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In the hour of death, after this life’s whim,
When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim,
And pain has exhausted every limb—
  The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.

When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim,
And the mind can only disgrace its fame,
And a man is uncertain of his own name—
  The power of the Lord shall fill this frame.

When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed,
And the coffin is waiting beside the bed,
And the widow and child forsake the dead—
  The angel of the Lord shall lift this head.

For even the purest delight may pall,
And power must fail, and the pride must fall,
And the love of the dearest friends grow small—
  But the glory of the Lord is all in all.
Hic. On the grey sand beside the shallow stream
Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still
A lamp burns on beside the open book
That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon,
And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace,
Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion,
Magical shapes.
Ille. By the help of an image
I call to my own opposite, summon all
That I have handled least, least looked upon.
Hic. And I would find myself and not an image.
Ille. That is our modern hope, and by its light
We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind
And lost the old nonchalance of the hand;
Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush,
We are but critics, or but half create,
Timid, entangled, empty and abashed,
Lacking the countenance of our friends.
Hic. And yet
The chief imagination of Christendom,
Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself
That he has made that hollow face of his
More plain to the mind's eye than any face
But that of Christ.
Ille. And did he find himself
Or was the hunger that had made it hollow
A hunger for the apple on the bough
Most out of reach? and is that spectral image
The man that Lapo and that ***** knew?
I think he fashioned from his opposite
An image that might have been a stony face
Staring upon a Bedouin's horse-hair roof
From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned
Among the coarse grass and the camel-dung.
He set his chisel to the hardest stone.
Being mocked by ***** for his lecherous life,
Derided and deriding, driven out
To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread,
He found the unpersuadable justice, he found
The most exalted lady loved by a man.
Hic. Yet surely there are men who have made their art
Out of no tragic war, lovers of life,
Impulsive men that look for happiness
And sing when t"hey have found it.
Ille. No, not sing,
For those that love the world serve it in action,
Grow rich, popular and full of influence,
And should they paint or write, still it is action:
The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours,
The sentimentalist himself; while art
Is but a vision of reality.
What portion in the world can the artist have
Who has awakened from the common dream
But dissipation and despair?
Hic. And yet
No one denies to Keats love of the world;
Remember his deliberate happiness.
Ille. His art is happy, but who knows his mind?
I see a schoolboy when I think of him,
With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window,
For certainly he sank into his grave
His senses and his heart unsatisfied,
And made -- being poor, ailing and ignorant,
Shut out from all the luxury of the world,
The coarse-bred son of a livery-stable keeper --
Luxuriant song.
Hic. Why should you leave the lamp
Burning alone beside an open book,
And trace these characters upon the sands?
A style is found by sedentary toil
And by the imitation of great masters.
Zlle. Because I seek an image, n-ot a book.
Those men that in their writings are most wise,
Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts.
I call to the mysterious one who yet
Shall walk the wet sands by the edge of the stream
And look most like me, being indeed my double,
And prove of all imaginable things
The most unlike, being my anti-self,
And, standing by these characters, disclose
All that I seek; and whisper it as though
He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud
Their momentary cries before it is dawn,
Would carry it away to blasphemous men.
my eyes, too blind from the light of hell to see
pray for you to choke the blasphemy out of me

ave maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum. benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, iesus. sancta maria, mater dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae

you misread my plea and loosen your holy grip
and more sins spill from my ****** lips

ave maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum. benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, iesus. sancta maria, mater dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae

my tongue is heavy with heresy
but still i babble hypocrisy

ave maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum. benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, iesus. sancta maria, mater dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae

amen
Brent Kincaid Jan 2017
Christ, religious people are boring,
Just like the nutsos in the street.
Half the time they start me snoring
So I run away in abject defeat,
Because reason can’t get through
A wall of defensive superstition
Which gives us back nothing but
Mumbo jumbo to every question.

If the neighborhood catches fire
It is only but a holy God’s will.
(It would be great we victims had
A place we could send God the bill.)
When innocent children die off
Is that what a loving God wanted?
That "God sees the sparrow" stuff
Gets rather quickly blunted.

What kind of wrathful *******
Lets genocide have a field day
And doesn’t make widespread disasters
Permanently dry up and go away?
If God created all of us people
In his own best saintly image,
He sure must be an ugly sod who
Needs to go back to scrimmage.

If a country had a dictator
As capriciously vicious as him
It would surely trigger worldwide
A call for a God with better whims.
For thousands of years now, it seems
People have been issuing prayers
To some kind of entity at large
That is constantly taking us nowhere.

Maybe it is exactly as possible
That this whole show is erroneous
And the big guy on a cloud is fiction
Made up out of fear and just bogus?
Isn’t this just some cave-dweller dream
To explain what folks found frightening?
Should we be running our world today
By ideas of folks afraid of lightning?
(A play in one act.)

The Knight.
The Lady.

Voices of men and women on the ground at the foot of the tower.
The voice of the Knight’s Page.



