Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
topacio 3d
you threw me far flung
away from myself,
an act of hate and fear.

but it feels good
i have to say,
to look at myself
objectively from this point
so far from the beginning.

i am on the outskirts,
looking back at myself
with love,
and a dedication
to walk through
this new fire,
in an effort
to make myself even
bigger than before.
What is waiting for my weight—
for the matter I carry,
for the energies bonded within me?
What is lying dormant—
anticipating the day
when my body lays itself down—
so it may drink from my cisterns
and eat from my stores?
What will come into Being
from my ceasing to Be?
Fheyra May 6
Golden bells,—bedight o'er towers—
Amidst the betrothing melody,
The touch of stained glass—
Beams the rosary beads
Binding me with a man held high;
Now to be crowned his wife.
     "My lord, lend me thy right hand,
      As thy loyal servant,—
       I vow to pledge our country."

The Moonlight Song,— let our haunches be mere pitches—
Of forests rocked by branches
Ah, my fatal reverie—
Savor this antique scenery,
With classic gothic frames,
And worn laces,—Peaking the figures'desires
Cradle me,—
And thou shalt drink my glass,—
To offer a sip;-- so to paint moist on windows.

Sunrise, leap me to this town!—
How gracious men and children,
I shalt dress all thee;-—Make a stronghold that prospers the needy;
Lest the void of promised land—
Wither the faith of mankind.

With the King's side,
Reformation sets the nation to affluence;
The bonfire relives the glorious centuries—
Never scorn, swords unfold!
The 2nd sequence or episode. In this part, she got married with the king, and their reign was a successful era. Anyway, the second stanza represents the honeymoon. The third stanza represents of how a genuine queen she is. The last one conveys the marvelous sovereign of their regime.
I am glass;
a million fragments of broken mirror.
Some fragments shattered
never to be fixed
some fragments waiting,
waiting to be picked-
picked up and glued back together
to reform a broken ornament.

The parts of me that lie on the ground-
too broken to ever repair,
I leave behind.
Those pieces are dead weight;
Weight my mirror cannot bear to withhold
If it could ever have a chance of reforming itself.

However every piece that is in-fact repairable
I am determined to put back together again
So I can start to rebuild myself.

So I am not a broken mirror,
my glass is too strong.
I am purely a cleaner mirror,
as I’ve cut out and left behind
the impure mirror shards i bared
and built a more stable,
more beautiful, more pure glass image.

Though I still bear the cuts in my glass,
From where I’ve past shattered,
They perform no role
Other than contributing to the foundation
Of what makes me who I am.

However worn and torn I look externally,
do not throw me out,
you are far but done with me,
because I will never give up trying,
to fix every broken piece.
Just to note, this is strictly a mental metaphorical poem, in no way does it have any intended reference to self harm in any way, but I understand how it could be perceived in that way. Not how I wanted it to be thought of or read as.
Thomas David Feb 2019
_
1. It’s not so much a home for us
As home for our deceit:
Affirming every guiltless heart,
Distracting from defeat.
It’s found in lands of apathy
Where feelings limit thought,
And standards thought impersonal
Rely on what is not.

2. A place where temples will adore
The inner light inside:
Where you directly see the world,
Directly through your pride.
A place of icons that demand
A greater life than yours:
A life of goods and happiness,
Of wanting more and more.

3. A place where God is glorified
The most through our content,
Where suffering lament will be
Portrayed as deviant.
A place where God is glorified
When we have self-esteem;
Where trust in self is trust in him:
A god inside our scheme.

4. A place where God is worshipped most
When we try hard to touch
A presence we’re convinced is Him:
A feeling found in us.
A place where we’re convinced that faith
Is all we need obtain,
But then define faith as good works
And love only our chains.

5. A place where truth defined as less
Directs us downward to
The dimmer lights of narrowness,
A world of residue;
A world where truth has boundaries
Beyond which God can’t go,
For human thought is fallible
And Scripture’s all we know.

6. The prophets in our icons speak
Of truth without a Pope;
Tradition that’s as old as you,
Where meaning is a trope.
Where we connote, we don’t define
But by effects alone.
We’re hoping that the essence will
Eventu’lly be known.

7. Seduced, we tend to run to self,
The selves we wish we were:
With freedom, wealth, and pleasure and
A life fulfilled, secure.
But freedom’s just a neutral tool,
And wealth is merely means,
And pleasure’s mere result of good,
The Good it cannot be.

8. So when the church pursues these things
As visions of the Good,
They choose to play off barons’ lies
Instead of something true.
They build themselves an idol that
Is dressed in Words of God,
But paint His face in colors of
A cultural facade.

