"doctrines" poems
I think it's my eyes.
The glowing hazle stare
blankly piercing through
whatever bubbles you've shielded
yourself with.
Arms crossed means you're defensive,
raised tone towards the end of a sentence
means you're lying
but when your lips scrunch together
you're holding back something.
Maybe it's
my thought process.
One second
I'm talking about polar bears
celebrating birthdays with ******* and hexagrams
when I shift
to a rant about my self empowerment
through meditation and how astral travel
might be real.
Perhaps I'm too comfortable
with myself for you to handle.
I don't give a **** how tangled my hair is
or what weird religious doctrines you follow.
Let's have a conversation,
not an unruly **** measuring contest.
I truly love you,
and all my mild frustration
and slight agitation is radiating
from a place in my heart
that tells me I want you to succeed the most.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 6:21 PM UTC
My spine is broken from the burden of your ungrateful heart, I have shrugged shoulders to the girls who can walk into the kitchen, just to nod my head to the girl who waits to be served on the dining table, I have swam beyond seas just to drown in your heart, I have betrayed my credibility towards the streets I was raised just to follow the path that leads to your happiness, I have chased all of my dogs at the gate so you can visit anytime, you remember when I found you drunk in careless hands at the club? Then I embraced all the shame and welcomed you in my hands, I no longer see the essence of visiting mama every weekend, cause I've always dedicated my time to you, I have lapsed the doctrines of upholding holiness just to sin for you, now all these broken promises, overflowing tears and unpromising future, you have caused all this because you are ungrateful, and before this coffee hits the surface of my cup, ill make sure this love chokes you and see if you are worth it.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
Some people have faith…
In a God that they can’t see.
They pray and beckon to this being.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people seek out love…
They say it’s all they need.
A notion that can’t be defined.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people seek the truth.
They claim it will set them free.
All too often it brings only pain.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people claim to care.
And they do so unconditionally.
Expecting absolutely nothing in return.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people refute predestination.
Yet believe in destiny.
Fate and free will intertwined.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people outstretch their hands.
When the world leaves them to bleed.
Giving to a world that doesn’t care.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people follow only logic.
Decisions made to a tolerable degree.
Yet logic turns our hearts so cold.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Some people look for life’s purpose.
Proposing doctrines and various decrees.
That purpose varies from one to the next.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
The world is full of confounds and query.
And in that, I rarely find the answers I seek.
But still, I wonder every day.
That doesn’t make sense to me.
Perhaps we need not find an answer.
Perhaps, by nature, we are curious beings.
We need faith, wisdom, truth, and love.
At least, that much, I can see.
But I invite you to justify this world.
Elaborate on the answers I need.
Or maybe life just doesn’t make sense.
I invite you to enlighten me.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 1:12 AM UTC
A SALUTE TO TEACHERS *
Since time immemorial, in every land,
Saints and teachers, enlightened,
Have shown the way by lighting the lamp
Of knowledge and wisdom, true and fair,
To faltering mankind, mired in ignorance;
In situations painful and conflicting,
Unable to choose between right and wrong.
In the hoary tradition of true teachers
Of all religions the world has seen,
A luminous star, Dr.Radhakrishnan,
Rose on the glorious Indian horizon,
Guided the world with knowledge, ancient and modern,
In the light of the Vedas and Upanishads
As well as the wise doctrines of other religions.
Great Plato's ideal of a philosopher king,
Was realized when he was elevated
To our nation's highest position as President,
An inspiring teacher, par excellence,
Unfailing light to future generations.
**** **** **** Narasimhamurthy. M.G.
*Dr.S.Radhakrishnan's birthday (5 September ) is celebrated as TEACHERS' DAY.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 5:39 AM UTC
NO OFFENCE MEANT TO ANYONE.
JUST WORD PLAY.
Many thoughts of saviours.
Different deities.
Varied idols.
Doctrines unique,
Sometimes similar.
Holy books.
Different sects, yes I said sects.
Buddhists, Mormons, Muslims too,
Hindus, Jews and Rastafarians.
Pass the spliff, that one miffs me.
Too name but only one or two.
Garlands or flowers.
Holy cows.
Churches and temples.
Mosques and mystic synagogues.
Or even halls perpetuating to the Kingdom.
Gis' us a pint of blood or not.
Definitely not vampires,oops I forgot.
"Cup of tea, love?"
Welcome to the Mormons.
