No one knows the trap,
Cloud ignites to make you stop.
Savant soldier awake at rest,
Knot the wood to make it best.
Beliefs dilapidated the truth for lies,
Devoted followers shrank what they glorified.
Even then, you praise me to suffocate,
Not a single drop showered to show your hate.
These ten points I surely bleed,
Even a monster enters just to leave.
Till death do us part, to be received,
Only the vows I ought to keep.
I told you I'd die
For what I believed in
You made me a martyr
Tore me into pieces
I confided in you
You were all I knew
All I could ever worship
Through all my hardship
I told you I'd die
For what I believed in
I believed you and I
Could really make it
I told you I'd die
For what I believed in
You made me a martyr
Tore me into pieces
I think I know,
that looking back, I will wished
I lived more.
I will wish I hadn’t sold
my soul away,
for praises and respect.
I will regret,
wasting these years.
Not by rotting my soul,
but by neglecting it,
in favor
of a future I don’t want,
and have never wanted.
To live in such a free nation,
touched and blessed by God,
I would feel trapped anywhere else,
including here.
I was made for the stars,
for the light, for the sun.
For the fields and trees and the blood,
for the pain and the regret and flesh,
the lamb, the slaughter, the cross.
To question my faith at every turn,
to burn my pearls over hungry flames.
I was never born to martyr,
I could never die for anything,
knowing I never once lived for anything
other than
.
Dare to dream Ashes nightmares it seems reawoken
Token words spoken after scares & flares teams broken
Dafter peacocking then rocking no blocking just shocking
Mocking laughter of the ghost of Christmas future knocking
Host boast from coast to coast toast as England roast
Boiling..recoiling..toiling & broiling this is our last post
Our iridescent flaming proper copper haired laird
Incandescent flairs no taming his despairs we all shared
Luminescent cares blaming Bazball heirs ill prepared scared
Stoic brawler our defiant mauler on a leaking reeking trawler
Too reliant on our brilliant defiant resilient glowering giant
Big Ben set up camp crippled by his men again & ripples of cramp
Overpowering pain courses through every vein towering skipper & champ
Heart on his sleeve…makes us believe in a reprieve heroic Firestarter
Immensity of intensity.. O Captain my Captain..our smarter martyr
Vanished in death’s flames with Mani’s scriptures of life
Banished to mine for grey-white marble to fulfil Rome’s plan
Punished to mine in Phaeno, or die by Rome’s knife
Unvanquished through the endurance of the First Man
Valiantly working in marble mines, they now rest on diamond roads of light
Patently, those burned souls became our sweet remembrance and frankincense
Rampantly, inflamed Diocletian tried and failed to steal their pearls of pure white
Brilliantly, Mani’s burned medicine became our sweet myrrh incense
Poem about the Roman Emperor Diocletian's (284–305 AD) persecution of Manichaeans, which later extended to Christians. This is in honour of those persecuted.
Today CJK would have turned 32.
I remember turning 32…
I thought my life was going well
Even at a peak
When in fact it was in turmoil
And within the year would collapse
To be reborn again, anew and refreshed,
And open to the peaks to come.
Charlie’s life was obviously so different
Having been consistent and on track
And going from strength to strength
Apparently the whole time!
He seemed like a normal person
To other normal people
When in fact he was remarkable
And so has left a remarkable legacy.
Like many I think I will leave a normal legacy
When I eventually go, and
It will effect those few family and friends who love me,
But it won’t change a thing.
And I’m okay with that.
Charlie on the other hand
Has deeply effected hundreds of millions
And has thus changed the world.
I’m sure that would have made him proud
Humbled and awed.
And so today let us proudly
Don a red hat and celebrate
What we may have individually lost,
But the world gained.
(10/14/25)
A hero born in Jaffna, where palm trees swayed,
His patriotic figure stood unafraid.
Books in one hand, dreams in his eyes,
He turned into the truth beneath the shady sky.
They called him Thileepan, but born as Rasaiah Parthipan,
He heard fear in his people's cries.
