Long Papal Poems
Long Papal Poems. Below are the most popular long Papal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Papal poems by poem length and keyword.
a riddle in verse
What is the number of years
Israel roamed the wilderness
if we divide it by ten?
What is the number of ears
on a frog duo warbling so loudly
your head is starting to spin?
What is the number of gears
on an average-size semitruck
minus half of a dozen?
What is the number of beers
found in a guzzler’s six pack
if two of them are missin’?
Riddled number whether in Rome or right here
tells us how often we celebrate Leap Year.
The Gregorian calendar makes it quite clear.
Pope Gregory XIII made ten days disappear.
February 10, 2020
Juliet Ligon's contest: What's in a Number?
Her individual affords attracted
several others to what she was
doing.
Her ability to collaborate with
others
with the interest of all involved
gained her respect almost her peers
and those who supported her effort's.
"Kwatto Cumbia": often she shunded
those for fooling there fans with electrc
sounds made to sound orcheatrated.
Soca Dub said of her ":that which is best
is best, and often times her's is
best of the best!"
She once received a note from one of her
female fans, she said at the bottom
of the letter she said, hymn love you, hymn do> Hymn wanna marry you
in papal."
she said wow! this is what I'm attracting, I must do better!
Bazbally…inspired and fired by venerable Peter who does attack the arty farty and gives flak to the illuminati Papal cabal party and also banal Baz for well just being cack & tarty..(he christened it "Bazbally")
Latest pundits gambits
Now spits from pulpits
At first plenty of plaudits
A mystery tapestry knits
Well we were the pits
Early hurly burly flits
Hasty but tasty titbits
On a whim best Test bits
Bazbally’s greatest hits
Magic to tragic habits
Us prissy about its zits
Fame & then hissy fits
Grim became dimwits
All the same tatts on ti*s
Can't tame the squits
Blame big name gits
Insane vain inane remits
Twa*s annoying as nits
In a latrine our game sits
Willy nilly silly billy skits
Alpha male tale derails splits
Ben zen again got the sh**s
Nation shrinks in Baz’s mitts
Identikit kinks but no edits
Cheeky winks at us Brits
With flash brash affidavits
Stinks thinks we’re all twits
Series sinks through the slits
Fans issue cease & desist writs
All along Key & ECB also culprits
They gave out Bazbally permits
Should vanish banished hermits
Then the wrong Kiwi quits!
I spit on the sermons of slaver prophets.
Their prayers fed the whips that tore my ancestors’ flesh.
They built cathedrals with the blood of captives,
And sanctified pain in the name of a carnivorous God.
I am the heir of the tormented of Gorée,
The cursed child of plantations watered with tears.
I have not forgotten the slave ships,
Nor the papal blessings that celebrated chained flesh.
They call me barbarian because I refuse their pardon,
Yet their libraries reek of the lies of civilization.
I have no need for their counterfeit paradise,
Their heavens are slave markets painted blue.
I stand upright like the brave rebels of Haiti,
Torn from the entrails of the earth by the wrath of volcanoes.
I speak with the broken jaws of my forefathers,
And I write with the black ink of smothered genocides.
Their flags are cloths stained with blood,
Their laws, chains polished by diplomacy.
They claim to distribute freedom,
But their satanic philanthropy cultivates misery as an eternal rent.
I have no god to crown my wounds.
My faith is the scar tattooed on my forehead.
I have no temple to prostitute my soul,
My truth feeds on the rage of the damned.
Let them keep calling me a wicked *****,
I will turn that insult into a scepter.
I have no need for their recognition,
For my dignity is not for sale.
I live in this world fractured by their bombs,
Yet my conscience remains undefeated.
A people does not die when it chooses to remember,
And my memory is a weapon loaded blank against their idols.
Enea's Pope! (2)
I suppose it’s common knowledge
(and not tedious, I hope!)
that two-thirds of the Sacred College
must concur to elect a pope.
With eighteen cardinals gathered,
twelve was the number to get.
They were nervous, preoccupied, lathered,
for there was no favourite yet.
Day One turned out quite indecisive,
Calindrini accomplishing five:
Enea’s vote, far from derisive –
his five kept his prospects alive.
D’Estouteville’s position was healthy,
and he lobbied for all he was worth.
It helped to be fabulously wealthy,
and promise the voters the earth.