Latter day saints?
Jesus Christ, what a choice.
My explanation, I'm agnostic.
But, never on a Sunday.
I don't want converting.
(C) LIVVI
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
7/12/12 16:25pm
At what price does man find favour with God?
Down through the roiling clouds, from heavenly heights to earthly clay,
where scribes had written scrolls of doctrines;
down through old crumbling architraves, temples of cold ideals,
man spawned the Vengeful Word.
With rage of angels,
like effigies of gods, there sprang forth lords and hypocrites;
all claimed to speak for God.
Then, in the maelstrom,
came genocide of innocents, and hellfire fell like rain.
When does a tower become too tall for God?
Out of a clear blue sky came silver harbingers of doom,
where men were writing drafts and spreadsheets;
now crumbling down around them, swathed in hate-begotten fire;
spawned from a vengeful god.
No mortal angels
could save the ones who perished, caught above the line of flame;
while some below survived.
Yet, in the chaos,
sworn enemies in faith came out to save each other's fall.
At what price can man enter Paradise?
High above the minarets, the veiled dome of the sky
students look up with wistful longing;
yearning to be good radicals and cross the lines of fire
to reap heaven's reward.
Hate's vengeful angels
pretenders to the throne of God take many shapes and forms,
while moderates stay quiet;
and with their silence
give passive leave for lunatics to prate at heaven's door.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
Listen! Listen my son
Take heed! Take heed to my words
As you journey to a land so far
Remember the sand beneath your feet
It absorbed your tears, sweat, blood in the farm land,
The blessings and curses that lies between your teeth.
Do not forget your motherland
You will always be a stranger to the snow
Remember your father's smile
His blessings helped you grow.
In your motherland you are a king
Do not kiss buttocks for green bills
Do not forget our doctrines and culture
Speak your father's tongue, its no torture.
Remember to return home, there is no place like it
Kneel my son, receive the blessings of a king.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 12:30 PM UTC
Mystique
- a framework of doctrines, ideas, beliefs, or the like, constructed around a person or object, endowing the person or object with enhanced value or profound meaning: "the mystique of Poe."
- an aura of mystery or mystical power surrounding a particular occupation or pursuit: "the mystique of nuclear science."
the mystique of Poe,
the mystique of nuclear science,
don't you see the irony extraordinaire,
the perfect intersection of
human and science?
atoms of a poet.
what, who better to
radiate
the profound complex meaning of
mystique
smile while
commencing the
delving, inhaling,
comprehending,
subsuming the
aura of human cells
odors of the atomizer
flavors mellifluous
chain reacting
the set theory of all my senses,
at the ultimate overlapping
of the primordial intersection
of the nucleus.
I am the living scientific proof,
the written poem,
the
realization of mystique,
the enhanced value
of the human you.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
The machinesed drones droning ozones
made of homogenised genes by replicants
from clinical doctrines and empirical indulgences
Soulless and efficient, bred for duties destructives
Capitalist fodder, programmed ready for earth's ****
Regulate as required, inputted subs with pigs hearts
Made followers with voracious appetite for blood
mechanised barbarians on leash with one track mix
Human shire horses in designer shods and faulty gauges
Manufactured manufacturers limited and corollated
Factories, dormitories partnered with like, watered
and bedded till tomorrow, audiod to the Sterling whip
Given ample ales, keep blinded and chained
Distract and cater to baser instincts, *** *** ***
Free 'love' free *** valueless values, what values
Enjoy kids must return to work desk seven on the dot
Time is money, clogs and production
waits for no man, do or your pleasures denied
Money, money money, honey for bees, honey for drones
Soulless, dehumanised, pale, aged at thirty, heart attacks next
Vacuous ghost programmed dunces
Malfunctioning entities devoid of humanity
Superficial plasticated robots, destruction default
Industrial pieces with industrial minds
Chemicalized drunks with wired brains
They roam around screaming freedom and power!