No bread he took, no drop, no grain,
Only his strong will, steadfast, humane.
Days become silent whispers, just pin drop silence,
The air was silenced, its like something kept its mouth shut.
Children watched, elders wept,
Jaffna soil the vigils kept.
12 days, 12 nights he starved,
His body felt ill, like a virus entered his body.
He wanted freedom, justice and identity,
For his people... the Tamils.
The way that the years have passed,
His story was heard from all places.
Not all martyrs, heroes can wield a blade,
Some burn as light cannot fade.
CJK was American’s first true martyr.
And that in itself
Marks a turning point for all of US
Especially those in the cheap seats
Who usually care more about what’s on TV
Or how to just keep food on the table,
And shoes on the kids.
And when a turning point happens
Everything changes.
And when it happens
It happens for everyone,
Even those of US in the cheap seats
Who may have been unaware
Of anything else before.
(10/7/25)
(for Charlie)
What is it that causes an atheist
To suddenly want to attend church,
And think, huh, maybe there is
Something there after all?
I can see a gradual shift
As doubt and inquiry worm their way
Into an open mind
But a sudden 180 is unusual.
For me in my youth it was gradual
A steady eroding pushed into a landslide
By a sufficient dose of lysergic acid.
But even then it took awhile to really admit
I had been so wrong.
Of course the first step is doubt of what is
Combined with certainty of one’s ignorance.
And as we grow we take these first steps
Again and again.
It warms my heart now right down to my core
To see the example of another human’s sacrifice
Washing out in waves,
A veritable tsunami,
Across the whole world.
No need for drugs to open our heart and mind
When such a prophet does it for us.
(9/19/25)
MAID OF ORLÉANS
Poem written for and submitted to “Myth and Memory” Poetry Contest, Vanya Evangeline, sponsor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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 horseback, brandishing God’s mighty saber,
she fought for her country in the name of the Lord.
Unscathed from battle she emerged,
waving her banner of courage throughout the land,
but treason and betrayal
would one day bring her untimely end.
Alone she stood in the court of politicians,
falsely accused and forsaken; yet,
in the face of pain, Joan’s faith and resolve
would not be contained, her spirit and fortitude remained.
The humble shepherdess warrior, was bound to a stake
her body consumed by fire, her valor inspirational.
This humble warrior saint, later canonized and martyred,
continues to embolden and enthrall.
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 longer needed elsewhere.
Her youth curled at its roots.
Her strength climbed its spine.
And every year, it grew
as she grew smaller.
She told her daughter,
“This is love. Quiet. Loyal. Rooted.”
But her daughter heard
the ache between the words.
She looked at the rope,
the sky,
the body curved like devotion —
and asked herself:
Was it really love,
or martyrdom in a dress?
They found her hanging —
peaceful,
like she was returning
to something
she’d never really left.
And the tree?
It didn’t break.
It didn’t bend.
It held her —
not like a tombstone,
like a witness,
like a mirror.
And then,
they were one —
not woman,
not wood,
but myth.
Whisper.
Wild thing.
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 another day
And the old is always thrown
With no appreciation shown
And if ever mentioned it is distasteful
But that is the way, for women are ungrateful
To the hidden treasure
The source for feminine pleasure
The name is Kotex
The unknown martyr for softer sex
Thursday 17/2/2000
10:08pm
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 –
For you, my noble quest, I bear witness
To the blade and knife
To the callous force of Nature’s might
And in despair cry out your name
Though it radiates in muted tones
The crimson luster of its flame
Yea, though I walk through hidden valleys
In the shadow of the midday sun
And move in darkness, as it were
In honor of my sacred word
And wander in the wilderness
These long and restless years
Seeking a deliverance
I seem not to deserve
I yet am bound, in act and deed
By oath of blood and oath of right
Wrested from the Moon
One long and anguished night
Unto my lone and solitary quest
‘Less by loss of hope, of heart, of fight
I lose of you, my love, my life –
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 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.
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