“I don’t want to sound like a critic,”
(thus whispered d’Estouteville in private)
“but look at him – pauper, arthritic.
There’s something you need? I’ll contrive it.”
The gist of the cardinal’s sermon
was that Enea worshipped Apollo,
and was anyway almost a German,
dire consequences were certain follow.
A cardinals’ caucus at midnight
convoked by the frenchified faction
made it seem that the tertium quid might
take a piece of the Rouenais action.
D’Estouteville himself was a teller
when they voted the very next day:
they’d do better to pick Helen Keller –
one of Enea’s votes “went astray”.
Now Enea’s on nine votes, and leading:
a silence descends on the throng.
D’Estouteville is far from conceding:
this process could well be prolonged.
In silence they sit in the Sistine,
feckless, faineant, forlorn
(the chapel itself is still pristine:
Michelangelo hasn’t been born.)
A shout comes from Borgia (Rodrigo,
that’s Cesare’s father-to-be),
“I’m switching to you, mi amigo!”
That’s one of the necessary three!
And then speaks Tebaldi of Naples:
“I’ll go with Siena as well!”
It’s looking decidedly papal,
as friends of d’Estouteville can tell!
One vote is now all that is needed,
one vote and he’s pontifex max:
one vote and he’s finally succeeded:
one vote is the one thing he lacks!
Colonna gets up from his cushion:
d’Estouteville and chums know the score:
unseemly, the shovin’ and pushin’:
they bundle him out of the door.
The spectacle can’t be called splendid.
“Enea, I’m making you pope!”
The greasy pole’s now been ascended:
It’s time for the slippery slope!
One day, watching a reddened evening sky
over the western horizon, it’s peculiar though,
a thought that is so preposterous suddenly came to my mind
and that was the earth is not revolving. Is it because the world was
too quiet? Or the world was too chaotic.
Once this absurd thought ran through my mind,
neither of those great names, Copernicus nor Galileo
bore weight on me and their heliocentric theory faded away
as well.
The papal absolution bestowed on Galileo after four century’s
long years of silence, to me, was not only the meaningless gesture of
such an arrogant God’s institution but was the subversion of God’s majestic power or it means that God was ousted from his throne and became subservient to his own creature, man.
After all, it can be said that then,
it was not because the earth revolved on its own axis, time flowed,
or the earth orbited the sun, seasons changed. But because I think
time flows, the time flows. I feel seasons change, the seasons change.
For my wildest notion came to this far I felt uneasy inside. I wanted to hear sound of passing clouds, I was keen on seeing winds pile up under my feet, in this utter stand-still-soundless world.
That is why I thought I should spin earth with all my strength,
though I was weak and flabby. I pushed earth leaning myself
against air, I pulled it, I tried to carry it on my back, but, alas, earth did not move.
I was, therefore, all run down, and that’s why I laid on the ground
staring at the sky and grumbled just like that cowardly Galileo muttered
while exiting from a sacred and inviolable court of the Inquisition after his recantation, “E pur si mouve”—[But it does not move!]
As I grumbled, I heard the sound of drifting clouds,
I saw flowing water resting on the corolla becoming clear dew,
I was stepping on the pile of fallen leaves blown by the passing winds. And even, before I was aware of them, I noticed that stars were twinkling in the darkening sky high above.
In power's shadowed halls, where destinies lie,
Two titans faced off, ambition held high.
Henry, the monarch, resolute and strong,
Clement, the Pontiff, with justice lifelong.
Henry, a Tudor, with fire in his plea—
Bound by a marriage he longed to set free.
Catherine’s union, a burden, profound,
A restless king seeking love unbound.
From Rome's gilded heights to Hampton's cold stone,
Letters flew swiftly, their tensions full-blown.
Diplomatic waltzes, veiled threats in each line,
An empire's faith swayed by power’s design.
Clement, ensnared in political tides,
Measured each move with the world as his guide.
Would papal decree grant Henry release,
Or bind England's fate in vows that won’t cease?
The courtrooms of Europe buzzed with the fray,
As realms held their breath for what Rome might say.
Henry, defiant, refused to be swayed,
An empire's schism in moments replayed.
No whispers of love, but a clash so vast,
A marriage's end, echoing through the past.
Kingship and doctrine—a battle of right,
Two forces unyielding, converging in might.
Thus, history's annals remember their fight:
A crown and a mitre, two powers alight.