     The top of a high battlemented tower of a castle.  A stone ledge,
     which serves as a seat, extends part way around the parapet.
     Small clouds float by in the blue sky, and occasionally a swallow passes.
     Entrance R. from an unseen stairway which is supposed to extend around
     the outside of the tower.

The Lady (unseen).
Oh do not climb so fast, for I am faint
With looking down the tower to where the earth
Lies dreaming in the sun.  I fear to fall.

The Knight (unseen).
Lean on me, love, my love, and look not down.

L.
Call me not “love”, call me your conquered foe,
That now, since you have battered down her gates,
Gives you the keys that lock the highest tower
And mounts with you to prove her homage true;
Oh bid me go no farther lest I fall,
My foot has slipped upon the rain-worn stones,
Why are the stairs so narrow and so steep?
Let us go back, my lord.

K.
                           Are you afraid,
Who were so dauntless till the walls gave way?
Courage, my sweet.  I would that I could climb
A thousand times by wind-swept stairs like these,
That lead so near to heaven.

L.
                              Sir, you may,
You are a knight and very valorous;
I am a woman.  I shall never come
This way but once.
(The Knight and the Lady appear on the top of the tower.)

K.
                     Kiss me at last, my love.

L.
Oh, my sweet lord, I am too tired to kiss.
Look how the earth is like an emerald,
With rivers veined and flawed with fallow fields.

K.  (Lifting her veil)
Then I kiss you, a thousand thousand kisses
For all the days ere I had won to you
Beyond the walls and gates you barred so close.
Call me at last your love, your castle’s lord.

L.  (After a pause)
I love you.

(She kisses him.  Her veil blows away like a white butterfly
over the parapet.  Faint cries and laughter from men and women
under the tower.)

Men and Women.
The veil, the lady’s veil!

(The knight takes the lady in his arms.)

L.
My lord, I pray you loose me from your arms
Lest that my people see how much we love.

K.
May they not see us?  All of them have loved.

L.
But you have been an enemy, my lord,
With walls between us and with moss-grown moats,
Now on a sudden must I kiss your mouth?
I who was taught before I learned to speak
That all my house was hostile unto yours,
Now can I put my head against your breast
Here in the sight of all who choose to come?

K.
Are we not past the caring for their eyes
And nearer to the heaven than to earth?
Look up and see.

L.
                   I only see your face.

(She touches his hair with her hands.  Murmuring under the tower.)

K.
Why came we here in all the noon-day light
With only darting swallows over us
To make a speck of darkness on the sun?
Let us go down where walls will shut us round.
Your castle has a hundred quiet halls,
A hundred chambers, where the shadows lie
On things put by, forgotten long ago.
Forgotten lutes with strings that Time has slackened,
We two shall draw them close and bid them sing—
Forgotten games, forgotten books still open
Where you had laid them by at vesper-time,
And your embroidery, whereon half-worked
Weeps Amor wounded by a rose’s thorn.
Shall I not see the room in which you slept,
Palpitant still and breathing of your thoughts,
Where maiden dreams adown the ways of sleep
Swept noiselessly with damosels and knights
To tourneys where the trumpet made no sound,
Blow as he might, the scarlet trumpeter,
And were the dreams not sometimes brimmed with tears
That waked you when the night was loneliest?
Will you not bring me to your oratory
Where prayers arose like little birds set free
Still upward, upward without sound of flight?
Shall I not find your turrets toward the north,
Where you defied white winter armed for war;
Your southern casements where the sun blows in
Between the leaf-bent boughs the wind has lifted?
Shall we not see the sunrise toward the east,
Watch dawn by dawn the rose of day unfolding
Its golden-hearted beauty sovereignly;
And toward the west look quietly at evening?
Shall I not see all these and all your treasures?
In carven coffers hidden in the dark
Have you not laid a sapphire lit with flame
And amethysts set round with deep-wrought gold,
Perhaps a ruby?

L.
                  All my gems are yours
And all my chambers curtained from the sun.
My lord shall see them all, in time, in time.


(The sun begins to sink.)

K.
Shall I not see them now?  To-day, to-night?

L.
How could I show you in one day, my lord,
My castle and my treasures and my tower?
Let all the days to come suffice for this
Since all the past days made them what they are.
You will not be impatient, my sweet lord.
Some of the halls have long been locked and barred,
And some have secret doors and hard to find
Till suddenly you touch them unawares,
And down a sable way runs silver light.
We two will search together for the keys,
But not to-day.  Let us sit here to-day,
Since all is yours and always will be yours.

(The stars appear faintly one by one.)

K.  (After a pause.)
I grow a little drowsy with the dusk.

L.  (Singing.)
    There was a man that loved a maid,
    (Sleep and take your rest)
    Over her lips his kiss was laid,
    Over her heart, his breast.

(The knight sleeps.)

    All of his vows were sweet to hear,
    Sweet was his kiss to take;
    Why was her breast so quick to fear,
    Why was her heart, to break?