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 8:28 PM UTC
She longed for the sea like one longed for a former time. The salty scents intoxicated her and ravished her senses. She longed to feel the current against her body as she swam forever, into the unknown. She longed for the salty fragrance of the waves to be her constant perfume, to be free of constricting corsets and constraining doctrines that bore over her like a bothersome chaperone.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
Advocate of the nonexistant
You are all bends encircling
Circuts of truth verses lies is removed
When diagram of entrails is eviscerated
Attestation that hinders, lingers beyond
Concealing, subsisting, not we
Nothings are baseless, breathing is useless
Repudiate this knowing at once
Doctrines and concepts have derrived
Theories are growing while eras moved on
Delusions set in when axiom gone
Delusions are not when one dies
Attestation that hinders, lingers afar
Concealing, subsisting, not I
Everything's baseless, breathing is useless
Repudiate this knowing at once
Prostulate the higher is there
We all crave desolate space
Subside from afar a seperate reaps
Subside from afar there is none
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
in their disguised self-centered ways, the faithful are obsessed with going to Heaven and staying away from Hell
1
all the faithful,
these holy believers,
they all fear this address:
No.1 HELL, OUTSIDE UNIVERSE,
POSTAL CODE: 0001
all the faithful
want to avoid this place like, well, hell!
*the non-believers just take it easy;
they have no such obsessions*
all the faithful, the holy believers
they all aspire to this place:
ONLY 1, HEAVEN, DIVINE UNIVERSE,
POSTAL CODE: 0001
they all try and get there
and with their narrow True Only One Way
they think they'd get there anyway
easy as if you'd googled for Heaven
*the non-believers just take it easy;
they have no such obsessions*
2
*and well, if the faithful are always imagining what God sanctions
and says, I don't see why their opposites can't also imagine what this Grand Supposition says*
and in their aspirations,
to reach
ONLY 1, HEAVEN, DIVINE UNIVERSE,
POSTAL CODE: 0001
the faithful
***** the planet earth
with all their doctrines
and their aggression
and their violence
and their narrowness and bigotry
and their holiness and their obsessions
and creating constant divisions
and so I can sympathize
with their supposed God becoming sane
and thus declaring to the faithful:
*Oh no, I'm not letting you ******** in
as surely you'll make a Hell of Heaven;
I'd rather let in the non-believers here anytime
at least they don't have your hang-ups and perversions*
conclusion
well, the poor faithful then, the holy faithful wholly excluded, they'll have to content themselves with Googling for Heaven, and viewing the streets of Heaven on Google Maps of the Divine World
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 6:08 PM UTC
so this is Christmas
and what have we done
war is still blazing
while we burn in the Sun
glaciers are melting
our coasts disappear
it's 70 in December
and we're full of good cheer
our country is wasting away at the core
the doctrines set forth
don't exist anymore
we ignore mass genocide
in poor countries but leap
to right all the wrongs
where there's oil to reap
when the rich do their drugs
we're so sad for their disease
when the poor do the same
they are lowlifes and thieves
with all our technology, our knowledge, our toys
millions still starve
deck the halls girls and boys
and while oppression occurs
every minute, every day
we idly stand by, disregard, look away
we turn on our TV's
and bask in it's light
Merry Christmas to all
and to all a good night
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 3:24 PM UTC
The moment we made that memorable
Exodus from her sacred womb,
The veil of suspicion floated from their eyes
And draped our lives like a burden.
Then we have to spend the rest of our days
Trying to rip the veil of suspicion from our souls
In vain.
When they see us, we are marked
Because of their fear.
They hate us, fear us, and aim to control us.
Why?
Why do you despise the blackest of God's divine creation
But pursue dark, insignificant objects?
You're even intimated by the tiniest of our sons,
Hunting them to slaughter them like immoral doctrines.
I feel sorry for you,
The ones who fear us but idolize us.
I feel sorry for you,
The ones who despise us yet envy us.
I feel sorry for you
Along with the ones who are totally sightless,
Unaware of the systematic wickedness
That begins soon after our memorable Exodus
From mother Africa's womb.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
Ghosts unglorified
Watch the black angels weep
Demonic doctrines at play in our minds
In our homes, in the streets
Your diamond earrings
Your rhinestone-encrusted phone
Your manicures
Your shoe-shine labor throne
The devil is in the details
But only the dead can see
The big picture
Count your pills
Count your money
Count your friends
How’s that honey?
Ghosts with wide eyes
Watch the angels cry
Demonic ways at work in our heads
In our beds, it should be a crime
Devil is in the details
Every nook and cranny
When will we see the big picture?
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 11:27 AM UTC
The water rises,
And I awaken in the dark of the tunnel stream.
The lights have vanished,
And my perception is lost.
As my eyes are open;
Home to view these ancient walls.
In paintings, I have only seen
These deathly catacomb halls.
