"deacon" poems
PLEDGE TO NIGERIA
By: Adigun Temitope Idealism
From between heaven and earth stand a perilous place
Where poverty kicked us on face
Tears stand as our drinks
Where hunger eat up our meals
Our pain is a poisonous laughter
Where sadness becomes our daily activities
Where hardship becomes our ambition
And sorrow our career
Still, we need to pledge to Nigeria
Blood, bone and oil,
Are the pedestal of earth
Where killing is a lifestyle
And ****** a hobby
Where humiliation becomes our take home
And misfortune our store-house
Where graduate works by the road-side
Where poverty is titillating and titivating before the mirror of our land
Yet we need to pledge to Nigeria
Pledge to Nigeria
Even when the birds refuses to sing,
When moon dims its light,
When our days turn into nights
When sun fails to shine
And flowers refuse to bloom
When life fails to give reasons
When dreams refuse to forgive
When the weep inside birth the smile outside
When tears wash hope from our sight
Nigeria must still be pledge to
I pledge to Nigeria
Not to be one if the ambassadors that sing the National Anthem with a teleprompter smiling at them in a shameful tears
I pledge not to be a naked masquerade dancing at the village square
I pledge to steal government money for the poor when I become the President
I pledge to be loyal and not betrayal
I pledge to fight off vices and calamities with my pen
If democracy must to end
I pledge to go crazy to stop it to the end
If civilization was to make us stupid
I pledge to swim in stupidity not to be civilised
I pledge, I pledge
©2015 Adigun Temitope Idealism (Deacon)
#Muse #PurposefulPoetry #BPM #IIB #Asaplanet #ThoughtAndSociety #Poetfreak
blackpridemagazin.simplesite.com
@blackpridemag1
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 3:11 AM UTC
unsure, uncertain,
of the laws invested
in the realms and reams
of poetry ingested,
am i addict,
or supplier,
retail consumer
or
wholesale supplier,
a mom & pop candy store,
or a metastasizing intelligence
that takes any thing, and all,
a solitary letter,
an instance of a sighting,
a gasping palpitation
and reformats it into
a hehe literary madhatter^ piece
you supply, I demand,
I supply, boy oh boy,
do I ever, but you never,
come to me directly asking,
write me a poem, thick or thin,
witty fitty or an overly looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong
e~pistle (a/k/a e~pistol)
yet the trade goes on and om,
the marketplace never closes,
except when periodically the
gatewaykeeper is slow to pay his bills,
and the trading centres are global scattered,
young entrepreneurs try to sell a single
piece, as if it was breaking news history,
and tired old men, review their lived,
eager to memorialize, so it's ok to forget,
in retro!spect perspective,
the mirror who cannot lie,
states affirmatively, you are
both ****** and dealer,
a corporation scientific
of ancient biblical origins,
a psalmist, a deacon,
a lyricist, but thankfully
not a singer,
an essayist who writes best
when ****** by tawny port wine,
who snatches inspiration with
equality of equity,
(wait! that's wrong,
the equity of equality,)
where he can
find, ***** city streets, the deaths
of heroes, the sunrise calm miracle
he drinks in daily, by rivers, by seas,
by estuaries brackish, and streams
of watered purity, the riveting bays,
the individualized glisten deflected
into my eyes, that each
contains one pure blessing within…. nml
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 9:24 AM UTC
pale clouds at the summit
water color sky
cattle guard at wood bridge
creek bed running dry
split log fence downtrodden
razor back in wire
sinkhole on the wild plain
grouse fields under fire
pine bug and a lone wolf
clear cut on the trail
stump lake on the open range
kettle valley rail
raven on the hatheume
slash and burn and scar
blasted church in a tired sun
wild rose under char
thistle in the hollow
quails nest sitting high
carriage house at lone rock
curtains of july
smoke jaw in the canyon
percolator dream
silver sage in chapel
schneider's requiem
stockmen on the wrangle
big horn antler chase
table top at sunset
deacon creek in grace
quarry in a furry
lines of tinted red
spurs and blades and columns
patchwork of the dead
past the bow hill junction
cattle ropes are black
indian amphitheater
saddle on the rack
sun is at a high bake
sedimentary stone
three days on the morphine
skeleton and bone
cold water road is lonely
corrals are cut and paste
gone but not forgotten
the dust filled aftertaste
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
Who put that crease in your soul,
Davies, ready this fine morning
For the staid chapel, where the Book's frown
Sobers the sunlight? Who taught you to pray
And scheme at once, your eyes turning
Skyward, while your swift mind weighs
Your heifer's chances in the next town's
Fair on Thursday? Are your heart's coals
Kindled for God, or is the burning
Of your lean cheeks because you sit
Too near that girl's smouldering gaze?
