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Hosanna! Hosanna!
Salvation is near.
Hosanna! Hosanna!
Salvation is near.

Lift up your voice,
come lend your ears;
hear the message of Love
and joyfully rejoice!

Hosanna! Hosanna!
Save us, Dear Lord.
Hosanna! Hosanna!
Save us, Dear Lord.

Soften our hearts,
teach us Your Word;
draw us closer to You;
keep us, in one accord!

Hosanna! Hosanna!
Your mercy is here.
Hosanna! Hosanna!
Your mercy is here.

Erase all fear;
cleanse my mindset;
Holy Ghost flow in me-
continually this year!





Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Isa 62:11; Matt 21:9; Psa 118:26; Eph 1:13

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Lawrence Hall May 2017
Liturgy in Time of War

I will go to the altar of God
To God who gives joy to my youth

ENTRANCE ANTIPHON

The dawn (evening) is coming, another hot, filthy, wet dawn (evening).  Let us arise, soaked in sweat, exhausted, to speak with sour, saliva-caked mouths, to meet the deaths of this day (night).

GREETING

In the name of Peace in Our Time,
For the Hearts and Minds of The People,
For the Land of the Big PX
For round eye and white (black) (brown) thigh,
I greet you, brothers.

PENITENTIAL RITE

All:

I confess to almighty God
And to you my brothers
That I have sinned through my fault
In my thoughts and in my words
In what I have done
And in what I have failed to do,
And I ask Blessed Mary…

But how can I ask Her anything now?

My brothers,
Pray for me to…

But how?
Priest: (But there is no priest)

KYRIE

Lord, have mercy
Christ, have mercy
Lord, Lord, have mercy on us now

Have mercy, Lord, on a generation
That sits smugly in college lecture halls
And protests endlessly in coffee shops
The war they hear, see, on T.V., for free
Justice and peace by the semester hour
Like, y’know, peace, love, Amerika sux
Play the guitar, ****, apply to law school

Have mercy on us
Who crouch behind sand bags
And clean our weapons
And protest nothing
And **** in the heat
And die in the hear
And throw ham and lima beans away

GLORIA

Glory to God in the highest
how many bodies yesterday?
And peace to His people on earth
Vietnamese? Or us?
Lord God, heavenly King, almighty God and Father
ham and lima beans?
We worship you, we give you thanks, we praise you for your glory
Doc, I can’t go home to my wife with this clap
Lord Jesus Christ, only Son of the Father
cigarette, canteen cup of instant coffee
Lord God, Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world
******* magazine
Have mercy on us
relief behind the sand bags
You are seated at the right hand of the Father
i rot
Receive our prayer
i want to be clean and dry
For You alone are the Holy One
clean and dry.  just once.
You alone are the Lord
why do they chew that?
You alone are the most high
you mean the betel nut?
Jesus Christ, with the Holy Spirit, in the glory of God the Father
incoming!
Amen


PRAYER

A

Father, you make this day holy.
Let us be thankful for
The many little joys of
This day, for life, for
The chance to worship
You.  In the end, bring
Us to you, so that we
May be cleansed of mud
And sweat and filth and
Guilt, and live with you
In peace forever.

B

Father, just get me through
Another day of this mess.

LITURGY OF THE WORD –

FIRST READING

From the Intensive Care Unit, NSA DaNang

A twilight world
Of neither peace nor battle
And of both

A man world
Embracing life and the grim death
Both

Peering into infected wounds
Night building shiver
Down from the black sky flares float

Broken bodies from the war somewhere
Eyes of a shattered nineteen-year-old Marine
Staring at the door to Yokosuka

PSALM

A Song of Descents

I cast down my eyes
Into the mud
Into the blood
It seems cleaner than death and drugs and casual ***
Drink Coca-Cola

I turned my eyes away from you, O Lord
And made this
Build this
Came to this
Samantha and Darren on Bewitched

Have mercy on…but how can we ask?  How dare we ask?

SECOND READING

Old Man, Viet Nam

Old man, a dog is barking at your heels
Old man, with the tired, weathered face
Are you afraid to turn around and deal
This dog a kick, to put him in his place?

Or is it, old man, that you’re just too tired?
Just too tired to turn and show anger
Just too tired to have your temper fired
Beaten by years of contempt and danger

Where are you going, trudging so slowly?
What are you thinking, behind those tired eyes?