    Why was the man so glad to woo?
    (Sleep and take your rest)
    Why were the maiden’s words so few—

(She sees that he is asleep, and slipping off her long cloak-like
outer garment, she pillows his head upon it against the parapet,
and half kneeling at his feet she sings very softly:)

    I love you, I love you, I love you,
    I am the flower at your feet,
    The birds and the stars are above you,
    My place is more sweet.

    The birds and the stars are above you,
    They envy the flower in the grass,
    For I, only I, while I love you
    Can die as you pass.

(Light clouds veil the stars, growing denser constantly.
The castle bell rings for vespers, and rising, the lady moves
to a corner of the parapet and kneels there.)

L.
Ave Maria! gratia plena, Dominus—

Voice of the Page (from the foot of the tower.)
My lord, my lord, they call for you at court!

(The knight wakes.  It is now quite dark.)

There is a tourney toward; your enemy
Has challenged you.  My lord, make haste to come!

(The knight rises and gropes his way toward the stairs.)

K.
I will make haste.  Await me where you are.

(To himself.)
There was a lady on this tower with me—

(He glances around hurriedly but does not see her in the darkness.)

Page.
My lord has far to ride before the dawn!

K.  (To himself.)
Why should I tarry?

(To the page.)
Bring my horse and shield!

(He descends.  As the noise of his footfall on the stairs dies away,
the lady gropes toward the stairway, then turns suddenly, and going to
the ledge where they have sat, she throws herself over the parapet.)


CURTAIN.
Christmas Eve mass
The Ave Maria begins to play
Images start to run through my mind
Some of now and some not of this time

                    Ave Maria

I see the Manger before me with our dear Lord as a babe
It quickly switches to a stranger letting her babe be aborted away

                   Gratia plena
                   Maria, gratia plena
                   Maria, gratia plena
  

I see our Lord speak of peace
Then see our soldiers defending another's keep

                  Ave, ave dominus  
                  Dominus tecum

  
  I hear the mortar shells as they fly through the air
I hear our soldiers whisper their prayers

                Benedicta tu in muli eribus
                 Et benedictus
                 Et benedictus fructus ventris


I see Jesus take someone in
Only then to see someone not give a second look at the homeless man

                Ventris tuae, Jesus  
                  Ave Maria


A mother and child searching for shelter
Dressed only in thin clothes in a harsh winter

                 Ave Maria  
                 Mater Dei
                 Ora pro nobis peccatoribus
                 Ora pro nobis
                Ora, ora pro nobis peccatoribus


I see Him hung upon the cross
To now seeing a man beheaded for proclaiming his Christianity is not lost

                 Nunc et in hora mortis
                  Et in hora mortis nostrae
                  Et in hora mortis nostrae
                  Et in hora mortis nostrae            
                  Ave Maria


The song has now ended and my eyes are wet
The tears I let fall all for remembrance
Lest us not forget
These thoughts ran through my head during mass last night.  Merry Christmas everyone. Let is not forget....
You cannot judge me, dear fellow
For I was and am to be
Like the moon, stars and sun in the meadow
Here in the great world of dreams.

Yet when I slept, I saw Him beside me
When I had awaken, I was alone
And when I had died no more

Ego sum dominus fati mei...
*Ego sum dominus anima et fati mei...
Derek DM May 2017
No little script
That I have wrought
Could be so perfect
So tightly fraught
With such tones
and Temperament
With your bones
And subtle inference
Yet there you hum
Whilst I write
To catch a crumb
Of your in-finite
Sing a hallow
Gold, cold refrain
So I may swallow
And remain in-sane
For the aria, my dear
Splays my soul
And such, I fear
Might that, be all
Il Supremo, Vivaldi
Stanley Wilkin Jun 2017
Shadow crept into my life one dismal winter’s night
Perverting me with its touch.
They came from the shadows
Formless beings made of hatred,
Of greed.
Without a care they plucked me from my nest
My life
As if I were but a simple pebble from a beach
A memento for their wives.

I was not for their wives, however
But for those of a greater disposition.
Those of antiquated lineage
The founders of our way.
Those with jewels on their fingers,
Flowers in their hair
Perfume floating in the air.

Before long I was swept away
Into a new life of servitude,
One from which there was no escape,
No Sanctuary.
Shackles on my hands,
Lashes on my back
I did their bidding with a smile on my face
To distract me from my pain.

It was no use.
Months floated by
As if my life were but a dream.
The same routine.

Months became years
I was still theirs.
My face still belonged to the back of their hands,
My back to the clap of their whip,
My ribs to the force of their kicks.
No reprieve for a lowlife like me.

I came to accept my life in time.
It was my fault.
The woods were never a place for my kind
The son of a prefect,
The pretty little boy with slaves of his own
Who belonged to him.
Their bodies
Their souls.