Tell me, Davies, for the faint breeze
From heaven freshens and I roll in it,
Who taught you your deft poise?
3.3k
It's the biggest lie I've ever heard.
People only tell it when they become old, and bitter, and jaded.
You must be able to rely on yourself.
You have to be able to pick yourself up
Off the bathroom floor,
When you collapse in a mess of blood and tears,
At three in the morning.
But that doesn't mean you shouldn't rely on others.
That doesn't mean you shouldn't have faith,
Or hope,
And it doesn't mean you should never love.
I was told the opposite by a Catholic deacon.
He said
That when you feel down and out and full of self hatred
That it's okay to lean on those around you.
It's okay to ask them for help and guidance.
I struggled to hide tears, and I told him
"What if you have no one?"
Because at one point, that's exactly what I had.
No one.
He sat with me, and didn't bother hiding his tears.
I still wonder what made him cry, when he spoke to me.
Was it the fact that I was so small and young and yet so broken?
Or the fact that I reminded him of his daughter, and that I had, unlike her, faced much more of the worlds cruelty?
I tried not to let it get to me.
He told me
That if I feel I have no one,
Know that I at least have him in my corner,
And whether or not I still believe (and he understood if I didn't) that he would be praying for me
And a strong, and hopefully swift, recovery.
I like relying on others.
I like when they rely on me.
Humans are pack animals.
We must rely on each other,
It's what we're supposed to do.
And now that I have someone
Who I know I can always rely on,
I realize how bitter and cold and hopeless
A person must feel
To truly believe
You can only ever rely on yourself.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
Deaths Of 2013
My third year doing this.
Paul Walker, Texas ranger,
driving fast leads to danger.
Matt Osbourne was Doink The Clown,
Paul Bearer always wore a frown.
Dennis Farina and James Gandolfini,
always played a mobster meany.
Peter O'Toole, famous actor,
Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher.
President Nelson Mandela,
Dennis Burkley, was a famous fat actor fella.
Lou Reed, is now on the wild side,
took all the colored girls for a ride.
Conrad Bain and Bonnie Franklin,
tv actors who had white skin.
Paul Blair and Stan The Man,
playing baseball, when they can.
Marcia Wallace and Lisa Robin Kelly,
both had ***** that bounced like jelly.
Tom Clancy wrote famous books,
not much on having good looks.
Cory Montieth and Patti Page,
one died young, other of old age.
Jean Stapleton, was Edith Bunker,
Archie always put her in the dumper.
Pat Summerall and Deacon Jones,
played football and broke some bones.
Dr. Joyce Brothers and Pauline Phillips,
they both gave good and bad tips.
Ray Manzarek, from The Doors,
Jeff Hanneman knew all Slayers chords.
Chrissy Amphlett, liked to touch herself,
Caleb Moore's trophies are on his shelf.
Mindy McCready and George Jones,
both hit those country tones.
Chris Kelly from Kris Kross,
Ed Koch is a New York loss.
David Frost and Roger Ebert,
always had words to insert.
Anneitte Funicello from Mickey Mouse Club,
Eydie Gorme almost got a snub.
Jonathan Winters, was very funny,
to come from Mork's egg, made him money.
If you don't know who these people are,
look them up, internet not very far.