Probably not about ham and lima beans

GOSPEL

In the Cold White Mist

After an all-night run on the river
Our boats arrive in the village at dawn
Dawn is never cold along that rive
Along that steaming, green, hell-hot river
But the mist is cold, the grey-green dawn mist
And after the engines are cut – stillness
Foul brown water laps at the mudding bank
Sloshing softly with fertile, smelly death

In the cold white mist

The boats are secured, and watches posted
We step off the boats and onto wet land
And follow the track into the deep mist
It becomes the street of a little town
A dairy lane along which cows slopped home
And where dogs and chickens and children
      played
Bounded by carefully swept little yards
And little wooden houses with tin roofs

In the cold white mist

But some of the houses are burnt.  The smoke
Still hangs heavily in the whitening mist
The lane is littered with debris.  A lump
Resolves itself into a torn, dead child
Across a smaller lump, a smaller child
Their pup has been flung against the fence, its
Guts early morning breakfast for the morning
      flies
We smoke cigarettes against the death-smells

In the cold white mist

Beneath a farm tractor rots a dead man.
When they – they – had come at sunset
He had hidden there.  And they shot him there
A man with bare feet and work-calloused
      hands
His hair is black; his teeth need cleaning
They shot him beneath the village tractor
His blackening blood clots into the mud
And our lungs choke in the white mist of death

In the cold white mist

White mist.  The path disappears into it
Smoky skeletons of little houses
In which there will be no tea this morning
No breakfasts of hot tea and steaming rice
No old widows to smile in betel-nut
No children to mock-march alongside us
Pointing at our ******* boots, and laughing
At us, for wearing shoes in the summer

In the cold white mist

They are dead and rotting in the white mist
On the edge of the jungle on the edge
Of the world, here along the Vam Co Tay
And the people pour out of their houses
To greet us on the fine summer morning
A corpse across a doorway, another
******-doubled across a window sill
Still another strewn down the garden path

In the cold white mist

The other patrol doubles back to us
And they tell us that the Ruff-Puff outpost
Must have been overrun the night before
He had heard their radioed pleas, and had
Run the river at night to get to them
And the ARVNs had fled through the village
And the VC had stormed in behind them
And it was knife-and-gun-club night in town

In the cold white mist

A little girl is the lone survivor
She looks may six.  Cute, except for the
Bubbling, *******, bayoneted chest wound
We patch her, and tube her, and use suction
Sort of like fixing a bicycle tire
And in the wet, gasping heat take her back
With us downriver, where a charity
Hospital leaves her on the steps to die

In the cold white mist

It will be our turn again tomorrow
Not a one of us died today.  Today.
But a village is gone, burnt and rotting,
Soon to disappear into the jungle
Along the green Cambodian border
Up some obscure river.  Up there.  Somewhere.
A few hundred people.  Their ancestors’ graves
Will fade with them untended, forgotten

In the cold white mist

Radio Hanoi might blame it on us.
But maybe not.  We made our report and
Nobody really noticed; no one cared
The talk is of the VC battalion
And where it has gone, and where it might go –
Maybe into death under an air strike
“And you guys better get in some sack time,”
Says the C.O. as he turns to his maps.

In the cold white mist

HOMILY

I’m scared, and I want to go home.  I don’t care any more about justice or fighting Communism or winning the hearts and minds of the people.  I can’t think about all that right now, because I’m scared, and I want to go home.
I don’t care about truth or loyalty or bravery or honor.  If Miss March were here she wouldn’t get cold, but she sure would get sunburnt.  And in a few days her skin would start rotting.  Then nobody would want to see her in the **** anymore.  
I’m scared, and I want to go home.
Up the Vam Co Tay, everyone is scared, everyone is tired, everyone is sick, everyone could die: sailor, soldier, officer, priest, farmer, fisherman.  Everyone rots in the wet heat.  The skin bubbles and flakes and peels, and is pink again, to bubble and flake and peel again.  
I’m scared, and I want to go home.
I’m Doc.  I’m a scared, stupid kid with an aid bag and a few months’ training.  But I’m Doc.  I’ve got to fake it.  I’ve got to be cool and calm because this other kid with his guts hanging out will probably make it if I don’t ***** up and if the dust-off from Saigon can get out here now.
I have an old dog at home, and my folks write and tell me she sleeps outside my window at night, waiting for me to come home.  Someday we’re going to run and play in the woods and fields again.  She’ll bark and run wide circles, and dare me to catch her.  I will laugh under the autumn leaves.  But now my nights are glaring darkness, fits of sweat-soaked half-sleep, then sirens and falling glares and falling mortars, and then the Godawful racket of all our engines of destruction.  There isn’t any use in all this.
I’m scared, and I want to go home.

And I don’t want any ham and lima beans.

CREED

We believe in the Land of the Big PX
In presidents in suits, and generals,
In makers of economic strategies
We believe in flak jackets and .45s and peace

We believe in swing ships and dust-offs, yes
In the dark, green omnipresent Huey
Eternally begotten of technology
Blades to rotor, windscreen to machine guns
Made, not begotten, one in being with us
Through it all things are transported to us
For us men and our hunger and our hope
It comes down from the skies
By the high power of technology
It was born of the long assembly line

For whose sake are we crucified today?
Who suffers, and who dies and is baggied?
And on the third will arrive back home
To be neatly packaged in stainless steel

But not in ham and lima beans

LITURGY OF THE EUCHARIST

Preparation of the Gifts

Celebrant:

Blessed are you, Lord, God of all creation.
Through your goodness we have this cheap Algerian wine to offer,
Fruit of the vine and work of human hands.
It will become anaesthesia for our souls.