Only now do I realise there was no luck involved
In fate’s betrayal of her child
I deserve this
This life of servitude.
By my son: Stephen Francis
Chris Behrens Feb 2013
Pocketa, pocketa
Christopher B. Behrens
pianist, classical
fell on his assical
shattered his spine

Married his sweetie
Recovered completely
six kids and two keeties
all keep him line

Yacketa, yacketa
Christopher B. Behrens
Loves his Lord Jesus
Who loves us and sees us
Through thick and through thin

Lots sixty pounds of fat
Jumpin' Jehosaphat
Some might think that proves that
he's full of win

Ceteris Paribus
Christopher B. Behrens
Is deeply musical
sometimes confusical
Plays on guitars

To kids at their bedtime
He sings "You're my Sunshine"
And sometimes at nighttime
he smokes a cigar

Hexasyllabically
Christopher B. Behrens
Econ and Business
But software's like Christmas
And work is like play

Deskwise, a Latinist
Cat-In-the-Hatinist
Vobiscum Dominus
Have a nice day.
Here's a little autobiographical double-dactyl (ish).
Nadine Caruana Aug 2010
Stomach Churning Mankind, Dizzy spells over the Human Race.
I question and turn, "the top of the food chain."
Creators of technology, bringers of pain.
Yet I see small weakening cracks all over their face.

Attention seekers, stalkers and unwanted love,
psychologically misguided, socially excluded.
small secrets and whispers, where one always intruded;
gossip carried into the skies, like feathers light, above.

Ripping at one's defined thought, ruining it with paranoia,
Pushing one's life aside, focusing on obsession,
Wishing nothing but a pair of eyes, some sort of detection;
a heart leading nowhere, lips quivering with question.

Women are 'weak' men are 'pathetic'
children barely bear name aside ignorance.
teenagers with morality that is of absence.
And the old are useless, eyes bearing something synthetic.

I sit here and give myself every insult; I belong to the Genus.
I feel feebleness grip my heart, that is when purpose diminishes.
I question if old power was real; Caesar, and Dominus!
And I realize, "Every story can be made," And that is where thought finishes.



**- N.C
*Most of these poems appear on my art gallery http://greatwhitey.deviantart.com.  If you suspect copyright or anything 'stolen', you may message me there for confirmation.*
So is my dog god
as I have ordained
or am I a madman,
absolutely insane?  
       His birth name is Domino
       he picked it himself...
       a black and white pit
       pup he jumped
       on a shelf and
       down came the bones
       that anointed him so.  
Domino Dominus
both names mean
God,
but to me he's
a best friend and
sometimes my dog.
My Bubba.....what would I do without him.
Ellis Reyes Mar 2020
I'm from hate and discontent,
from words so caustic that they burn after 35, 40, 45, 50 years.
I'm from nowhere and everywhere,
I'm from nine schools and fourteen houses.

I'm from "You'll make new friends,"
and "Quit crying, we didn't live there that long."
To the KFC Christmas and "They're too old for a tree anyway."

I'm from slammed doors, and curse words and silent treatments.
I'm from high expectations, icy glares, straight A's, and disappointment.
I'm from 800 miles of claustrophobic silence in the family car and 18 years with no vacations.

AND

I'm from lazy days at the family farm
and hard-*** work a few years later.
I'm from rides on the tractor with Grandpa,
and watching the illegal sabong... with the sheriff.

I'm from Uncle Martin and Mary Lou,
and the tiny apartment with the swimming pool.
I'm from the mean man in number 9 screaming at us to be quiet
and Uncle Martin telling him to, "Shut the Hell Up!"

I'm from David and Richard, my cousins, my brothers
I'm from poison oak adventures at the creek
and countless days at the beach

AND

I'm from Gentile and Jew,
From Asian and White,
From Catholic and ****.

I'm from St. Patrick's, the old church.
I'm from stained glass and wooden kneelers,
incense, and Latin Mass.
I'm from Ego te absolvo and Dominus Vobiscum

I'm from tradition and sanctity,
dignity and peace.

I'm from Hellfire and Brimstone
Screaming, Bible pounding preachermen who are slain in the Spirit,
babble in tongues, and exhort the congregation to be "Washed in the Blood of the Lamb".

AND

I'm from love and loss,
and love again

I'm from Lisa, and Donna, and Carole,
the girls who were far too pretty to have been my friends (but were)
I'm from Jaki who wrote me letters letters every two days
and sometimes more,
and Laurie
and Kelly.

I'm from Cardinal and Gold
from Conquest and Traveler,
from the dorm and the Row.

I'm from 90,000 screaming idiots,
I'm from Greek Week and road trips,
and long nights in the reference section.
I'm from typewriters, card catalogs, and white out.

AND

I'm from gritty men and terrible places.
I'm from peace, and war, and peace, and war again.
And peace - with war thundering in the distance.

I'm from the cold wet ground on cold wet nights,
and I'm from blisters upon blisters; blood and water.

I'm from the Blacksheep, the Alphabots, and the Ranger Creed.
I'm from the M-249, the 203, and the A-2.
I'm from Colt, not Beretta; that's the M-1911,
and I'm proudly from jungle fatigues and black berets.

AND

I'm from a fateful encounter on a random night
an order of pizza and beer that would change our lives
Days together and weeks apart
Time didn't matter
She'd captured my heart.

I'm from loyalty and faith,
Trust and honor.
I'm from a small ceremony,
nothing to big or too fancy,
and groomsmen carrying guns, pagers, and foreign passports.