For the ones that I missed,
please don't get to ******
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
*this day was no different than any other,
as we went through the tunnel onto the highway,
I think back to this mornings homily,
how the deacon spoke of this city's cross on the mountain,
I hung onto the rosary beads around my neck,
as if I was still looking for some answers,
and as ignored the smell of exhaust fumes,
as they mixed with the scent of chain smokers,
like a disastrous duo,
and focused my body outside the car window,
clenching my rosary beads I saw the cross on the mountain,
Holding them up the the window,
my cross covered the one on the mountain like it was its lost child.
for five minutes I felt like I had nothing to ask anyone,
I felt like my life was okay,
we drove into another tunnel,
and took a right on the exit ramp,
I never felt more peace in my life,
then I did as we drove home
that night,*
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
*Bitter taste in my mouth
A metallic tangy taste
He shoved in his engorged enlarged shaft
as far as it'd go
He ***** & stole away my innocents
offering wine
I find this sacrilegious
more I guess like blasphemy
after all he is a Deacon
Preaching lies
more to me then our whole congregation
Sinners have to pay to get into heaven
Guess mines is my virginity
Age 10 going on 11
I'm now like *** the sacrificial wine***
I've been past round
Who'd want to go to heaven anyways
If this is the price to pay*
All I can remember is; Us surviving victim, get sour grapes
***I'm floating out of myself
as I think of them***
*I can see all that's happening
until I crash into myself
Back to my torturous reality
I wait until he pulls out
just enough to bite down hard
with all my strength........*
*Sour grapes like sour hearts,
but
So unlike sour hearts...
You can still make wine outta
Sour grapes*
Blood doesn't taste so sweet!
Copyright ©
Ayeshah K.C.L.N
1977-Present
All right reserved
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
Of the five senses, touch was the first to go
When the rot set in.
Necrotic from disinterest; disused and numb,
A disconnected ***** a colony of one.
.
Then sound; your messages left unheard.
Just the tap tap tap of some manic mind.
No pause...just repeat; the eternal rewind.
Sleep starved, all words stick frozen in time.
.
For leading me into temptation; my gluttonous sins,
Taste and smell succumbed, then withered and died.
Staunch as a deacon, control finally mine.
The harvest ignored, bloated on the vine.
.
Only sight eludes my metal fatigue.
The mirror much stronger, it haunts and it taunts.
Its warped funhouse images all I can see.
The bully I made...this cruel double of me.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
When it is completed, then it shall be good
and good is to me as cherry to wood
and wood is to trees, and to squirrel's and Bee's
and foxes that live in the hood
When it is completed, then it shall be good
still could not find her, she's lost in the woods
on bright sunny days, when the trees do not sway
they would swear she could leave if she would
When it is completed, then it shall be good
and all that is lost will be soon understood
our eyes of no use, as to see from a tooth
and our mouth be empowered by ***
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
One Sunday night a drunken man went down the streets about three sheets in the wind and bumped against a tree. Thinking he had hit a man, he backed off, took off his hat, and said,"scuse me,sir- scuse me." He staggered on a few steps, struck a man, and courtesied again, before staggering away.
A neighbor came along, seeing him stumble against a fence."Why, William! You need to go to revivals with me."
Accordingly the two set out for the meeting held at the nearby church, all the while William recalling what a hypocrite the deacon was.
Making his way down the aisle he threw himself on the pew beside the disgusted looking deacon, while Neighbor Jones took the bench behind.
As deacon Goodwench rolled his eyes in horror, William grinned and winked at him.
Presently the evangelist came to an eloquent Biblical passage and called, "Where is the drunkard?"
Whereupon William rose, folded his arms, and shouted,"Here's the sot. Blaze away," and proceeded to stand at his pew till the evangelist finished the verse.
The Reverend Crawford came to another Biblical passage and called out, "Where is the hypocrite?"
Nobody moved and you could hear a pin drop.
Suddenly William arose,reached over and gave Deacon Goodwench a rough nudge in his side. "Get up and take your med'chine,< Goodwench! Likes I did when he called me..."