People:

Blessed be…we just don’t know

Celebrant:

Pray, brothers, that our sacrifice may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father, to somebody.  Maybe.

People:

May the Lord, or the baggies, accept the sacrifice we offer with
our own burnt hands
For the praise and glory of…of what?
For our good, and the good of all His Church.

PRAYER OVER THE GITS

Little green cans, and I don’t care
Little green cans, and I don’t care
Little green cans, and I don’t care
Air cover’s gone away.

EUCHARISTIC PRAYER

Preface for the Monsoon Season:

Father, all-powerful
And ever-living God,
We do well always and everywhere
To give You thanks
Through Jesus God our Lord
Even with diarrhea
thanks
When the mail doesn’t come
thanks
When we rot
thanks
When the heat ***** at our brains
thanks
When the mud ***** at our boots
thanks
When the horror ***** at our souls
thanks
We’re alive
thanks

SANCTUS

Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of power and might
The bunkers are full of blood and death.
Hosanna in the mud.  Blessed is he who comes with the mail.  Hosanna in the mud.

EUCHARISTIC PRAYER

The Kien Tuong Province Canon:

A sailor is silhouetted against the dawn
Along a steamy river
Mostly helmet and flak jacket
Above dark plastic gunwales

The sailor has lost his New Testament
But there’s a ******* around somewhere
Naked, willing women –
Miss March wants to be an actress

He also carries an old plastic Rosary
To touch occasionally
While whispering a hurried Hail Mary
He hopes She understands

Those who in bell-bottoms and head-bands
Fight Fascism
In Sociology 201
Will never forgive him

A sailor is silhouetted against the dawn
This day he is to be elevated
His body broken and his blood shed
For you and for all men

OUR FATHER

Our Father, who art in Heaven
this ain’t it
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
this ain’t it
On earth as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day…
not ham and lima beans
And forgive us our trespasses
as we shoot them that trespass against us
And lead us not into ambush
But deliver us from evil

SIGN OF PEACE

Peace on you.

AGNUS DEI

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy on us.

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy….

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: grant us peace.

Priest:

(But there is no priest)

People:  

Lord, I am not worthy to receive you,
But only say the word and I shall be killed.

COMMUNION ANTIPHON

They ate, and were not satisfied
They killed, and were not without fear.

PRAYER AFTER COMMUNION

Lord,
If we do not get out of this
Make some sense of it to those who remain
May we go home.  Home.  Or if not,
Take us unto you, in mercy.
Home.  Where you reign, for you are Lord
Forever and ever.  Amen

BLESSING

May you walk on grass that does not explode
May you sleep without rot
Without fear
May you never see or smell ham and lima beans again.
May you live
May you play with puppies
May you find forgetfulness
May you find peace
In the Name of Him who took your death for you

DISMISSAL

This is to certify that____is Honorably Discharged from the____on theday of____.  This certificate is awarded as a testimonial of Honest and Faithful Service.

CLOSING HYMN

Old men, smoking in the sunshine
Exiled outside the doors of life
Old uniforms, old pajamas
The chrome of wheelchairs, shiny, bright

Inside, polished wooden handrails
Line the hot, polished passages
Something to cling to on the way
To the lab, to x-ray, to death

And more old men, shuffling along
In a querulous route-step march
From Normandy, from The Cho-sen,
From the Vam Co Tay, from the deserts,
Past the A.I.D.S. ward and the union signs
On waxed floors to eternity

Portions previous published:

“Closing Hymn” is from “Outpatient Surgery – Veterans’ Hospital,” Juried Award, Houston Poetry Fest 1993

“In the Cold White Mist” is a Juried Award, Houston Poetry Fest 1991

“Old Man, Viet-Nam,” was published in Pulse, Lamar University, 1982
AA Apr 2014
He came to Jerusalem mounted on a donkey
People went out to meet him,
Waving the palm branches they bring
And hailed him as their king.


Yet, people don’t know the sorrow
The coming week would bring
Soon, Glad acclaimed will give away,
To jeers and mockery.


In God’s redemption plan,
He’d be condemn to a cross on cavalry
But he knew that he was a sacrificial lamb
To die for the sins of man in misery.


