Martyr Poems

MAID OF ORLEANS-Myth and Memory Poetry Contest

MAID OF ORLÉANS
Poem written for and submitted to “Myth and Memory” Poetry Contest, Vanya Evangeline, sponsor. 
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A warrior saint came from the plains of rural France,
a beautiful maiden named Joan, dressed in simple clothes,
not of noble lineage, but of modest beginnings
her faith unmatched.  

Shielded by heavenly whispers, 
she took up a religious cause~
mounted on

The Martyr Tree

They said she loved only one man —
that’s how the old song goes.

But the truth?
It was a tree —
no metaphor, no myth.
A real one:
knotted, gnarled,
older than shame itself.

She found it when her heart
was still raw from trying,
and men were hollow bells,
rung too many times.

So she tended it,
whispered to it,
sang into its bark
with a voice no

THE UNKNOWN MARTYR

THE UNKNOWN MARTYR
Though short life he lives
A lot of blood he takes a lot of comfort he gives
A sheet of pure white
Shine between legs day and night
Hug him between warm thighs 
To make you happy and feel nice
Soft and smooth he is
Discomfort and tension he ease
Though for long he can’t stay
Another one will be for

Psalm Of The Martyr

I am the Martyr you shall not want
I lay me down across waters 
You will not cross
I wander mountainsides alone
To bring their grandeur 
To your door
And run through gauntlets unafraid
Your cross to bear 

I climb the steps of lofty peaks
Through storm and strife and dark of night
And rage the sky in grave distress, for you

Carter the Martyr

    A radical named Hans Grenade Carter
    His desire in life to be a martyr

      His explosive ignited
      All the targets, affrighted

    From the stench he emitted, the farter

Six Dogs

Six dogs die
And one guy cries
the dogs are not political
Oh! My, My,
Don’t you know?
Deaths are always political
Be it mosquitoes or a martyr
Someone’s always there to take credit
to call them pest or bravehearts
to declare them something
to award them labels
to hold memoirs
to use their names

Deaths, my dear,
have always been political. 

BAVILA GREAT MARTYR , SONG

Father of the Nation Musabwa Kamango Munanila,
The commander-in-chief of Bavila's defence forces.
How should we cry for you ! the great bavila leader,
How should we cry for you !  bavila's grandfather,
How  should we cry for you ! Our King Musabwa Kamango Munanila.

When we remember your battle
against  the Belgian troops at Lubako.
When we remember how you stood

You Hate Me and I Love You

No, my brain is alive, not dead
To know that you hate me
And yet I love you dearly
I practice love not hatred
I care about uncontiditional love
Not mutual feelings dripping from above
In rainy and stormy seasons. In unselfish ways
I willingly donate my heart and soul to you
You can shred them and then part ways
As you wish, as

A Renaissance of Love

I spend days thinking of you my amour
And nights dreaming of you my dear
Your smiling image is stuck in my eyes
And your voice is buzzing in my ears
It’s fascinating after so many years
I still reminisce of your sweet apple pies
When you used to spoon-feed me
And wipe my lips with kisses of honey.

I tried to forget

The Power of One Life: Preacher, Teacher, Rebel, Sage

x                                         Once, one Incisive 
          

Cathars In the Land of the Angles

In winter's cold grip
In the land of the Angles
The Good Christians came
Against their will to a trial
In a grand city
Called the Ford of the Oxen
Good will be slaughtered
By the hands of hot fire
The hands of the judge
The home's ruler was their judge
His stare was piercing
That went with flaming outbursts
And with his red hair
And the king's

Martyr

It is better to sacrifice-

Rather than have everything taken away. 

It is better to give up everything while still coherent. 

So that when I wake up to no one by my side-

I can at least have my dignity. 

Oh, to be a martyr.

Father Thomas Byles, Martyr of the Titanic

You may have heard the 3rd class would dance
and many among them did not stand a chance
to be rescued out of the tragic Titanic disaster
but have you heard more of their heroic pastor

Who in 1912, 2nd Sunday of Easter, April 14th
raised lowly hearts Above, till sinking beneath
an ocean of mercy on Divine Mercy Sunday
bringing hope

Martyr In Love

I look at my hands and pray
The reflections in the past
Foaming white lips of a wave
I look at my hands and pray
The circle of a day around a corner 
Blue is a cold spray
The weight of gold on my back
walking down a path filled with diamonds
that melted in the snow
The frost on the window with

Floyd Is No Martyr

Don't get me wrong.
He didn't deserve to die...... like that...
Under an eight-minute nonchalant knee.
In full panic mode crying out for his mamma.....
but he doesn't deserve a statue either.
I mean what kind of angel holds a gun to a pregnant woman's belly.
(I wonder if her fear reached the level of his).
Please don't dummy down our real

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