Long Inquisitors Poems
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The teapot house takes our meadow to the brink.
It makes us feel delightful, increasing our pink.
She is colorfully whimsical, an imaginative drink.
We feel her compassion, as around her we slink.
Have you ever been inside? A faerie asks me.
I have a bad memory and cannot remember for free.
I am not sure, I admit. But here is my friend the bee.
He has been there many times, he knows the owner, Lee.
I have never been inside; my bee friend admits.
But I have heard others say sweetness it spits.
Ask the gnome on the hill who has all the tantrum fits.
But I don’t feel comfortable, so I run toward friendly kits.
Where is she going? One of the inquisitors doth ask.
I don’t know, but I am sure she has a laborious task.
I lie in the sun with the snugglies, and we all bask.
Swigging down Dr. Pepper in a teapot decorated flask.
I was not sitting at a table in a police interrogation room. *
Nor was I seated in front of a judge in a courtroom.
It most resembled a hall of inquisition to eradicate
every trace of Biblical Christianity from the face of
the earth. Through the ages, there have been multiple
tactics and tools utilized to accomplish such a task.
Herein is simply the encounter that I personally experienced.
There I sat, surprisingly fearless I might add, eager to give
witness to 'the what and who of me' to a couple of inquisitors
assigned to ascertain my answers to their questions.
The Session:
He inquired about the reasons I believed it,
and I told him.
He asked me what I believed,
and I told him.
She asked how long I had believed it,
and I told her.
She asked when it was that I first believed it,
and I told her.
He asked where I was when I first believed it,
and I told him.
She questioned why I continued to believe it,
and I told her.
The session, being finished to their satisfaction, they said,
"You may go now". I was relieved that the session was over.
But in a flash, a strong sense of uneasiness swept over me,
whereupon I quickly requested their further attention. There
was something deep inside of me that I needed to say. With
questioning stares upon their faces, in unison they replied,
"You may proceed".
I said, "Sir, Mam. You inquired of the what of me but never
the who of me". Again, with a questioning stare, they looked
at me and then at each other. They then said in unison, "The who?"
"Sir, Mam", I said. The what, the how, the where, the when, and
the why. All of these answers to your questions are like vapors
in the wind if I never gave to you and the world, the who of me.
If the name of my who was never mentioned, this entire session
would surely be in vain". With high-pitched voices, in unison
they shouted, "By all means, do tell"!
Like the slow formation of clouds, tears began to form in my eyes
as I so humbly replied, "He was born of a virgin, put to death by
crucifixion, resurrected on the third day, and ascended into
heaven 40 days later. He is The Christ; I call Him Lord; He is
the who of me, and His name is Jesus". My two inquisitors were
speechless and in unison, pointed me to the door.
111022PS
*Fiction. On this early November morning between 2 and 3 AM,
this poem was born.
Merciless King
Beckoned by your hearts, endangered are your lives by the deranged.
Unto the frey i am thrown, upon my heart your mournful cry sewn.
With valor I berzerk valiant within my vitality.
Repugnant are the actions of your enemies, from my mouth I cry out my anthem!
From too unto fro, I outlast thy enemy that witch is yours.
They are them and their legends are fiends to me, I loathe their existence.
With thunderous footsteps my demeanor becomes meritorious, as I seize frozen are their veins.
As I endure the damage that is unjustly cut into me, I yearn yet for your love.
One by one you watch in gut-retching fear as I eviscerate all inquisitors.
As they come forth as legions I feel your heart start to burst into fire with your own desire.
With my stamina depleted and with half their legions defeated I fell deep to my knees awaiting the final blow.
With the valorous cry she let out the cry of the one hundred valkyries!
Like a lioness she charges in, no one messes with my man!
Forward she presses our enemies, she has just become the empress of my heart.
As she strikes the final blow to the fow fiend of my desperado, she gives rise to the true king in the nature of love.
Arisen to my feet I set forth my fortitude for her wings of grace, for together under unity shall we both be saved.
By her own still beating chest, may my heart still be reclaimed.
All for one or all for none, amen.
~ Benjamin Luke Aguas
(“Something From Nothing”, 2024, original encaustic)
Diversity, equity and inclusion
Used to mean something different
When I was a kid of six
On the playground green.
There amid the other first graders
All together in our uniforms
We didn’t care how we looked,
And what the teachers cared to instill
Was a respect for our individuality
While maintaining a sense of inclusion in the group.
That was the order of things
Individuals each and all,
Equal only as parts of a whole
Without any sense of a need to conform
To being just like everyone else.
The group would of course pass
As we passed on up the grades
And made our way through life,
But the individual would remain
No matter what the context;
Alone, together, or just a part.
The DEI of those days didn’t really matter
Beyond being a playground ideal,
A way to set the stage
For all that would follow
And unfold in its own way,
Time and place.