I'm from odd jobs and uncertainty and graduate school
I'm from UPS and PKP, and Summa *** Laude,
MISD, WM, and the birth of Anthony.

I'm from safety patrol and tug-of-war,
Accelerated math, now Maria's born.

I'm from the Blonde Mafia, the Bumblebees,
the Shopping Girls, and the Ubermensch.
From 14, and F, and back to 14, and 15.
Principals Emerson, Anthony, Blix, and Mellish.

AND

I'm from the Middle School
and teaching only math until
I'm teaching math and tech until
I'm teaching math and tech and study skills until
I'm teaching tech and study skills and more tech until
I'm teaching tech and study skills and media and Spanish until
I'm teaching tech, tech, tech, media, and Spanish with
Principals Miller and Budzius and Lucas and Stone

I'm from the animé girls and the theater crew
From the gamers and poets and dreamers
From the introverts and hackers, autistic kids and slackers
I'm from the kids who don't fit anywhere....
Neatly

(To be continued)
Slices of my life
Aditya Roy Jan 2019
Devotion and darkness
Have a thing in common
They become clear in the light
"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."-
Charlotte Huston Jan 2018
Dance with me;
Under this moonlight -
A song hangs prosy,
Through the January air ~

Give me your heart,
Send it to the angels -
Ut benedicta cor meum
Ut novus dominus est scriptor;
Up into the air,
Of our divine night
Phoebe Oct 2014
Sanctus satanas, sanctus                                                                         Dominus diabolus sabaoth                                                                                    satanas-venire                                                                                            satanas venire                                                                                                                         Ave, satanas, Ave satanas                                                                                                                       Tui sunt caeli                                                                                                                        Ave satanas.
Aeia Jun 2014
Dearest fair Lilith, impure and horned
The same indeed we both have scorned
For Adam, as well, did not intend to forsake
But your luscious beauty were all it did take
And what of Eve, who could not imagine such sinistry
She got just one taste of you and abandoned her ministry

Dominus Deus above, bearing good tidings and wrath
And Malus Infernus below, with all his pitiful chained
Together they attempted to divert us from this dire path
Yet neither could keep us prisoner against the preordained

So, with bells and umbrellas we skipped straight out of Eden
Hand in hand now we stroll among the bruised and the beaten
Too many souls perished when we were denounced as forbidden
This shall be a lesson to learn not to believe what is written
Now entangled in each other and quite merrily depraved
Lilith and Eve cannot ever be saved...
Derek DM Feb 2017
Nisi Dominus Frustra
Scant legible tantra
Muscled marbled muse
Adorned, confused
Standing in Massivity
Before us, behind us.
God's Oracle Dec 2019
The ever consuming defying darkness that envelops my inner mind I know I found a reason to be guided by the Light
Desperation blindness the shades portrayed by an omnious shade of black
I begin to realize am beginning to lose sight
Slowly my consiousness slipping and yet I try to fight
The feelings of impending horror masquerading in the Night
Diabolic Phantoms and the foul creatures that consume Life
A myraid shrouded in myself...image
The Dark Imminent Forces that shape my formless soul for I am still a Celestial Body A part of the Powers of Heaven & Hell inside my Shrine...
I am slowly becoming a Beast an Accursed Temple slowly being consumed by Hollows Of Sloth Wrath Pride Insolence Vanity and Treachery
I have learned to communicate with this Deviants and Spirits and Fallen Angellic Servants that sense and feed of my channeling ports of light & dark energy many occult practices I have performed in my past... for I have a relationship with the Lord Of Hosts but also able to manifest and perform the most primordial evil in it's truest form...I have 2000 Entities working for me with me within and outside me...for they where created thru my will and enslaved by my spiritual might and power of my ability to transfer, communicate, act, manipulate, transfigurate and absorb aura, energy and light and dark alike...Beyond that veil of dreams there is a enormous spiritual realm that I have explored I have stepped and walked among God's presense and I am also allowed and able to walk among the demonic for I fear neither for I have the balance of each spirit. Ashetak, Ahxer,Alleauous...
Beheel,Bruthmok,Balruk...
Cromm,Creaudus,Chem.­..
Devek,Delthamy,Desvez...
Efhor,Eshium,Eljair...
Feigh,Feir,Fog­gothar...
Geth,Gremath,Gashaum...
Helyel,Hydoll,Hosmous...
Ishuk,­Ishtar,Isheke'hek...
Jehok,Jamale,Joshiktar...
Keim,Kellem,Kour..­.
Lous,Lomnk,Lockthall...
Mous,Matreu,Morthor...
Neir,Neus,Nakash­ek...
Opem,Osuth,Oscurym...
Pethel,Pattux,Peom...
Quar,Quimm,Qhof­ar...
Rivum,Rievere,Riuk...
Seiff,Shom,Sha'lahaim...
Teur,Toros,T­em...
Velk,Veshkum,Veaish...
Wam,Wes,Wailth...
Xur,Xirith,Xezur..­.
Zek,Zahar,Zuzu...