My lights awaken,
The water shaken.
Gone are the hooded paintings; stolen
From the dephs of the catacomb halls.
From the doctrines of space and nature,
I paint the walls with answers
To guide the ancients who rebuilt the city.
Once more, the water rises.
One more, another body
To flow through the tunnel stream.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 7:59 AM UTC
Separated by progress
We live in isolation
Socially stagnated
Growing ever distant.
Focus further inward
Without hesitation,
Cutting off future conflicts
Before they even happen.
Perspective and reality
No longer separate
Echo chamber catalysts
Shattered-faction fragment.
Elitist tactics brainwash
Entire populations,
Localised abundance withers
With dying vegetation.
Doomsday clocks lurching
Our salvation diverges
Shouting to the twilight sun
We share but false elation.
Entire regions' designated
Means of production
No new doctrines allowed
All hail consumption.
Ever directionless, at a loss
Regressing into violence:
Revolutionaries' proudest
Of our failed revolutions.
Living out our dreams
Of solitary bliss,
Live alone in harmony
Or die in the abyss.
What piece of work is man
That chooses inhumanity
A species in a chasm
Led by mere savages.
May 10, 2022
May 10, 2022 at 6:26 PM UTC
#…a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
(Ecclesiastes 4:12)
A pastoress once bore a name
which merits neither guilt nor shame;
Pentecosta Charismania
(biblical in megalomania).
Worthy of poetic fame,
a brilliant if unstable flame.
Sincere she was, yet volatile,
she brought it down, revival-style.
At altar calls, she could inspire
tongues of glossolalian fire.
The Devil she would oft rebuke
with lines from John, or Paul, or Luke;
a prophetess on holy crack
was Pentecosta on the attack…
Her nemesis was prudent, able
doctrinally dull—but stable:
Patriciana Presbyteria.
Less given to divine hysteria,
wisdom did adorn her table.
And her soul bore well the label.
No prophecies escaped her lips
nor prone to divinating slips;
this sensible reformed young maid
was made to have and have it made
Elect, correct in doctrine, wit
invested in no counterfeit
her pop’s portfolio lent her worth:
not less than heaven cashed on earth.
Mocking these unseemly heretics
swayed by neither sects nor politics
was Maria Della Romana
Faithful matron, primadonna,
loyal to her Papal rite,
she grieved her sisters by candlelight;
fingered furious rosaries
stormed the gates with St. Peter’s keys
beseeching Jesus that they turn
from devil’s doctrines fit to burn,
rejoin the holy Mother Church
rather than their souls besmirch
with further Antichristian sin.
(She genuflected fit to win.)
God is known in Trinity
but less through femininity:
His three adherents, flamed by One
like braided gold reflecting sun
are Christian fates: three tendencies
or triplicate analyses,
tripartite in judgemental grace
each one assumed, with zealous face
that the other two could not be saved
as sure as Heaven’s roads are paved
with wisdom’s gold and Christ’s pure light.
(They made a most amusing sight.)
Since threefold cords cannot be broken,
let my punchline rest, unspoken.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
Born the war drum
I was beat until the cries became the sub-audible pounding of a thousand marching feet birthed of beatings.
Truant was I to the current flowing like the wind that leaves the leafs chasing that end from which they've stemmed, rather moving to the inner drum beating out my doctrines engraved on skin, a prescription through inscription it allowed me to see through jade eyes and experience my near life experiments. The temple trapped within I tore the doors off of to find the one I could love, only to be left with hands stained of (His/her) blood. Bleeding the gods of Din and (w)Reck on in(g)sides work against the world I'm in, the perception deceptive eluding the corrections of that War Drum originally beat, the per(cus/sua)sive force of that forced message left lessened in the face of realities newly perceived, though still accepted in universal truth. The heart beats new root, a tie-in to every action bourne of a falling hand drumming out that beat of every thousandth fallen feet.
And I am left to (Him/her), that hidden god of Din, and I am left without that temple once held within so I may decipher that left upon my skin, that forgotten prayer I begin,
"forgive me father, for i am sin…"
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
Strip me of my sins,
Exercise my body of its demons.
Leave it shaking as it rides
the long, hard road to absolution.
Teach me in doctrines Old and New
the routes to salvations gate.
Take me again and again.
Make pious lips part and moan
wordless prayers in praise of You.
– my heavenly guide.