Now DEI has become a post-modern religion
Something we must all embrace
Lest we slip out of favor
To the dark side,
And we all know where such heresy got us
The last time it was so
And the Inquisitors came to call.
I still get hot around the collar when I think of it…
(6/1/26)
Poker Sketch “The Brotherhood of Eternal Love”
What did we contemplate;
while at the fire-front, sooted:
Hot faced, In three D:
In those long minutes, of pleasant ;
extended hours of misguided endless,
diluted from an unseen “two named” hourglass !
Dripping; its sandy content.
It the darkness ; crept, It
sat behind our thin shoulders:
And hair strewn thinnish necks:
Levi collared rough stitched !
Thread bare to time. What ? did we consider ;
Pushing that heavy poker;
cold brassed, not utilised ever by Leonardo !
Sketching dreams, in the long cold ashes;
While Peters, "Supernatural"
soothed our innocently: dirty minds and egos.
It had no identity name ! Just night;
It may have been Winter outside
as coals spit, and sparks spat,
bare wrists sting ! But ; you continue the ash sketch.
What did we concoct ?
Wild ! in that balmy warmth
picking apart bristles: Stretching upward,
Glancing a fleeting glimpse,
at the tick tocked face, with muted bell,
its loose hands skipped,
falling quickly too six.
It didn't matter;
Warming the poker, Maybe !
To brand, the early hours,
making all of those hours ours,
proven marks; proof,
vainly legal, safe from
inquisitors, and hungry dogs.
What did we digest ?
Through these nights of -
“The Brotherhood of Eternal Love"
until ; that creeping dawn,
broke the Witches spell while along we rode
In those ashes of dreams forbidden
and coldly stagnant: Our days closed.
Death Bed Poetry: Dylan Thomas
Alcohol and co-dependence make poor conspirators
Delivering more a life driven by inquisitors
Dylan Thomas poet and drinker
Part time lover and full-time thinker
In fading health and across the sea
He gathered himself for one last spree
The White Horse Tavern welcomed the man
And there he started his final stand
"I've had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record!"
Alcohol, pneumonia, and Doctor Feltenstein were more than he could afford
Caitlin flew in to remark, "Is the bloody man dead yet?"
Comatose and failing, the bard was not quite there yet.
Still and silent, and lying abed
A few hours later and Dylan was dead
having gone "Gentle into that good night"
with no further words and such little fight.
Thus, the end of our Welsh poet Dylan
a bit of a rogue but not such a villain
who now learns Death does have dominion
in spite of the bard's differing opinion.
Relatives were coming in so fast that Frankenstein felt claustrophobic.
Why invite all your relatives? He asked his wife Symbersobic.
She laughed at his misery; in the throes of having fun with them.
The door opened and sixteen more of her crazy cousins walked in.
I may have to go to the bathroom, Frankenstein thought.
He could stay in there for a couple of hours, let the rest of them rot.
When he reached the loo, he heard two tiny monsters say
How long does it take? Will you be finished today?
He had forgotten her kin could pop in and out as they pleased.
He was not happy with these inquisitors who came to his knees.
He went out to his work shed but it had been taken over by others.
He opened his eyes and saw two of his monsterly brothers!
What a great wife Symbersobic is, one of them said.
She invited us, and six cousins whom we thought were dead.
The dead ones were dancing in a joyous, jazzy, weird falling-apart way.
They had been in graves for years; she’d brought them back for a day.
I think after all grace fails –
man not, in time, making it
far enough out~ too late bails
to a fresh planet uninhabited,
much like ours before consuming
and mating, as if a vibrant garden
could not be overly rabbited
(you know, what I mean~
after the big one dropped
or some miraculous vaccine
has totally flopped)
yet, somehow, some way,
in a twisted sort of divine display,
pigeons, rats and roaches, will be
the Big Blue Marble's, by default,
newly ordained goodwill
ambassadors and spiritual
coaches –
(a banner hung in
near space inviting alien visitors --
unfortunately too late arriving
to be humanity's saving inquisitors --
“To Thee we will pay homage,
another eclectic, semi-intelligent species needed –
bring lots of garbage....”)
Once, inquisitors would torture a witch
and strip her naked down to the last stitch.
And fear in the people reached fever pitch
encouraged by the clergy and the rich.
It's like scratching that unreachable itch
crushing skulls of succubus that bewitch.
And procuring an informant or snitch
the church used faith as a means to enrich.
Burnt alive or hug, so's to watch them twitch
practiced for centuries with naught a glitch.
Finally, attitudes began to switch
and today, witches fill an occult niche.
With a witch, an itch, a glitch, and a twitch,
the war on women runs without a hitch.
Subjugated women are labeled B*tch
raped murdered and disposed of in a ditch.
(Monorhyme)
10/24/2019
Itch, witch, glitch or twitch Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nina Parmenter
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)