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
She invited me into her palace of art,
Where everything signified something else.
She wore a silvery gown,
Covered with a million miniature mirrors.
I was badly dressed.
“Beautiful lady, be my love
and heal my soul.
My life is fragments.
Make me whole.”
“I made this place to stand apart,
A window to a world purer, deeply felt.
Everything here is for you but my heart.
Don’t get the idea that it’s going to melt
Later on.” Music played.
Nirvana. Or maybe it was “Deacon Blues.”
Twisted letters carved
On doorknobs offered clues
To someone else’s mystery.
“Then be my muse,
Teach me the language of clouds
The coded words on the ceiling’s vault.”
A digital river flowed beneath
A winding stair down to an analog sea.
I asked “Are these ‘caverns measureless to man’?”
“Yes,” she said, “But not to woman.”
I wandered through room after room,
One printed, one painted, one sculpted, one
Paneled with friezes like the blazing tomb
Of an epic queen deified by the sun.
I saw a near-empty room with a single chair.
The light defined its form,
its form escaping into light.
“Is this real or a photo?”
“Yes,” she serenely replied.
I came to two doors. One said Discipline,
One Desire. “How can I possibly choose?”
“They lead to the same place,” she said.
What was real and what wasn’t flowed together
“You’re starting to figure it out.”
The innocence of a woman’s arched back,
And the wisdom of children.
The solitude of a lonely pier.
I knelt and I thanked her “Was all this for me?”
“I made this to give away. Not just for you.
What have you learned? Let’s review.
“Art is a shield
Against falling glass. Art healed
My divided mind, which used to devour
Itself, giving away its power.
Art is hunger, a piercing lack.
Art is a ride on a gull’s back.
Art is a dodge, the as of the mirror.
Art destroys, callous clearer
Of old order. Art is a dance,
a surrender to chance.
Art is not all seduction and fire
Or tethered to your desire
(Except when it is).
Beyond the dazzle of you and me,
Art is a failing light for learning how to see.”
I said “Now I understand less than before.”
“Then you’re ready.
Imagine starry ways beyond these walls.
Use an innocent eye.
Confusion calls.”
I never saw her again.
But it was enough
to start small.
She tempted me like an empty page.
From this immense vacuum, I write.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 1:50 PM UTC
Why I Lay Awake at Night
Some people lay in their beds unable to sleep,
unable to dream, or not wanting to.
They each have their own reasons not to enter the nights embrace,
Whether it is the future or the past.
I find myself with a foot in both camps, fearing the past and future,
As my mind decides which nightmare is to come on a nightly basis.
Should I remember the looks on my family’s faces, the rage inside,
When I looked into my cousin’s coffin, the victim of a cold-blooded ******
The face of his murderer and the image of the acceptance letter to West Point,
The kind Lieutenant Colonel or the Deacon who presided over Requiem.
These all haunt me at night,
The images of a time past and great loss.
Should I be tortured with other images instead,
Those of my uncle or brother or a different cousin, all in the Air Force.
I cannot help but think of what may happen,
Of the horrors of war and loss.
I live in fear of the letter bearing the seal of the Air Force,
of the phone call from my mother or the two officers at the door.
Finally, there is my grandfather, who served in the U-boats,
One who never showed fear, at least to me, reduced to a frail old man in his last months.
A once proud, strong man, a father of 3 daughters,
A fighter, a survivor of untold horrors from the forties.
I build him the box in which he now resides,
And I see him before me when sleep does not come.
There are few things that can haunt someone like death,
Or death yet to come.
There is no reprieve from this constant torture,
The fear, the agony, the sadness, except death itself.
These gruesome specters, of Christmas Past and Christmas Future,
They, are Why I Lay Awake at Night.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
...being a beacon for darkness
...being a deacon of evil
...seeing no evil regardless
...seeing honesty as a hurtle
...restating unholy responses
...restating there'll be no upheaval
...ruling with no conscience
...ruling different for different people
...playing your god against us
...playing yourself in the process
...knowing none of it is real
...knowing if it is your going to hell
©2024
Apr 14, 2024
Apr 14, 2024 at 9:10 PM UTC
Wasted
Here I am going in
It’s been Nine months on my sobriety
I made a promise to you that I wouldn’t do it
Baby I can’t stand it.
