A Berlin monastic church of blood
shed by true witnesses to freedom’s love:
These few who stood against the flood
of hate from tyrants they rebuffed.

Not far from here, these martyrs were killed
for facing down the brownshirts’ might,
in hopes that all would someday be filled
with the will to live for love’s delight.

Here Mary sits with her holy child,
carved of warm wood, set on cold stone.
She bears an expression, calm and mild,
with nothing around them: alone.

Her robes are daubed in palest blue
while her hair with a golden crown is wed;
her baby son wears redder hues
that foreshadow blood he and his martyrs shed.

This blessèd Mary’s calm defies the fear
decreed by despots in past and present years —
Softly, she whispers her granite will: Defy
all tyranny ’til hate’s tides subside.

Solving by a flame,
I must be so happy
When born into the world.

Burning on from millennia,
Passion breathes all birth
And end
And everything in-between.

Welded by the inferno,
My face molds to a mask:
Chalk-white as paper skin,
Flakey strips for lips—
My expression alarms.

Into light,
I have projected death
Into shallow screens
With verbose screams.

Emerges towers of babel,
False prophets come as i.

From the pit to the crucifix,
My corpus, my words,
Spreads so thin
As a caricature of God.

I am heresy,
I am the gnostic,
I am conviction
For and against truth.

I am stripped conviction
Of inanity and insanity
Behind and between
Intemperate intellectualism.

Held up to heaven,
My head is afoot
and upturned in disorder.

I have seen,
In violent retribution,
The vehement falsehoods of it all.

I fall to turn
To watchers—
Those who churn
My melted body
To the callous grounds.

In perfervid *******,
Burdens strap to backs
And i hold this as novelty.

From its forever conflicts—
Agon of life and fore,
Bodies are torrid
And these ravishments break.

I drown in flaring flagrance,
It bleeds me dry—
These torrid bones of mine.

These final gasps
For air to dust,
I die to an untrue hand.

By a crooked hand,
My voice is seized
From an inflamed throat.

I lie,
Ardent,
Ad a martyr—
My life and death
Has been pretension.

Places to defer:
To a salty justice
Soap and a question worth
Please be my ought, a common request with a shrill vice?

Salt seems to be my only hope...
Stoic rewards and harrowing few's, of callousness
Aside, I see the providence of stillness, take root
With a smile and a sharing behalf, I wonder if I bless...?

Stong winds may disapprove...
Long looks at no-where's imagination...
Standing well in front, savagery in back with no love...
And the anarchy of that smile, anxious and doting on silent...

Nightmares, with a reaching lead of simplicity
A lip of service and dissuasion, set too high
For a requited moment, to tell the wishes we imply, inherently
Have the yearning before a seldom seen, angel understands cry...

Given the time, given the lucid rhyme
Of patience and its virtue, your remembering
Of a long sated and twisted form to compare, the youth of time?
Has a voice struck with means, meager enough to swear we...

Shoulder
A rising fortune of senses alive, set to aches and plains
Of worlds redeemed, by a wish we made, with a meant nerve
Will you marry me, is even a voice to martyr beyond the call of the rains...?

I appeared that one random day some years ago when the stars were galloping.

since then each step I take picturesque the clip I've been rolling.

I remember that day when mom told me that to live was to encounter a blessing and struggling was the way we inherit a trophy for generations that lived.

I was deceived by the unrealistic heroism of many martyrs who died before me.

in fact, the spotlights were not meant for me as I expected. fate put me far removed from any truth I’ve worshiped.

some days I move in urge and fly very high. I heal my wounds and forgive people who randomly get me to taunt.

some days I scream without words and get drowned in my own nightmares. I drop death thinking of any chance to collect my own mythical strikes.

after all, I still reopen my eyes to a bizarre sight; I wonder if it is the answer to all the prayers I've murmured in my solemn nights

or perhaps it is just the doom I've been daydreaming about all the time.

of the truths spoken and the marks of my barefoot steps, I pledge for an eternal gaiety. And a place of my own kind.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                         Beaten and Shot

          To Blessed Stanley Rother, Padre Francisco, Padre Apla’s
                                            – a petition

Missionaries and martyrs, pray for us
That we may still our anger and intemperance
And listen not to the voices of hate
But rather to the small still voice 1 of love

Missionaries and martyrs, pray for us
That we may think before we write in blood
And resolve our differences through God’s peace
With prayer, understanding, and fellowship

Missionaries and martyrs, pray for us
That we never state a thesis as death

Blessed Stanley Rother – thank you


1 1 Kings 19:12

Wronged figures encircle the world. Saturn's
rings of martyrdom expectant beseech
God, The pain we suffered in your Name, return
it from beyond our graves. With vengeance teach
our torment to those who made us suffer!
Impale their bodies on bolts of thunder,
Black bones and roasted flesh, they are but slurs
against Holiness. Tear them asunder!
And for us, the white robes of salvation,
And words of eternal comfort: Patience
and faith in the Lord of all creation,
whose rewards in Heaven will be immense.
All the hurt you have borne shall be lifted,
Through Him, foreverness is gifted.

The welcome sun gilded, the mighty seven mountain peaks
As fingers adorned with rings, they lay aloft our eyes
Beneath our feet, the silent sleeping snowy snake
Conquered on the kiss of cold, a cambered frozen line.

The eternal night of valour, written in silver past
Still shining in the faces of unshuffled uniforms of bravery
Twenty daring sons of motherland, in the ticking clock of darkness
On the giddy throng of foes, fallen lightning strokes.

Time was what they need, till the distant succour
They fought an infinite war, fringing their martyrdom
Until the land kisses, the unclouded moment of victory
For the present cradles to sing, made their last salute.

Her passion was life
Her agony was divine
Her choice was death

Benevolence’s dry, therefore,
I look for your acts of violence.

Easier to face it had you carried a sword,
Not just a shield and your armour.

Truce became the deadliest of weapons.  

Turns out there is no blade sharper
than the white flag of a martyr.