Today is the day when Jesus will passed
Give praise to son of God,
Shout the benediction of his name
From the sky and to the sod;


Hosanna to the Highest!
Because every day can be Palm Sunday
when you know that Jesus is near you:
shout “God saves!” so all folks can hear you!
Brady D Friedkin Apr 2017
We entered the holy city with palm branches to welcome
Parading in as they sang 'Hosanna!'
They honored Him as if He were their king
As if He had come to set them free
Oh how right they were, the Promised King, come to set His people free

We shared in communion with the Lord and the betrayer
On the eve of the darkest day in history
Hate brewed at one end of that table
While love stirred peacefully on the other
And all of us living in blissful ignorance in between

We celebrated the passover with our master
And we prayed that The Lord would not pass over us again
That instead He would stoop down to us and save us
But we denied Him in His hour of need
We slept soundly as He was betrayed by us

Like a lamb led to the slaughter, He gave His life for another
They beat Him within inches of His divine life
They cast lots for his garments, and spit on His bloodied face
No longer did they yell 'Hosanna!' to welcome their king,
But they yelled 'crucify him!' to condemn their Divine Lord

They drove nails into his frail hands
He cried out to heaven asking why The Lord had forsaken Him
He declared in defiance ‘It is finished’ and He passed on to death
They threw a sword into his swollen side
His holy blood and holy water spilled to sanctify the earth onto which it fell

So silly they were, they thought that they could **** God
That they really believed they could depose the Lord of all with mere nails
But the sky darkened, and heaven turned away as to not see her Lord die
The earth shook and the world changed
Suddenly all knew 'surely this man was the Son of God'

The once bright and beautiful sky turned suddenly dark
The earth shook violently in disapproval that her creator lay dead on her face
The warm humid air turned suddenly bitterly cold and dry
For the promised Messiah had been defeated
Death itself had victory over the world, and the world knew it was so

There, on the cross, lay the Life of the World, dead
The Light of the World had been snuffed out, and the world left in darkness
The hope of all mankind suddenly vanished
The steady hand holding the world wavered in mourning
And darkness covered the seemingly God-forsaken earth

Who are we at the foot of the cross that stood silently?
We stood by and watched the promised Messiah be taken away and killed
We reap what we sew, and will now live out our days in darkness
Without hope we shall suffer for all time, a punishment fit for our crime
We crucified the Messiah, we gave the Lord to death, we killed God

For three days the sun did not rise
For three days the world swayed unstable
The demons danced in the darkness
Hell was victorious
Because for three days, God lay dead in a tomb.
A poem for Good Friday. It ends in hopelessness, because at the end of the Good Friday narrative, Jesus' followers truly believed that He was dead and would not return. To see the completion of the poem, another will be posted on Easter
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2012
I have come to the temple
Of your body.  I kneel and prey
Like a sinner.  The holy water
Beads low on your forbidden
Tabernacle, sears my touch
In cleansing flame, what I do
And what will be done is all
For unrepentant confessions
And penances.  Let me truly
Learn the sacraments of flesh
Before I bathe in your wicked
Innocence and commit my sin
At being mortal in your nimbus
Chambers, let the mercies rain
After the fall of my fellowing
Creature, for this night is blood
Sabbath, and sacrilege under
A Pagan moon and let the dawn
In the rising sun of mute morning
Be my absolution, our benediction,
Let the moving waters enfold us,
Pure as lambs, as washed babes,
Baptismal.
The curtain on the
CPAC convocation rolls back,

as the revolution
in Tahrir Square boils.

America’s theater
of deadly political

absurdity commences;
to witness demagogues

recite holy scripture to
evangelize a religion of war.

A heavily invested
audience marvels

at the marionettes
pirouetting on strings

jigged along by hands
of invisible puppet-masters

donning dark masks of
clever 503C llcs

disguised in self serving
hues of red, white and blue.

This grand folly of masquers
conceals a fatal pantomime,

a cast of reactionary characters,
Neo-Conmen auditioning for

the leading role in a lurid play
of a deadly nation projecting
a dying imperial preeminence.

The martinets engage zero
sum games where the victor
belongs to the despoilers,

and the merchants of death
richly confer multimillion dollar
reasons for being, underwriting
the gilded egos of candidates

and their infatuation with the
vanity of feigned power.

These master rhetoricians
skillfully lather up the crowd

by pandering to basest
xenophobic nationalist
instincts and fantasies
of laissez-faire proclivities.  

Slathering on the partisan
pretense in layers so thick

a master chef, armed
with the sharpest Ginsu Knife

couldn't slice a hock tip
of blood red meat

hurled into the crowd of
gobbling Republicons

howling and yodeling
it’s derisive acclaim.

The rankled party line,
gibberish talking points

are hammer blows of
incessant propaganda,

so cocksure that any room for
doubt is crowded out by the

phantasmagorical McMansions
of hyperbole they ***** in

the pliant minds of their
gibbering minions.

The candidates preening for
president show off their

falangist affectations
in eager duels of oratorical

one upmanship; constantly
jockeying to outflank their

other Neo-Conmen opponents,
always concluding their brutish

diatribes with a solemn
denouement of a Republicon

psalm ending with a
Holy Hosanna Hallelujah

to the Ronald Reagan
Heavenly Buddha.