Invictum Septum Divinus Algori Forte Irto La Terra
Arteum Sorte Sanctus Deamonus
Ele Dominus Infinitus Capernum ciellis
Temptatium Ode Exertus Creatos
Orde Di A Diaboli Eternum
Ferfeitum Shakath Ambreoise!!!

13th Oracle Of God.

The day shall turn to night and in that
Day even the righteous shall hide from thy Maker.
The Forces I attest to command and be under control of for they use me daily and I use them daily...the way am made to accept my radical calling as a Oracle and Master Of Light & Dark Entities alike.
PERTINAX Jun 18
From Publius
To Marcus

Marcus, I must apologize:
It is true that I said you were as Antinous
To Gaius' Hadrianus,
But do not fret, it was not in jest;
I truly did ask the Gods to curse you so.

You see, this farm,
This land,
Has been my ward long before you...
In your Janus mask,
Were hired.
At least that God understands the difference
Between war and peace.

Unlike you, dear Marcus,
Who brings only chaos to the fields;
A greater pestilence than any drought or rot.
You are the weevil that spoils the grain,
Corrupting all around you.

Poor Gaius has already fallen
Under your impious spell.
His fields grow fallow from association
With you Marcus!

What shame you bring your family
With your lazy immorality,
Incapable of discerning right from wrong,
Lest it be ascribed by your new dominus, Gaius,
Whose skin your claws flay with fatal flattery.

All this while I tend both your fields,
And mine own,
Working myself to the bone;
The heat, and sweat, and bugs,
Reminiscent of Pluto's underworld.
To honor my family.
To feed my family.

I honor my ancestors Marcus!
Daily, I make offerings to Gods of house and state
At my household alter;

The Capitoline triad overflow with my piety,
Bringing abundance to mine soul and soil alike.
Plenty, that you, sweet Antinous, claim as your own.

No longer.
I'm divorcing myself from all of you.
You can have the land.
As it stands it would make a beautiful wedding plot.
I've even gone to the trouble of forging you a ring,
Meticulously sourced from your masters ****!

Consider it a fragrant farewell
From your favorite fan,
Who will fondly not remember you,
Even as you scramble without me,
And miss the coattails you rode,
To usurp my home.

Woe to the plow;
Proscribed to die in rust.

Signed,
PERTINAX
Ryan O'Leary Aug 2018
The
                                  Altered
                                      Boy.

                            Bless me father
                            and I'll kiss your ring,
                            join in the chorus
                            you can hear me sing.

                            The holy eucharist
                            between my lips,
                            at communion time
                            red wine in sips.

                            Then, in the belfry
                            when all alone,
                            at angelus time
                            the ropes I'm shown.

                            Off with the hats
                            and down on the knees,
                            my first lesson in life
                            on the birds and the bees.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
how soon... is... savannah brown,
to represent sylvia plath?
                                               too soon?
i say, too soon.
                  i have come across
my second fictional charioteers...
ragnar and athelstan...
   ivar the boneless and...
  bishop heahmund....
                      my "concerns"?
Αγνή Παρθένε...
              χασμουρητό:
   (χ) chi...
                   chasmonreto...
while i thought of?
the hungry only feed their
thought by usurping a freedom
from hunger!
                      how the first wave
of heathens learned to be humble...
while the second wave of heathens
aspired to be... noble...

   who, are, we, versed in
teutonic chants?
      de pacem domine?
            might i, site, a sing-along
to a kumbaya?
              replica?

             salvare mea dominus,
mea praesentia....
          quod iustificationem
   vestra autem praesentia et vestra
   salvus erit immoderata cuiusque
     luxuria subsequenda...

see... leftist intellectuals
always **** at the teet of islam,
in terms of the blinding lights
of "consciousness"...
but, what does, 'fathom', begin,
and end with?
                    
the antithesis of
a soul?
  the anti of a psyche?
well, there's
the yawn,
and only the yawn
to counter
the winds of breath.

          at each of these medieval
chants... i weep...
           i weep from a certain
presence of joy that cannot
find translation within the confines
of the modern world...
i cry, because i find the sort
of joy, that cannot be,
associated with the joys
of the modern world...

      to think... a pagan...
twice over...
         ragnar in athelstan...
the source of knowledge...
worth more than gold...
and ivar in bishop heahmund...
purity, truth...
          an antithesis of
pagan jeleousy...
  nobility...
            what man is not
allowed to cry,
in celebrating the slow...
snail like climbing
manifestation of
a conversion?

