Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
QueenOfTheAshes Sep 2024
Not a part of your church
In the dark I built myself
A torch;

And the moon whispers to me
In the night she sits
By me.
Daniel Tucker Jul 2017
Cast your ballot for your party's running mates
Strange bedfellows in Roman
**** compromising positions
Straining to see what once was
Their original clear-cut goal

(Even the hot sands of the
Sahara becomes cold at night).

Tarred and feathered goes the ideals
Run out of town on a rail of policy.

Politics of law
Politics of religion
Politics on every level

No real friend’s only polite interests.

Party politics in the bedroom
Workplace
And church

Spinning ethics and morals
To be fit for desiccation
By whatever spider desires
To make their web in

Palace royal
Church pious
  Courtroom solemn 
Family room secure

Where only a sort of twisted gestalt
Applies and the lesser of two evils is
Often greater than the sum of the
Two--the package being more
Important than the contents.

All that
Is important is the law of the jungle.

Tone-up poser muscles
Groom rhetorical fur
Sharpen intimidation fangs

Demagogic rule being the rule of thumb
Firmly planted where the sun never
Shines because truth is exposed

Only in the light. Plans made in the
Nether regions of base instincts

Where the true nature
Of we humans reluctantly steps
Out of its ancient cage nightly to
Prowl only to return by morning to
Have pure and honourable melodies
Sooth the savage breast.
© 2017 Daniel Tucker

The danse politico of existence.
The Wicca Man Sep 2024
Crow’s caw,
Wind’s whisper.
The muted bell
In the old church tower.

Moon’s rise,
Clouds veiling.
Distant voices
Chant in unison.

Night’s chill,
Breath clouding.
Feet tread softly
On leaves’ rust carpet.

Robed wraiths.
Faces masked.
Dread creeps o’er me
As they pass me by.

Now silence,
Air so still.
All sight shrouded
By a mist’s embrace.
Something for the dark autumn nights ...
Valentine Aug 2024
Elvis woke me in the afternoon
He told me
Church was over
That I missed the Sunday service
Yet I still heard the choir
Just down the corridor

I prayed on the steps of Graceland
To a statue of a lion
Cascading in the light
Spilling off stained glass
He told me
Winner takes all
And I gambled my heart
Right out of my chest

Sliding out of my shoes
I fell down the stairs
And landed in a hotel bed
Picket fence lining my frame
The devil told me
My alarm was going off
But I like to think it's all apart of
My American dream
Carl Binger Aug 2024
It was a good run or, should I say, a crawl for me.
Some really underestimate the hurt that this curse can be. It’s like You have Your back to me While also stabbing me.

I thought You were the faithful one, the one who healed the broken sons.
When You said “It is finished,” I never thought, “I’m the finished one.”

What happened to Your love for me? Will You ever come for me?
You said that if I came to You, You’d never let me free. Yet it’s a mystery how Jesus Christ has abandoned me.

Because of Your grace, I can say this race was a great run.
But what was the point if I didn’t know the raised son?
Now I’m in terror; I feel my faith is the fake one.
This poem is from my book The Progressive Darkness: For the Christian Losing Hope in Depression.
Peter Balkus Aug 2024
The quietness of this morning:
I am happy - at last.
They wonder if Heaven exists,
I have the proof that it does.

Undisturbed by the neighbours,
their children and their cars.
Silent, angel-like halo
of the sky-growing sun.

Maybe I'm only dreaming,
maybe I'm still in the sleep
and  I'll wake up to screaming
of angry man in the street.

So let me enjoy this moment,
even if it's just a dream.
Today I'm not going to church,
the church has just come to me.
Steve Page Jul 2024
The red folk and the purple people were distinctive in their hue.  In contrast, the Set Up bunch were chameleon, and to the casual observer they could pass for members of the congregation. That was by design, to be known only by their levite nature, their early arrival and late departure and (if you looked closely) by their hands.
The early bunch had remarkable hands. They were strikingly ready and willing, and could be turned to a wide variety of tasks.
They could never be described as specialist, and would never wish to be.  Their true specialty, if they have one, is only to be quick to serve and never draw attention to themselves.  
If they were ever persuaded to wear team tee shirts, they would have 'Ninja' brazoned across the back.  And that would be kinda cool.
At Sunday church, the kids workers wear red, the welcome team wear purple.   The team that do the heavy lifting don't have team tees.  Here's why.
Steve Page Jul 2024
I know Jesus can't turn in his grave
(because, well you know).
But if he could,
He'd be spinning most Sundays.
Odd Odyssey Poet Jul 2024
Coded messages, inscribed by the scars on my skin
Aspects of a secluded heart; as the line of tears, maps
Out the journey to a long sense of finding due healing

As the border between maturity and old youth, in a new attire;
Once the public uniform of coming in your, “Sunday best,”
Disguising all the vile of yourself- as we fashion ourselves to
Look like the most likable person; the scrap pieces of dripping water
From prior baptisms- as some of the sovereign believers are uncouth
To their God, wearing the many false skins, hunted in wickedness-
Their very own diplomacy of delighted barbarism  

Separate all of your self-gratifying creeds, and agreed to
Worship in love, pray together; coming as you are- as we are
All knitted together by familiar troubles, hurts, griefs, uproars-
To raise our voices, bringing life to this new body.
Odd Odyssey Poet Jul 2024
Lost in sombre details, of what really hangs around morals
-Crucifix, hanging around a sinner’s neck; so choked up
While the devil speaks on my livelihood with his demons
Parading as unwanted guests; foundations of personal griefs
I am unguarded; not well versed in a couple scripture verses

Versions of my weekly self- a relaxed stance, trying to have
Faith in a life of ease. Setting aside everything else, in the
Way of being by my bedside- faithfully praying on my knees

Still if my faith is loosely based on modern people’s commitment
To their faith and integrity, I might as well be faithless as them all-  
Seated in a church; behind on my many debts, sitting at the back
Listening to the loud laughs of the greatest hypocrites,
The usual Sunday gossip, sounding clearer than a church bell
Leaders who burnt me, quick to preach how I might go to Hell

As a failed sense of wholesome community in communal
Around church clicks of skin colour, for Sunday’s different cults
In what my conscious tries to say is a domicile sanctuary:
I’m a bit reluctant to fully agree with my own self
Next page