Punchline of the holy Amen
“what would Reagan do?”

to remind the faithful
to remain the faithful

bearers to the fiction
of dead Reaganism.

Evoking anything
Ron and Nancy

induces sanctioned
comportment of a

slow simmering
******* eubellence

providing a welcomed
relief of repressed
libidinal energy.

The mention of Goldwater
sends GOP acolytes to

pause in reverence,
envisioning Barry and

Ronnie looking down
from heaven upon the gathered,

inciting immediate ruminations
of falling dominos and

the viability of a
tactical nuke strike

against Ayatollah’s
underground
uranium factories.

The host of Neo-Conmen,
new age Falangist pitchmen

belch from the dais,
in ever increasing alacrity,

the stirring drum beats
and slick videos,

of glorious warriors
winning the battlefield

with the rippling glory
of the Stars and Stripes

flowing in a continual
loop behind them.

Romney,
Bachmann

Gingrich
take center stage,

goose stepping
to the roll of piercing timpanis.

Words slither
out of their mouths
like poisonous snakes.

Lies, hiss through
their teeth.

Open mouths
expose Black Mamba
fangs, dripping with venom.

Eyes squint
as their reptilian brains

implore the besieged
to flee from the
light of truth.

Seeking refuge in fear;
yet on the ready

to coil and strike;
while trembling

in ignorance,
exalting loathsomeness

worshiping violence;
they remain

poised to unleash
first strike armies;

boastfully evoking moral
platitudes of Bush Doctrine
prerogatives.

Trembling in ignorance
worshiping violence

exalting fear,
these dogs of war bay

to unleash armies
against the

Godless apostates
that threaten

to expose the
stasis of their

Capitalismo-Judeo-Christian
view of the world.

They have hijacked
the great faith traditions

to serve a narrow
political aim

and relish any
opportunity to

demonize Islam
in service to their lies.

Watch as they
they crouch down

on the dais to
open the nest

of vipers welling
deep within the
bowels of their souls.

They find relief
by excreting their

spawn of deadly asps
into the veins of

cable news networks;
scoring political points

with the terrorized
children of Faux News

capturing battalions
of straw men villains

to rise atop meaningless
straw polls.

They agitate for a second
American revolution

by injecting the venom
of fear and lies

into the body
politic.

Ron Paul
stands alone,

perplexed why
American's love

war as much as
they hate civil liberties?

Cheney and
Rumsfeld brood.

The people of
Iraq and Afghanistan

fail to embrace their armies
of liberation that run up

unfortunate collateral damage
body counts required to sustain
the American way of life.

Ever the defender of
democracy and liberty,

Gingrich slams Obama's
condemnation of Suleiman

"hes an able diplomat."
Gingrich  forgot to add

that Suleiman is a
skilled torturer and

an able tyrant any self
serving democracy would
be proud to call ally and friend.

Cheney and Rumsfeld
remain flummoxed.

Their armies of liberation bogged
down in the marshy Blackwaters

of intractability;  trying to solve
the conundrum of the diminished

equity returns of asymmetrical
warfare.  Spinning the math

to justify building aircraft carriers
to **** a gnat.

The families of dead soldiers
surround them and wave dime

store flags hoping the plastic
eagle remains fixed atop the pole.

Perpetually smiling
Michele Bachmann
raises the specter
of Muslim Brotherhoods
taking over Egypt.

The persecution of Christians
and the escalating war on

Christianity have the Crusaders
up on their seats waving Excalibur
once again.

Gingrich pink cheeks
flush with the cash

of a Zionist casino
entrepreneur

doubles down, stacks
his chips high.

“The Israeli Embassy
in Cairo was overrun
by angry mobs.”  

“Is this a precursor of
cancelling the peace treaty
signed with Sadat?”

“The pullout in Iraq hands the country to
radical Shiites effectively handing our
hard won victory to Iran.”

“Israel is threatened and will not
permit Iran to acquire nuclear

weapons. A nuclear empowered Iran
will not stand!”

“We mustn't let do nothing Obama
threaten the safety of our good ally
Israel.”

CPAC willingly holds the deadly asp
to the breast of a proud nation.

Urging, coaxing it to gently sink
its teeth into the sacred heart
of our dear republic...