         if man is ever allowed
to cry...
       it's at this...
         that element of beauty
of a transvaluation of value...
   ragnar in athelstan: knowledge...
ivar in bishop heahmund:
                       value(s)...
to be of noble cause,
is to demand...
                           and what if...
sisyphus... didn't roll the stone
up a hill?!
  what if... he just let it sit...
and pretended the stone
to be a mirror...
  not so much a "mirror" adequate
for an image, reflected,
more.... a "mirror" of
his thinking?
  surely... thinking is born
from the existence of inanimate things...
rather than animation?
    thought surely has to
source itself in inanimate objects...
first... before moving into
the fog like argument of evolution
working from the ontological extensions
of apes...
              ex similitude rurus ut similitude
      (out of similarity, back into similarity)...
ad imitatio...
        (toward imitation)...
        et regressio
                     (and regression)...
          but... all the critique of byzantine
culture... once a convert to a byzantine hymn:
forever a convert... to a byzantine hymn.
even the ancients can't allow themselves
to convert the heart from allowing
the heart to absorb the conversion that has
a pristine fathomability of the mind:
in its state of being: thoughtless.

the conversion pilgrim:
from catholic,
                 to hebrew...
back, en route,
                 to Byzantine chants...
   was anyone ever, really,
worried out the metaphor: Byzantine,
to replace the word: bureaucracy?
i was more worried about
a conversion via sung psalms.
          and if it is music,
and i cry...
                   i treat that as
a worthy authenticity worth
investigating...
given... Ragnar valued the knowledge
of a monk...
while Ivar...
  the nobility of a christian
warrior bishop.

                    how may i ever repay
my slander...
       i will only repay that slander...
with my honesty...
i need not torture myself,
in fathoming the unfathomable
rites of repenting...
          i will cry, upon succumbing
to the sand psalm...
and if that is not enough...
then i will continue to renounce...
and slander...
   for what are the tears of the honest...
equal...
         to be equal made...
upon the lashing...
the "repenting"... the "pure"...
the liars?!
                   liars do not cry with
joy... liars cry...
to masquarade their hidden ambitions /
or whatever other hydra head
pops to mind...
                 guilt.
i cry... because beauty needs to be
celebrated... with the only worthy
and available alms... tears!
Damien Kaniewski Oct 2017
In what order, should I read my Nietzsche                                                      
How the **** should I try and reach ya
Try to communicate, accused of tryin to teach ya
Beyond good and evil, now I’m a preacher

Havin’ fun with Friedrich
Sic erat scriptum
Syphilitic reasoning
Dominus vobiscum

Philosophy, Biology doesn’t feature
After all, we’re all despicable creatures
Battery farmed, intent on goodness
All of us failing, except for Jesus

Exercising mind control and thought patrol
What were you trying to teach us?
The purpose is to procreate
No additional features.
God's Oracle Aug 2021
Yet many people have different perspectives on what they believe about the afterlife...yet none of those fancy stories of anyone coming back from the World of the Dead add up to par. I had a dream of a place that had 9 different circles and a massive entrance. The door was decorated with a gothic like Artistic depiction of millions of souls falling into a hellish pit engulfed in flames sulfur and brimstone. As I stood there perplexed the Massive door began to open and dust and a horribly uncomfortable amount of hot air cold chills and unimaginable terror set upon my very soul...a voice coming from deep within that hellish place called my name for help...petitioning for me to travel to the 5th Circle of what they call Infernus and retrieve a little Marmol Angel statue from a Half human Half Demon Man named Arxeus Demus III. As I got a little closer there stood a Skeleton King in front of me and said to me ..."Do you wish to proceed to the Underworld to go retrieve the items your friend wants to give you for safekeeping?"
Then I told him I am retrieving this from Infernus because I am responding to a friend in distress. There I entered the Pit's entrance and from there I made my way to the fifth circle and found Arxeus talking to a Succubus however I was interrupted by a Legion of Lost Souls trying to grab at me due to the fact that I was Alive and from the world of the living. I fought off the corruption best as I could and finally able to talk to Arxeus and express my concern to him He gave me the Marmol Statue of the Angel with a Letter ... As I made my way back to the entrance I realized that I had to travel thru a different route due to the fact that the Door was sealed shut and I was trapped inside this hellish place alone.
I realized that the only way to transverse thru this Infernal dominion where Sanctioned Fallen Angels resided was to send a prayer to the Holy Father in heaven and to ask of his holiness to guard me from evil and temptations that I may run across in this place. There after a long dialogue with my inner spirit and requesting the zeal of protection I was sent a powerful Arch Angel known as Nathaniel Lux Dominus...along with his guidance and protection from the perils that awaited within by crossing each circle things became complicated but I never lost faith in my Lord and his Hosts. At last I made it to the Ninth Circle and there I found a portal that allowed me to open for a short period of time a portal that sent me back to the World of the Living. Finally I made it out back to the world of the living and there I looked at the Marmol Angel Statue and opened the letter I immediately recognized the hand writing of my beloved friend and it gave me clear instructions on how to absolve the past sins that where not forgiven and allowed her to  transverse thru the sands of time and be redeemed in Heaven. I witnessed her soul finally be set to rest and be sent back to Paradise. At this I was completely set into a memorable accommodation for helping her bind soul be released back to God himself. In that moment I was filled with joy and deep happiness to be able to make myself useful to someone else. In the end everything was finally made right by the Spirit Of Truth Love & Justice. May she rest in peace may her soul be at the bossom of our Creator's Throne and be forever glorified for being who she was is and will always be a wonderful good hearted human being who was taken from us to join God's people in the Heavenly Realms.