I want to drink.
You told me you loved me.
But you let your Dad in the way.
Just cause he is a deacon in a church.
Doesn’t’ mean he makes your decisions for you.
Do you truly care?
I go to church I am a Baptist just like you and him.
Is cause I grew up in a different environment then you?
But I am the good one. You are the bad.
You and I get as close as we can until they pull us apart.
But you told my best friend that you loved me along with
Another girl.
You hurt me Again how many times am I going to allow you to do that?
Cause I love you …
I want to be wasted
I want to forget you ever existed in my life
Wasted as the burn of whiskey touches my throat
The second shot is to show you how much I love you
But you will never know because I won’t tell you
SO cheers to us
Because you are the best thing I never had
I will be wasted on a love that will never be
Goodbye my love
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
Another Christian God has chosen in the spoken word
Scriptures to preach
The congregation the Minster wants to reach
The young Minster preached from St. John 17
A Deacon by responsibility
But a new calling in bringing the word
The theme, “Now here this, God is about Faith enriching the responsibility in spreading God’s doctrine”
The young Minster preached from his heart
However, it was the Holy Spirit was the start
Words all lead up to the direction of Faith
A creed one takes when one accepts Christ as their personal Savior
This is not a force, but inspiration to have everlasting life
The scripture is actually giving advice
But God wants all to get understanding, but never having to think twice
The young Minster preached what God wanted him to say
They were words we should live by every given day
It was a vision in every way
Walk on Deacon into the preaching talk
You have taken top priority being God’s sight
Continue to follow that path where you will be given light
It’s your short walk to Heaven
You are worthy in God’s eyes
You have learned understanding and that has made you wise
Heaven Bound with all the praising sound.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
You walked home
from school
with Sutcliffe
(O’Brien was off
with dysentery
which Eddie thought
was a load of ****
along the New Kent Road
by the shop from which
you bought
a stamp album
and the silver looking
6 shooter gun
and holster
with the belt
with pretend bullets
all around
in little holders
and Eddie said
his big sister
was beginning to spend
too much time
in the washroom
getting herself
all geared up
for her boyfriend
and that his dad
banged on the door
wanting to get in
for his shave
( she’d used all
the hot water
her mother had boiled
in the copper
for the family bath
that night
and his sister
had bellowed back
I’ve got to look my best
I can’t go out
smelling
like a dead rat
and Eddie laughed
(his buck teeth showing)
and Dad told her
she’d feel his hand
across her backside
if she got
too mouthy with him
so she shut her noise
and came out
all dolled up you
her hair all piled high
her lipstick bright red
her tight skirt
and Dad said
if you think you’re going out
dressed like that
you can think again
but she did
and that was it
and Mum said to him
she's only young once
but he just shaved
and moaned
and I could hear him
muttering to himself
and so Eddie went on
(O’Brien would have
baited him about his sister
would have riled him bad
but he was away
and Eddie was glad)
and so you got
to the corner
of Deacon Way
where Sutcliffe lived
and so you walked
across the road
to Meadow Row
and he waved
and you watched
his blonde cropped hair
and black uniform
disappear from sight
and walked towards home
hands in pockets
satchel on your back
scuffed shoes
kicking stones
onto the bombsite
home to tea
of bread and jam
then out with Ingrid
on the balcony
looking down
over the ledge
at the people passing
or kids playing
making a din
until her father
called her
with his rough voice
and she went back in.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Kissed Faith good-bye,
Stepped into the night,
Met a man on his way
To the Forest.
Faith behind him,
Uncertainty before,
Wavering on his way,
Brown faltered on.
Such a cloud of witnesses
As to keep him from this path!
But then they met him,
One by one,
Catechist and Minister,
Deacon and Elder,
Murmuring and gibbering;
Wise fools wending their way
To meet him
In a clearing, deep.