John Lee ******
Crawlin King Snake

CPAC 2011

Matthew 23
Brood of Vipers


jbm
Oakland
2/10/11
All night the dreadless Angel, unpursued,
Through Heaven’s wide champain held his way; till Morn,
Waked by the circling Hours, with rosy hand
Unbarred the gates of light.  There is a cave
Within the mount of God, fast by his throne,
Where light and darkness in perpetual round
Lodge and dislodge by turns, which makes through Heaven
Grateful vicissitude, like day and night;
Light issues forth, and at the other door
Obsequious darkness enters, till her hour
To veil the Heaven, though darkness there might well
Seem twilight here:  And now went forth the Morn
Such as in highest Heaven arrayed in gold
Empyreal; from before her vanished Night,
Shot through with orient beams; when all the plain
Covered with thick embattled squadrons bright,
Chariots, and flaming arms, and fiery steeds,
Reflecting blaze on blaze, first met his view:
War he perceived, war in procinct; and found
Already known what he for news had thought
To have reported:  Gladly then he mixed
Among those friendly Powers, who him received
With joy and acclamations loud, that one,
That of so many myriads fallen, yet one
Returned not lost.  On to the sacred hill
They led him high applauded, and present
Before the seat supreme; from whence a voice,
From midst a golden cloud, thus mild was heard.
Servant of God. Well done; well hast thou fought
The better fight, who single hast maintained
Against revolted multitudes the cause
Of truth, in word mightier than they in arms;
And for the testimony of truth hast borne
Universal reproach, far worse to bear
Than violence; for this was all thy care
To stand approved in sight of God, though worlds
Judged thee perverse:  The easier conquest now
Remains thee, aided by this host of friends,
Back on thy foes more glorious to return,
Than scorned thou didst depart; and to subdue
By force, who reason for their law refuse,
Right reason for their law, and for their King
Messiah, who by right of merit reigns.
Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince,
And thou, in military prowess next,
Gabriel, lead forth to battle these my sons
Invincible; lead forth my armed Saints,
By thousands and by millions, ranged for fight,
Equal in number to that Godless crew
Rebellious:  Them with fire and hostile arms
Fearless assault; and, to the brow of Heaven
Pursuing, drive them out from God and bliss,
Into their place of punishment, the gulf
Of Tartarus, which ready opens wide
His fiery Chaos to receive their fall.
So spake the Sovran Voice, and clouds began
To darken all the hill, and smoke to roll
In dusky wreaths, reluctant flames, the sign
Of wrath awaked; nor with less dread the loud
Ethereal trumpet from on high ‘gan blow:
At which command the Powers militant,
That stood for Heaven, in mighty quadrate joined
Of union irresistible, moved on
In silence their bright legions, to the sound
Of instrumental harmony, that breathed
Heroick ardour to adventurous deeds
Under their God-like leaders, in the cause
Of God and his Messiah.  On they move
Indissolubly firm; nor obvious hill,
Nor straitening vale, nor wood, nor stream, divides
Their perfect ranks; for high above the ground
Their march was, and the passive air upbore
Their nimble tread; as when the total kind
Of birds, in orderly array on wing,
Came summoned over Eden to receive
Their names of thee; so over many a tract
Of Heaven they marched, and many a province wide,
Tenfold the length of this terrene:  At last,
Far in the horizon to the north appeared
From skirt to skirt a fiery region, stretched
In battailous aspect, and nearer view
Bristled with upright beams innumerable
Of rigid spears, and helmets thronged, and shields
Various, with boastful argument portrayed,
The banded Powers of Satan hasting on
With furious expedition; for they weened
That self-same day, by fight or by surprise,
To win the mount of God, and on his throne
To set the Envier of his state, the proud
Aspirer; but their thoughts proved fond and vain
In the mid way:  Though strange to us it seemed
At first, that Angel should with Angel war,
And in fierce hosting meet, who wont to meet
So oft in festivals of joy and love
Unanimous, as sons of one great Sire,
Hymning the Eternal Father:  But the shout
Of battle now began, and rushing sound
Of onset ended soon each milder thought.
High in the midst, exalted as a God,
The Apostate in his sun-bright chariot sat,
Idol of majesty divine, enclosed
With flaming Cherubim, and golden shields;
Then lighted from his gorgeous throne, for now
“twixt host and host but narrow space was left,
A dreadful interval, and front to front
Presented stood in terrible array
Of hideous length:  Before the cloudy van,
On the rough edge of battle ere it joined,
Satan, with vast and haughty strides advanced,
Came towering, armed in adamant and gold;
Abdiel that sight endured not, where he stood
Among the mightiest, bent on highest deeds,
And thus his own undaunted heart explores.
O Heaven! that such resemblance of the Highest
Should yet remain, where faith and realty
Remain not:  Wherefore should not strength and might
There fail where virtue fails, or weakest prove
Where boldest, though to fight unconquerable?
His puissance, trusting in the Almighty’s aid,
I mean to try, whose reason I have tried
Unsound and false; nor is it aught but just,