                                                               R.I.P.         Bobby Fae Campbell
A tribute to Bobby Campbell Always ...
C'est le chien de Jean de Nivelle

Qui mord sous l'œil même du guet

Le chat de la mère Michel ;

François-les-bas-bleus s'en égaie.


La Lune à l'écrivain public

Dispense sa lumière obscure

Où Médor avec Angélique

Verdissent sur le pauvre mur.


Et voici venir La Ramée

Sacrant en bon soldat du Roy.

Sous son habit blanc mal famé,

Son cœur ne se tient pas de joie,


Car la boulangère... - Elle ? - Oui dam !

Bernant Lustucru, son vieil homme,

A tantôt couronné sa flamme...

Enfants, Dominus vobiscum !


Place ! en sa longue robe bleue

Toute en satin qui fait frou-frou,

C'est une impure, palsembleu !

Dans sa chaise qu'il faut qu'on loue


Fût-on philosophe ou grigou,

Car tant d'or s'y relève en bosse

Que ce luxe insolent bafoue

Tout le papier de monsieur Loss !


Arrière ! robin crotté ! place,

Petit courtaud, petit abbé,

Petit poète jamais las

De la rime non attrapée !


Voici que la nuit vraie arrive...

Cependant jamais fatigué

D'être inattentif et naïf

François-les-bas-bleus s'en égaie.
Ryan O'Leary Jan 2019
He scored, got the dough,
why pay tax, relax, pax,
to all means of good will.

We are all sinners, avoidance
has a common denominator,
it is called a ratio, given the
opportunity all our debts would
be equal in the eyes of God.

Dominus Vobiscum, Patrius
et Filius Sanctus, Kyrie Elision
Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro,
Elision, AhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhMen!
Caroline Shank Oct 2021
You are no one in particular. If I saw you on the city's streets I would
pass you by as the wind scrufs
the fallen leaves on the
***** sidewalk.  
I would not know you
as you were,
a soldier and a king.

You have forgotten promises
and faith.  Life is a sad thing
when the little mention in
the paper has only the
inelegant childhood phrase:
Dominus vobiscum.

People will say How Odd
she was and round in her
years of silence.

Someone will wonder if
I were ever loved and if I
danced in the
dim light of the red room,
with a slot machine and
not much else but the
music and the breath
between us.


Caroline Shank
If IbSawxYouu
Ryan O'Leary Apr 2019
Feu
Dominus Vobiscum
Notre Dame de Paris
est en feu, pensez de
des oiseaux dessus
la toiture avec leur
nids!

Dimanche prochaine
sera Pacques, dommage,
pas des Oeufs cette annee.
verde May 2021
repent, believe, repent
part your lips to preach the sacred word of the gospel, it doesn't matter,
if no one listens,
if they don't care,
it's your mission to proclaim the saving word,
no matter how much it hurts- no matter how much it burns their ears,
melting, searing, sneaking into their minds.
preach until those are the only words you yourself can hear,
a convuluted symphony;
alleluja, alleluja, shephard dominus meus in bonum.
The lord is my good shephard,
and he is yours as well.

Repent until your conscious become white as wool,
the scarlet from every sin washing away,
a red river seeping, dripping, over your feet.

A red river,
seeping...
dripping...
lost faith...
upon your feet.
this is not meant to be offensive, this has just been my own personal experience with faith.
David R May 2021
"** ** **", said the gruff he-goat,
nodding his beard and shaking his coat,
as he playfully kicked at his little kids,
his admiring doe batting her lids

"look at me", cried the peacock in glee,
as he fanned his feathers for all to see,
gave a little run to the hen opposite
with a shake of his tail, his train composite

"I am the greatest", boasted the ape,
pounding his chest 'neath woodland cape,
informing the missus who was the boss,
who's the alpha, who not to cross.

is it woman alone of all creation
who rules her roost with subjugation
that all men quiver at the turn of her nose
at her meandering moods, her highs, her lows?

more than man, she panders to fashion,
to drive her mate to love and to passion,
why are the rules here in reverse
different from the rest of the universe?

the brown female of blackbird genus
is more than happy with mate's dominus,
the moorhen brown of drab feather 'n plume
is quite content to sit in the gloom

why then does the human lady of the house
turn bumbershoot inside out
in all ways proclaim charge of her spouse
with guile or smile or rant or pout?
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
Ryan O'Leary Aug 2018
******* favourite story from
the Bible was Noah's Ark.

When his house flooded and
a sheep from Kerry washed up,

He was convinced that God had
chosen him to live on Bridge Street.

On Sunday morning, Mickey Nugent
brought Holy Communion by dingy.

From the top window, Willie stuck
his tongue out for the body of Christ.

Mickey, the fireman, said Dominus
Vobiscum, Patrius et Filllius Sanctus Amen.

Willie knew bit of Irish too and he said,
as Mickey left "Go Ndeiri and Bothair leat".



Finn ©
" May the road rise to meet you "

— The End —