farm every existence in sequential feast-
the con-mans academic lean,
a sordid snape's reconciliation.
See through peace as peace was once an innocent things thing,
but never bring,
never feel a sleeping wing,
just josh and joist with brothers keepers,
steal the stew we love deeper seasoned and evaporated reapers-
because lord did they appear,
and dormant was their meal,
my first,
my last,
and entry of my free feel.
Written: November 20, 2025,
***************
The future is not a place—
It is a quidnunc calyx,
a capacious chalice
for those who dare to drink
the elixir of their own becoming.
Dreamers do not sleep.
They careen through cloudscapes,
gamboling past the gaudy gates
of flapdoodle and fear,
flaneurs of the ineluctable.
Their thoughts are canorous,
etched in hieroglyph and hex,
diaphanous as sky skims,
yet fierce as a hoyden’s howl.
They do not dissemble.
They rake through the rubble
of dismal days,
threadbare but unbroken,
writhe into catharsis
and call it art.
Their hearts are fipple-fluted,
gargling with garrulous grace,
eloquence stitched into
the petiole of every breath.
They wear tiaras woven
from wisteria’s bloom,
not crowned with the weight of hubris—
and gently lighten the heavy load.
Borne by the forgotten and the lost.
They are fetching,
felicitous,
iconoclasts of the somber.
They do not fear the gaseous unknown,
nor the egregious elision of comfort.
They are the herons of Elysium,
gamboled and glorious,
Each dream is a byzantine map
to a future
Only they can read.
So believe—
not in the desultory hush
of what was,
But in the foison of what could be.
The future is yours
at the behest of beauty.
The politics of religion,
its statues on fire
All martyred saints burning
in canonized pyre
As cardinals of vengeance
seek new hearts to be stoned
Inquisitors ramble,
the Creator on loan
The religion of politics,
papal decrees
Guilt laden promises,
salvationists fee
Crusaders on horseback,
twelve Apostles alone
Which is more dangerous,
the Word or the throne
(Chorus)
“Raise the curtain—praise the Lord,
darkness censures fast
Faith though blind, still hope to find,
beyond iconoclasts
“With eyes wide open, see the light,
all else to render lies
His love unending, given free,
eternal life the prize”
(The New Room: April, 2022)
It feels like the ship’s half mast
Mystery as history’s been recast
The last ghost of Christmas past
Impropriety savaging our society
Notoriety ravaging the entirety
Fake tyrants make migrants an outcast
Primal survival and tribal bible revival
Mormon iconoclasts in Gormenghast
The nub of pub hubbub have a blast
Cloned then dethroned closing fast
Snub our community hub flabbergast
Crowds roared as bands toured
New names explored heaven sent
Adored venues & events floored
Ignored by deplored property fraud
Hysterical dissent & lyrical lament
Landlord hell bent the rent soared
Even cricket’s oldest format now old hat
Temper at T20’s emperors new clothes
Every game the same just tit & more tat
But treasure troves as in roves the droves
Milk or silk for the ilk of that fat cat twa*
Farce of the hospo carcass hospitalised
Reign of the chain stops Mom & Pop shops
Locavore lair despair flair heirs marmalised
Flops grandstanding bland branding pops
Deranged how we are now so estranged
No one mops up the slops Laptops drop
Changed so fast for many trumpets blast
Hark back to the rose tinted halcyon past
As smart phones are overcome by dumb
Aghast say goodbye to the whole AI lie
The forecast for the future well overcast
Last post of the host & ghost of the past
I've walked at a peculiar
angle
As I've laughed at peculiar
circumstances
I've aged in the most peculiar
of vacuums
And went on to love in the most
normal of ways
I've worked in a spirit
of defiance
As I've traveled the many miles
from compliance
I've lived within the confines
of the moment
And written those things I
could never speak
I've seen the footsteps of
giants
Made by the intrepid feet of the
smallest of men
As the mirrors of my past have risen
in blind reflection
I've come face to face with
the only adversary I will ever fear
I've asked the age old questions
knowing there are no answers
I’ve taught the unschooled a language
they will teach again
I have vowed to seek recovery
for what the iconoclasts have broken
Until truth reclaims from power
—what was heaven sent
(Philadelphia Airport: August 1st, 2015)
I've walked at a peculiar
angle
As I've laughed at peculiar
circumstances
I've aged in the most peculiar
of vacuums
And went on to love in the most
normal of ways
I've worked in a spirit
of defiance
As I've traveled the many miles
from compliance
I've lived within the confines
of the moment
And written of those things I
could never speak
I've seen the footsteps of
giants
Made by the intrepid feet of the
smallest of men
As the mirrors of my past have risen
in blind reflection
I've come face to face with
the only adversary I will ever fear
I've asked the age old questions
knowing there are no answers
I’ve taught the unschooled a language
they will teach again
I have vowed to seek recovery
for what the iconoclasts have broken
Until truth reclaims from power
—what was heaven sent
(Philadelphia Airport: August 1st, 2015)
Written: September 29, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
*************
In pavonine dusk, she composed—
A letter sealed with crimson wax,
on velvet parchment,
a mosaic of sighs unfurled.
In the crest of ecstatic swirls,
each word an anagram of longing,
hidden at the start
and the cease of each slash.
Inside: faint violet grapes,
nectar balm for the worthy,
on an idyllic steed embossed
with topaz sparks—
solace for those who tremble
at the edge of heights.
A soothing draught for swollen hearts,
pierced by dazzling rays.
Follow the trail of lost words—
a ductile prayer to the empyrean,
the veil-maker of celestial mist,
a weaver of dulcet dawns
amid the soaring storm.
For the nyctophile: a tale on cambric linens.
Iconoclasts embrace angelic ache.
Her soul yearned for joy.
An idealist cultivates love
within a glistening haze.
Circumvent the storm of memory.
Behind an unusual confession—
not bucolic, drabness, or triviality.
Supplication in silence, in ache,
of your rekindled awareness.
To shape you, to yield you.
Climb as a phoenix toward eternity.
Without hubris, blame, or bias,
she traced her scorn in a smear—
as the untamed primate’s roar.
Freed from that vile sweat,
from the heat that others dread.
Because you will not
shift her spinning thoughts.
Hypoxia in mirrored forms,
and their inverted shapes.
A tinge of prosperity, a rush of truth—
Not every wicked soul can grasp
the weight of lifeless ghosts.
The king of calm purple,
shrouded in serene shadow,
set near the heart of star clusters.
A servant in utopia,
unaware of the katabatic chasm.
CHRISTMAS GIFTS
Churches – fill with cameo believers,
He sits outside shivering in the cold,
Returning to the fold - self deceivers
Immune to fate - no battered cup to hold.
Snow swirls in mystic funnels lacking faith
Tantalizing visions adrift in space
Manic angels praying with homeless wraith
Acknowledging the cold and simple grace
Sheltering in the hearts of troubled souls.
God’s creatures seeking welcome to their home
Iconoclasts long beached on credos shoals
Frozen hearted pretenders to love’s throne
Touched by the spirited tones of the bell
Swaddled in snowflakes where snow angels fell.
12/13/2015
submitted to – A Christmas Sonnet Acrostic – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Andrea Dietrich