That he, who in debate of truth hath won,
Should win in arms, in both disputes alike
Victor; though brutish that contest and foul,
When reason hath to deal with force, yet so
Most reason is that reason overcome.
So pondering, and from his armed peers
Forth stepping opposite, half-way he met
His daring foe, at this prevention more
Incensed, and thus securely him defied.
Proud, art thou met? thy hope was to have reached
The highth of thy aspiring unopposed,
The throne of God unguarded, and his side
Abandoned, at the terrour of thy power
Or potent tongue:  Fool!not to think how vain
Against the Omnipotent to rise in arms;
Who out of smallest things could, without end,
Have raised incessant armies to defeat
Thy folly; or with solitary hand
Reaching beyond all limit, at one blow,
Unaided, could have finished thee, and whelmed
Thy legions under darkness:  But thou seest
All are not of thy train; there be, who faith
Prefer, and piety to God, though then
To thee not visible, when I alone
Seemed in thy world erroneous to dissent
From all:  My sect thou seest;now learn too late
How few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
Whom the grand foe, with scornful eye askance,
Thus answered.  Ill for thee, but in wished hour
Of my revenge, first sought for, thou returnest
From flight, seditious Angel! to receive
Thy merited reward, the first assay
Of this right hand provoked, since first that tongue,
Inspired with contradiction, durst oppose
A third part of the Gods, in synod met
Their deities to assert; who, while they feel
Vigour divine within them, can allow
Omnipotence to none.  But well thou comest
Before thy fellows, ambitious to win
From me some plume, that thy success may show
Destruction to the rest:  This pause between,
(Unanswered lest thou boast) to let thee know,
At first I thought that Liberty and Heaven
To heavenly souls had been all one; but now
I see that most through sloth had rather serve,
Ministring Spirits, trained up in feast and song!
Such hast thou armed, the minstrelsy of Heaven,
Servility with freedom to contend,
As both their deeds compared this day shall prove.
To whom in brief thus Abdiel stern replied.
Apostate! still thou errest, nor end wilt find
Of erring, from the path of truth remote:
Unjustly thou depravest it with the name
Of servitude, to serve whom God ordains,
Or Nature:  God and Nature bid the same,
When he who rules is worthiest, and excels
Them whom he governs.  This is servitude,
To serve the unwise, or him who hath rebelled
Against his worthier, as thine now serve thee,
Thyself not free, but to thyself enthralled;
Yet lewdly darest our ministring upbraid.
Reign thou in Hell, thy kingdom; let me serve
In Heaven God ever blest, and his divine
Behests obey, worthiest to be obeyed;
Yet chains in Hell, not realms, expect:  Mean while
From me returned, as erst thou saidst, from flight,
This greeting on thy impious crest receive.
So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high,
Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell
On the proud crest of Satan, that no sight,
Nor motion of swift thought, less could his shield,
Such ruin intercept:  Ten paces huge
He back recoiled; the tenth on bended knee
His massy spear upstaid; as if on earth
Winds under ground, or waters forcing way,
Sidelong had pushed a mountain from his seat,
Half sunk with all his pines.  Amazement seised
The rebel Thrones, but greater rage, to see
Thus foiled their mightiest; ours joy filled, and shout,
Presage of victory, and fierce desire
Of battle:  Whereat Michael bid sound
The Arch-Angel trumpet; through the vast of Heaven
It sounded, and the faithful armies rung
Hosanna to the Highest:  Nor stood at gaze
The adverse legions, nor less hideous joined
The horrid shock.  Now storming fury rose,
And clamour such as heard in Heaven till now
Was never; arms on armour clashing brayed
Horrible discord, and the madding wheels
Of brazen chariots raged; dire was the noise
Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss
Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew,
And flying vaulted either host with fire.
So under fiery cope together rushed
Both battles main, with ruinous assault
And inextinguishable rage.  All Heaven
Resounded; and had Earth been then, all Earth
Had to her center shook.  What wonder? when
Millions of fierce encountering Angels fought
On either side, the least of whom could wield
These elements, and arm him with the force
Of all their regions:  How much more of power
Army against army numberless to raise
Dreadful combustion warring, and disturb,
Though not destroy, their happy native seat;
Had not the Eternal King Omnipotent,
From his strong hold of Heaven, high over-ruled
And limited their might; though numbered such
As each divided legion might have seemed
A numerous host; in strength each armed hand
A legion; led in fight, yet leader seemed
Each warriour single as in chief, expert
When to advance, or stand, or turn the sway
Of battle, open when, and when to close
The ridges of grim war:  No thought of flight,
None of retreat, no unbecoming deed
That argued fear; each on himself relied,
As only in his arm the moment lay
Of victory:  Deeds of eternal fame
Were done, but infinite; for wide was spread
That war and various; sometimes on firm ground
A standing fight, then, soaring on main wing,
Tormented all the air; all air seemed then