Not bound by affection, but destiny’s hand—
The severed threads of a kingdom's command.
I have read the Code Noir.
I have read the papal bull of Nicholas V.
I have read the charter of imperialism.
I have read the Indigenous Code
I have read the Torah, the Bible, and the Quran.
I have read the racist recollections of ***** swimming bans and France’s human zoos.
I have read the dismal pages of French history.
I have studied the ideological constructs of negrophobic, supremacist, and racialist philosophers.
I have meditated on the sacrifice of the Black Force in the trenches of world wars.
I have meditated on the centuries of torment and dehumanization endured by my ancestors.
I have pondered deeply the savagery of slavery,
the barbarity of colonization, and the capitalist tyranny imposed by the demons of Western democracy.
I have meticulously leafed through and examined every blackened page of the slaver, colonialist, imperialist, and racist history of the West’s slave-trading nations.
I have journeyed across the Earth to affirm that Black skin remains the most despised of humanity.
Imperialist Western powers bear responsibility for every human catastrophe that falls upon Africa.
They sow chaos so the bloodiest dictatorships may thrive.
They sow Satanism so every shade of decadence, disguised as progress, bursts from the bowels of hell.
They have always fed on the wild plunder of Africa’s riches.
They have always treated Africa as a reservoir of raw materials and a free bank of human organs.
They divide, steal, rape, plunder, burn, massacre, genocide, demonize, assassinate,
Whomever they want, whenever they want, wherever they want, in Africa.
The colored pains are carved onto the back of my ancestors’ history.
My oppressors see my Africanness as a curse,
the rotten fruit of savagery, slavery, and the barbarity of colonization.
The blackness of my skin has made me a suspect since the cotton fields.
I am from the cradle of humanity.
I grew up in a colonial trading post.
My homeland never had factories that manufactured weapons of war,
yet I know how to handle a Kalashnikov like those child soldiers.
My first shock: an infant, cut to pieces and stuffed in a sack hanging from a palm tree.
After the colonial massacres, dead cities to soften the cruelty of a bloodthirsty dictatorship.
I share the same convictions as those independence fighters
that the general’s colonial army labeled as “rebels.”
I am neither a suburban kid nor a ghetto dweller.
I took my first steps in a shantytown of Equatorial Africa.
Some cross the Mediterranean toward the Western tyranny of misery,
while others choose the illicit path to shine in the gloomy cells of capitalism,
lit by the flashing lights of the “Republic of Enlightenment” slavers.
These Western impostors treat Africa like an open-air dump,
while their neo-colonial military bases protect the safety of multinational corporations
that have been savagely plundering Africa’s wealth for centuries.
They finance Islamic terrorist groups so that African dictators
can sing the globalist symphonies of Western democracy.
I am a Sub-Saharan animist like the first pharaohs.
I remember the massacre of the Amerindians
when I see African Americans filling the prisons of a nation born from genocide.
My holy land is Africa.
I will never submit to the negrophobic laws
of supremacists indoctrinated with the vile delusions of the Third Reich.
I remember Pope Nicholas V’s papal bull
when I see the Catholic Church meddling in the political affairs
of Africa’s banana republics.
Slave blood in my veins,
in my heart too much pain, only love, no hate.
My conscience has never been chained.
My criminal record remains spotless,
like the orifices of the Christ’s own mother.
Liberty, equality, fraternity,
beautiful chimeras carved into the republican marble,
yet behind the motto, the Black Code,
the papal bull,
and the slave-trading betrayal as backbone.
Slavery, colonization,
xenophobia, negrophobia,
these are the legacies they disguise as civilizations.
Human zoos, colonial trading posts, the colonial pact,
the savage plunder wrapped in a tricolor flag.
In banana republics, tyranny is always under contract,
Françafrique and its neo-colonial military bases
feed African dictators at the service of the West.
Africa, the third world, whose misery has been planned for millennia,
this is how they name the cradle of humanity.
Under their blades, raw materials
become a procession of genocides,
and neo-colonial poaching devours heritages.
Assimilation, integration, alienation,
these three chains forged by the schools of the empire of Enlightenment.
But human dignity refuses to be sold,
the integrity and identity of courageous souls will never prostitute themselves.
Humanity and Africanity,
these two flames proclaim aloud
that the womb of oppressed peoples
shall never be reduced to the dust of servitude and submission.