Long Inquisitor Poems
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(Of the past 3,400 years, humans have been entirely at peace for 208 of them, Or just 8% of the recorded history. Estimates for the total number killed in wars and genocides throughout all of human history range from 150 million to 1 billion.)
“A world without war” is not gonna happen….ever;
And, if you believe in Seers and Scriptures, ARMAGADDON is yet to come!
PEACE? Ahhh, Peace is…
A subliminal perception,
An utopian world
A boondoggle task, Unattainable;
A paradise, a heaven
Topic for fiction and scriptures
A phantasmagoria of tranquility and conflict,
An illusion
A mirage
A chimera.
Man is made in God’s image…
Godly, saintly and benevolent;
But know thou not?
Man is inherently
more beastly than the beast –
The epitome of all that’s evil.
Lurking in him is a tyrant,
A rapist, an arsonist,
A jihadi, a crusader, an inquisitor,
A marauder, a warmonger,
A killer, a ravager –
The very incarnation of the Devil!
Man is not meant to live in peace.
It simply is not in our DNA.
When God can command Joshua:
“However, you must not let any living thing survive among the cities of these people the Lord your God is giving you as an inheritance. You must completely destroy them – the Hethite, Amorite, Canaanite, Perizzite, Hivite, and Jebusite ….” (Deut. 20:16-18)
“Now go and attack the Amalekites and completely destroy everything they have. Do not spare them. Kill men and women, infants and nursing babies, oxen and sheep, camels and donkeys.” (1 Sam 15:3)
I REST MY CASE.
I was sitting in a white room at a table, on a chair
My mind was kind of fuzzy; I wasn’t sure how I got there
I was dressed in a white robe with white slippers on my feet
And I had a funny feeling, an Inquisitor I was to meet
Then a movie started playing on the wall in front of me
I noticed it was about my life from the day I was conceived
Some scenes made me giggle, some scenes made me cry
Some scenes were quite embarrassing, of this I will not lie
Some scenes made me happy, some scenes made me mad
Some scenes left me with a feeling that I hadn’t given it all I had
Then I saw a scene of a truck crashing into me
This was a scene for which I had no clear memory
Then the words “The End” were on the wall with a question mark at the side
And I knew a decision was to be made for which I must abide
I pleaded for a second chance to a judge who was not there
And promised that the mistakes I made I would like to repair
The room suddenly went quite dark and nothing could I see
Then slowly I became aware of tubes inside of me
There was a respirator down my throat helping me to breathe
I saw my wife asleep in a chair and suddenly I was relieved
I have never spoken of this room – this room that caused my change
Old friends that I once had, just think that I’m deranged
But now I am living scenes I won’t mind seeing replayed
When once again I’m in that room and the end can’t be delayed
“The battleline between good and evil runs through the heart of every man.”
~ Alexander Solzhenitsyn
Call me outspoken, blunt, forthright,
But I’ll say it as it is,
Straight-from-the-shoulder,
No wishy-washy, no beating around the bush;
It might hurt some feelings, upset a few
but freely I speak my mind and no preview…
The only solution is to tell it like it is,
Only way to make a clean breast of it.
Man, they say, is made
in the image of God,
But inherently
he is more malicious than the beast--
The epitome of evil.
Lurking in him is
A Jihadi, a Crusader, an Inquisitor,
A rapist, a ravager, a marauder, a warmonger—
The very incarnation of the Devil!
Man is godly
albeit with the beastly instincts,
Universally perceptive
albeit narcissist in nature,
Benevolent yet bedeviled by his demons
Eternally yearning for salvation yet
intrinsically entangled in a web of self-delusion,
Neither able to adapt to the earth nor earn the paradise,
Garnering good deeds but scattering them to the winds;
God must surely rue the day He created man!
~02/10/23
~Contest: Writing challenge "E" word
~Sponsor: Constance La France
Standing near the front of the queue
The boy rehearses his lines
"Just three or four pints"
Over and over again in his head
Focussing on every step
That takes him to the inquisitor
Stray too far to the left or right
And there's no way back
Behind him, the underage drinker
Tries his best to blend in
Three years underage but
Looking sharp in his best togs
"Play it cool," he says to himself
But the doubts creep in
As butterflies mingle with
The Merrydown in his gut
Further back, a girl peers
Into her make-up mirror
As she tries to remove the traces of vomit
From that alleyway spew
The icy wind drags its nails
Through her ample bare skin
But it fails to break her concentration
There's drinking to be had
The guy behind can't help but admire
As she bends over to dab
Chilli sauce off her high heels
With a Johnson's baby wipe
With girls like this around
He will surely add another
Notch to his bedpost
By the breaking of the light
A more miserable night beckons
For the punter round the corner
As a half-empty bottle of beer
Smashes full in his face
As the perpetrator takes flight
With an impressive turn of pace
His victim crashes to the ground
And awaits the siren's call
The Great Halls of Eden
(A lone voice whispers)
Walking in like the Grand Inquisitor
Tomás de Torquemada
Dressed in a dark robe
With Beethoven's “Moonlight Sonata” playing loudly in her wake
I can remember when Love brought me through a gate
To a doorway leading to her Three Castles of Rejection
Cruelty
Intolerance, and Fanaticism
And when she nearly broke me within each of those walls, she introduced me to her other Three Castles of Seduction
Through another darkly lit doorway
Ecstasy
Blissfulness and Tranquility
Such is the juxtaposition of entering her Great Halls of Eden
For those Red coloured doors within that painted room, could lead you to your sweet salvation or doom
So just be careful when you smell her sweet perfume, when she smiles, as she approaches
For once, she takes you into her Great Halls of Eden
Once you enter that oak panelled waiting room
Always remember
One day, you could be in her master bedroom
And then one day, feel the harsh bristles of her witches broom
As you soul pleads and yells
Such is the power of being under her mesmerising spell
(C) Copyright John Duffy
I am fire, I stalk you and wait to burn your fat,
I am the pyre that delights to ignite your passing hat,
I am fire that brassy whore that sucks you dry with flames
you cannot quench
I am fire, the mongrel of the days and bastard of the night,
who lick's your secrets with the torturer's tongue ignites.