Pink ribbons falling,
Snake-head pointing
Feet now stumbling,
Then running before
In a wind of curses.
Firelight red,
Congregants cowled, silent,
Save the voice of Faith,
The near-initiate.
"Faith, Faith!
Look to Heaven!"
Resist the wicked one."
Woods silent;
Devil, fiends, fire ... gone.
Only Goodman Brown
To stagger home.
Ironic morning sight:
Smiling faces of Salem town,
'Gainst downward gazing
Goodman Brown.
Jan 30, 2020
Jan 30, 2020 at 9:18 AM UTC
deacon’s concise in the right
beacon’s concise in sight
awakens concise in the light
bacon’s concise in each bite
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
every night, before bed,
a simple ritual: he walks to the foyer
and drags the deacon's bench to the door
to keep intruders at bay
has been this way, since
the day he read "In Cold Blood"
and realized what uninvited guests
can do under a god's watchful eye
the belly of the bench holds every bible
he has ever owned in his four score years
save the one by his bedside, where it sits as sentinel
against other imagined foes and woes
though he is long deaf, those
who would defile him can yet hear, and
the righteous moan of the bench on the hardwood
would give them pause
or so the old man believes;
as if a simple sound could be so profound
to tip cosmic scales in his favor, save him
from the tyranny of evil men
this very night, before bed
he takes the same walk, shoves the same
weighted wood against a locked door,
a simple ritual
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
Would it be too much
wanting to say hi again and
wondering how you are doing by now.
I had no choice then but
show up under-translated and cold, while
you were sleepless and feverish.
All I heard and saw then are broken ropes,
goodbyes and mockery,
just like the Dan Deacon's When I Was Done Dying
song you loved once.
From the many coffee cups
that tasted like lies even when
you were always with me,
you knew nothing is enough
even when i have always been with you
just the same.
After another day at the artificial public,
a surprising light breeze on a face.
I smile at the way our
absences sometimes show how
friends meet.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
Terror sought in the faintest smell of blood,
I am deacon of the catastrophic night in.
Flickering lights and musty growth on
Old plates,
Dried beer stained into the table
The season grows cold and weird memories
Rise to the top of the symphonic ceiling,
Staining that too.
If I dont **** soon I fear I might write an opus
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
The changing of the seasons
Affects my fickle mood
I'm running out of reasons
To drink water or eat food
I'll just ignore the demons
With the screen to witch I'm glued
There is no hope nor beacon
Just suffering to be viewed
After my soul's been beaten
Dripping blood and black and blue
No answers from the deacon
No solution from the pews
No serotonin secretion
Caused by that ****** Mary shrew
So I wait for the completion
Of my spring and winter blues.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
We walked down
Deacon Way
(had to get her away
from her home
and her old man
and his Bible bashing)
it was after school
and tea
and the sky was blue
but becoming grey
she tied her long
blonde hair
into a pony tail
with a red ribbon
but what will
my father say
when he finds
that I’ve gone out?
Fay said
say you needed the air
say the nuns said
you had to appreciate
the evening air
that God made
I said
he knows the nuns
will not have
said that
he keeps in touch
what they say
and how
I am behaving
at school
she said
and how do you
behave at school?
I asked
I do my best to be good
she said
but they are so picky
you have not said
your Pater Noster
with due reference
or you have said
the Ave too quickly
who's the Pater Noster?
I asked
the Lord's Prayer
she said
and the Ave
is the Hail Mary
I see
I said
although I didn't see
we came back
to the New Kent Road
and stood
by the hairdressers
on the corner
where now?
she asked
I ought to get back
Father will be looking
over the balcony for me
how about a bag of chips?
I said
Father says chips
are bad for you
make you fat
she said
but they're good
fill you up
if you're hungry
I said
best not
she said
I must go back
he'll get so angry
ok
I said
so we crossed the road
and walked down
Meadow Row
she looked anxious
I looked at her
sideways on
her blue eyes
blonde hair
and that look
in her features
of sad despair.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 3:11 AM UTC