9. Where are the prophets of the old,
Who knew that truth is full:
That truth without tradition will
Be incommensur’ble?
That language, genre, meaning will
Be dead without a guide,
That texts alone will never speak
Past cultural divides?

10. Where are the princes of the old
Who though seduced by power,
Would, when condemned, kneel in the snow
And beg in rags for hours?
Where are the laymen, who when wrong,
Won’t split off from the Vine?
Who, blinded by the light of forms,
Won’t run back to their binds?

11. What happened to the saints portrayed
On icons made of gold?
Whose lives were good and true and real,
Not poured in market’s mould?
Why do we sing of present Lamb,
When altar’s absent from
A stage that points to podiums,
That’s filled with pipes and drums?

12. If we deserve what we produce,
Receiving undeserved,
Then pedestals should not be, for
Production’s sake, reserved.
Unless we think God owes us what
Was given on the cross,
Then worship Him, not music, words,
Not feelings, dreams or thoughts.

13. But then what choice remains when we
Reject the miracle,
Of accidents remaining same,
While essence changes full?
And when we strip the altars bare,
And throw away the bread,
We **** our God yet worship him:
A thought inside our head.

14. So those who want to find what’s true
And find a God that’s real,
Must pull the nails from Wittenberg
And cross themselves and kneel.
Five hundred years of modern pride
Have found in Paris home.
Unless we want to live there too,
We must return to Rome.
1-2. Thesis: Modern Christianity is a mask. It reduces God to self.
3-5. Examples of reductionism common to modern religion.
6-8. The problem with reduced theology.
9-11. What's missing.
12. A theology reduced to the individual is a theology of pride. It's why modern Christianity can't help but showboat.
13. Something greater than the individual was always central to premodern worship. Modernity tossed that away.
Swastik mittal Apr 2018
After an earthquake, I fell down
from a City to a town

the transformation was so bad
Sitting on a chair I was sad.

Then a man came running while
his body action made me smile,

he is sit near me and offer a bun
his style of offering made me fun

he then called me majesty
he was my fan, i see

he said,"you were best at that chance
your good poems made me dance

you still are best you still are good."
His lines of fame made me Stood

I held a pen,
start writing then,
my words were hit,
and famous again.
ConnectHook Aug 2019
For starters

we could talk about the Huguenot martyrs...
St. Bartholomew's Day Massacres: 1572
"Edict of Nantes"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=umuYzdBkMGc
ConnectHook Apr 2017
You may cover the stench with a potpourri—
while you gag, as you finger your rosary.
Sacrosanct nourriture…
or decayed pourriture?
(Other patrons might label it Popery.)

Though the tepidly Protestant matron
of a church that is stagnant and state-run
does not care about Luther,
We’ll bother to truth her
with Calvin or Knox as our patron.

Though the Vatican’s bottomless coffers
make some very un-Lutheran offers,
I would rather talk Tetzel
(with beer and a pretzel)
and drink with the rebels and scoffers.

We forget that the birth of the Kirk
was a vicious, un-Catholic work
One recalls ****** Mary…
and Knox was no faerie.
His doctrine drove Satan berserk.

Many chairmen, deficient in wit
who on flimsy theologies sit
with no justification
hate predestination,
reviling it more than a bit.

Barthelemy (in French: St. Bartholomew)
was unpleasant, as most of the martyrs knew
Roman Catholic correction
or violent deception?
In heaven, they’re getting the overview…

People gag, and then murmur the rosary
seeking solace in incense or potpourri
you must pardon my French
but this damnable stench
smells like nothing so much as like Popery.
napowrimo #10

This new format ***** .
Where's the italic and bold?
Eliot blew it.

(my Haiku for the day)
I looked to you as the sun set,
but you turned your head to look at girls passing by.
**** it.
You made it impossible to connect
until the breeze blew your ego to the Ocean,
and it seemed you got the girl.
Good for you.
I'm still alone in the sand, my sandcastle incomplete.

We're both scarred;
been there, done that.
Too bad you push it overboard.
Why can't I hate you for that?

You made happiness,
You made tears,
You made them salty like BP in the Gulf.
I was looking for something special,
but that ship has sailed.
These situations hurt, I know. Know you're not alone if you've,"been there, done that."
M Aug 2014
A decision made impulsively
Sometimes ends repulsively
But sometimes ends perfectly
And eradicates conformity

Look just a little more you
(When in fact there's less of you)
They look again and say that's WHO?
Open up their world view

When they see that people can change
Maybe it's dumb, but I feel like someone else two hours and four inches later

— The End —