I am fire, who so rips your thirst to quench and leaves your
mossy bank and dew unfit for leaf or mordant hue, so such
a sigh as this, can drench and leave the cracked pot with open
black-soot teeth... a zebra's mouth...black and white
I am fire, my necklace, burning tyre with petrol, dances on the
victim's screams, my delight to be this God, no quarter no release!
and while I taunt you with these fiery lips of death...
remember too I cook your stew and heat the stones of sweet
relief, and with my song, oil your aching back to heal and rest,
but all the while I lay down my pain and smoke to wait, the
falling match the careless brand that spark of quick ignition
I am fire, the grand inquisitor, the knave, the happy mistress
feeding terse sedition, the chance friend who craves your recognition:
I am fire.
Light and Darkness,
two opposing forces.
A bold indifference
to the vast array of color
being their sole commonality.
And yet,
there is Gray.
The marriage of these
polar opposites amidst
the spectrum of Light
births a new cavalcade of shades.
These Gray colors reflect
the best of both worlds.
This, as all things do, speaks of life.
From the light Gray joys of laughter
to the dark times of displeasure,
life too is on a boundless spectrum.
Happiness is thought of as a place,
the end of strife and birth of peace.
But the Light of your life
is truly the days forgotten.
The sun was never brighter,
wide smiles made the world a treat,
and it was always
the first bite of chocolate.
The Darkest times of our lives
are often thought to be in grief.
But what time will truly be darker
than our last?
Such is the human condition,
left to play with the pieces remaining.
Dreading all the way that final day,
ever longing for years passed.
It is better to approach the shades
as inquisitor of their teachings.
For all men have feared the Darkness—
and curiosity is the death of fear.
For whom do you write, vainglorious poet?
Who are the disciples you seek?
Shall converts worship at the altar of your prose;
Devoutly reciting your works?
Is there passion alight in your breast;
The call of some unknown muse?
Or does your pen labor of its own accord,
Guided by some universal force?
What is the sermon?
What message do you proselytize to the masses?
Shall all bow, or bend knee;
Demonstrably awed by your articulate compilations?
Self-fashioned prophet!
Or perhaps it is godhood you seek.
Author of verbal constructs.
Creator.
For who can judge your writing?
Who can look down their nose?
Furrow their brow?
Scoff?
For what you have crafted stands.
In grandiloquence or simplicity.
Perfect.
Crafted just so, and gifted to the world.
Can a critic better evaluate its worth;
Can the detractor eclipse the creator?
Perhaps then, it is he
Who fancies godhood the more.
A Grand inquisitor!
Laying to rest the heresies of your writ.
Sound the trumpets!
Send forth the drums of war!
Who shall emerge the crusade?
Shaper of public opinion.
Master.
God?
I live in rooms
housed in the interior,
some just small
cells cut into bone,
spaces barely big enough
to fit a soul.
Others offer more
with sweeping views
of oceans, mountains, waterfalls
spilling endlessly over
sun drenched escarpments
and long corridors leading
to nowhere and everywhere
with mirrors splitting the mind
into light.
There are rooms groaning
under the weight of books,
learnings spun like sticky webs
that hold me trussed up
like prey. Heavens caught
in words and given wings
to float across time,
monuments brushed
by immortality and symphonies
so moving as to be
a breath away from pain.
Then there are
dark places with no windows
or doors, musty chambers
for the fallen and racks
stretched across nights where
a Grand Inquisitor exacts
confessions and sentences
the condemned to hell.
A lifetime has been spent inside
these rooms of my own making,
looking out onto a world set
by seasons which have
slowly seeped through
and worn away the walls
of my home.
House of cards
I.
I fear
the clock
renders
neither mirror
nor dull glass.
Like the Lilly
it moves
and grows
and dies
unseen
by our
distracted
eyes,
telling me
nothing,
moment by moment.
Time,
her only
transgression
is death--
quick,
fluid,
emaciated,
withering and
vast.
II.
I will touch the sun
and every
gray
will taste
my eternity.
I will build
Babylon
with an
edict,
with an
imperial
deck of cards,
screaming,
hissing,
blind,
knowing.
You taught me,
after all.
III.
Prince,
ha-satan,
you
laid
the ruin track
for me,
taught me to
accuse
Love.
You,
grand inquisitor,
pro-bono
prosecutor,
veiling the world
again
beneath fire,
beneath scales
under
twisted mouth.
IV.
We once knew
a peace
under
sun and rain.
God offered
the sun
and the rain
before
snow fell
from
the evil tree,
before acid
dripped down
and you,
you,
you,
heard your name
over and over
again,
and the madness
cradled
you
in flame.