– The one I always come with.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:36 PM UTC
And on the eighth day
On all corners of the dry land
He had created
Out of love for mankind,
His people formed religions and sects,
Through which to worship their creator,
Each according his race.
So were born pride and enmity,
Jealousy, hatred and prejudice.
Doctrines, dictates and decrees
Enslaved each and every one.
Darkness descended
And distant thunder
Stirred
Jul 31, 2010
Jul 31, 2010 at 1:32 AM UTC
Every now and again, I think about where my dad might be, and what he might be doing at the very moment in which I think of him. “No dignity, no duty,” I remember my Grandfather saying. We, meaning my mom and I, think that his current dwelling is south, somewhere in Arizona. Maybe alone, maybe with a recent girlfriend who hasn’t realized how two-faced he is yet. It went something like this: when I was the little old age of three, he decided to leave me, my mom, and my sister. He said we were an expense not worth retaining. Having us around couldn’t pay back the debt he owed from his failing business proposition, the invention of a hybrid eating utensil that combined a fork, spoon, and knife together to increase the amount of table room at restaurants and finer consumption establishments for large parities of impatient patrons. His “would-be” investors claimed they already had the “spork” and that hybrid eating utensils were a thing of the past. He cursed the world, anointing the words **** you, I'll make it... I'll make it big somewhere else," and simply was gone ever since.
“Your father is a very bad man,” My mother explained to my watering eye. “I hereby excommunicate him from this family. We are going to love each other in this house.”
“What’s ex-chum-oon-eh-cating mean?” I asked diligently, wiping a tear.
“It’s what the Christian Church does to people who have been naughty. You’ll learn all about those religious doctrines in school, when you’re older. We’ll talk about it then little Bugaboo.”
And I was off to bed.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
It felt like starvation; now only death can ease insatiable inquisitions.
Marveled by celestial decisions, And while the findings are marvelous, I still question existence.
My mind was traveling parsecs; I couldn't digest the doctrines—I was losing my religion.
Question it all.
I'm mad enough to go to war, but I can't save the world.
One must taste the dirt before all can be unearthed.
The further I ferret the rabbit hole, the more is known of which I don't.
I know there's nothing after this.
My environment, the catalyst, called for perspectives few could ever witness.
The story's just beginning.
The pieces coalesced for the nascent stages of my thesis.
Instead of hiding behind my intellect, I set sail on the Ship of Theseus.
Jan 30, 2024
Jan 30, 2024 at 11:54 AM UTC
I sit on a cliff to watch the
Sun as it rests at the vastness
Of ocean. Here, I found
A self chained by the oppressive
Landscapes of memories—measuring
The distance of a life lived in the
Folly of youth from the life
Lived in the youthful folly of life.
Life is a circular argument.
A strange voice from the
Wilderness utters the words of the
World. I am compelled to
Listen
Obey
Drift from my self.
I lived a life not of my own. Blown
By the wind. Riddled by doctrines
Of truths in multiple versions and
Renditions of power. Powerless I
Have become. Becoming, thus, is
Defined and defied by truths
Relative to utility. Living is an
Attempt in futility unless the myth
Of becoming is braved by believing
In oneness with one's self.
I sit on a cliff to watch the sun as it
Rises from the vastness of ocean.
Here, I find myself.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 5:13 AM UTC
Go Giryeodo, painted by Kim Myeong-guk
maybe in 1650
radiating a story, still today
riding the donkey
trees behind
the mountain track treacherous
Go Giryeodo
mind clear and attentive to all that is
There is no mind here
that is obsessed by sin
and sharpened doctrines
like the ones on the other side of the world
Detached and collected
rides Giryeodo
There is no sense of destiny or ambition to reach Heaven
There is no Theology, no Thick Books that attract Thick Heads
Giryeodo rides
Donkey at its own pace
free, no encumbrance, no demands
there is no Book, there is no Text
there is no authority or Weight that fills
The mind of the rider Go Giryeodo, painted by Kim Myeong-guk
no perversions of religion and conversion
that fills the minds of those on the other side of the world
Fills them like the Devil fills their Books and Speeches
Gentle, uncaring,
no sense of timing
riding since 1650, perhaps before
riding perhaps into timeless-ness
Not caring for an end of time
go Giryeodo, painted by Kim Myeong-guk
riding the donkey
riding the donkey
trees behind
the mountain track treacherous
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 8:01 AM UTC