Conflicting fire.  Long time in even scale
The battle hung; till Satan, who that day
Prodigious power had shown, and met in arms
No equal, ranging through the dire attack
Of fighting Seraphim confused, at length
Saw where the sword of Michael smote, and felled
Squadrons at once; with huge two-handed sway
Brandished aloft, the horrid edge came down
Wide-wasting; such destruction to withstand
He hasted, and opposed the rocky orb
Of tenfold adamant, his ample shield,
A vast circumference.  At his approach
The great Arch-Angel from his warlike toil
Surceased, and glad, as hoping here to end
Intestine war in Heaven, the arch-foe subdued
Or captive dragged in chains, with hostile frown
And visage all inflamed first thus began.
Author of evil, unknown till thy revolt,
Unnamed in Heaven, now plenteous as thou seest
These acts of hateful strife, hateful to all,
Though heaviest by just measure on thyself,
And thy  adherents:  How hast thou disturbed
Heaven’s blessed peace, and into nature brought
Misery, uncreated till the crime
Of thy rebellion! how hast thou instilled
Thy malice into thousands, once upright
And faithful, now proved false!  But think not here
To trouble holy rest; Heaven casts thee out
From all her confines.  Heaven, the seat of bliss,
Brooks not the works of violence and war.
Hence then, and evil go with thee along,
Thy offspring, to the place of evil, Hell;
Thou and thy wicked crew! there mingle broils,
Ere this avenging sword begin thy doom,
Or some more sudden vengeance, winged from God,
Precipitate thee with augmented pain.
So spake the Prince of Angels; to whom thus
The Adversary.  Nor think thou with wind
Of aery threats to awe whom yet with deeds
Thou canst not.  Hast thou turned the least of these
To flight, or if to fall, but that they rise
Unvanquished, easier to transact with me
That thou shouldst hope, imperious, and with threats
To chase me hence? err not, that so shall end
The strife which thou callest evil, but we style
The strife of glory; which we mean to win,
Or turn this Heaven itself into the Hell
Thou fablest; here however to dwell free,
If not to reign:  Mean while thy utmost force,
And join him named Almighty to thy aid,
I fly not, but have sought thee far and nigh.
They ended parle, and both addressed for fight
Unspeakable; for who, though with the tongue
Of Angels, can relate, or to what things
Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift
Human imagination to such highth
Of Godlike power? for likest Gods they seemed,
Stood they or moved, in stature, motion, arms,
Fit to decide the empire of great Heaven.
Now waved their fiery swords, and in the air
Made horrid circles; two broad suns their shields
Blazed opposite, while Expectation stood
In horrour:  From each hand with speed retired,
Where erst was thickest fight, the angelick throng,
And left large field, unsafe within the wind
Of such commotion; such as, to set forth
Great things by small, if, nature’s concord broke,
Among the constellations war were sprung,
Two planets, rushing from aspect malign
Of fiercest opposition, in mid sky
Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound.
Together both with next to almighty arm
Up-lifted imminent, one stroke they aimed
That might determine, and not need repeat,
As not of power at once; nor odds appeared
In might or swift prevention:  But the sword
Of Michael from the armoury of God
Was given him tempered so, that neither keen
Nor solid might resist that edge: it met
The sword of Satan, with steep force to smite
Descending, and in half cut sheer; nor staid,
But with swift wheel reverse, deep entering, shared
All his right side:  Then Satan first knew pain,
And writhed him to and fro convolved; so sore
The griding sword with discontinuous wound
Passed through him:  But the ethereal substance closed,
Not long divisible; and from the ****
A stream of necturous humour issuing flowed
Sanguine, such as celestial Spirits may bleed,
And all his armour stained, ere while so bright.
Forthwith on all sides to his aid was run
By Angels many and strong, who interposed
Defence, while others bore him on their shields
Back to his chariot, where it stood retired
From off the files of war:  There they him laid
Gnashing for anguish, and despite, and shame,
To find himself not matchless, and his pride
Humbled by such rebuke, so far beneath
His confidence to equal God in power.
Yet soon he healed; for Spirits that live throughout
Vital in every part, not as frail man
In entrails, heart of head, liver or reins,
Cannot but by annihilating die;
Nor in their liquid texture mortal wound
Receive, no more than can the fluid air:
All heart they live, all head, all eye, all ear,
All intellect, all sense; and, as they please,
They limb themselves, and colour, shape, or size
Assume, as?***** them best, condense or rare.
Mean while in other parts like deeds deserved
Memorial, where the might of Gabriel fought,
And with fierce ensigns pierced the deep array
Of Moloch, furious king; who him defied,
And at his chariot-wheels to drag him bound
Threatened, nor from the Holy One of Heaven
Refrained his tongue blasphemous; but anon
Down cloven to the waist, with shattered arms
And uncouth pain fled bellowing.  On each wing
Uriel, and Raphael, his vaunting foe,
Though huge, and in a rock of diamond armed,
Vanquished Adramelech, and Asmadai,
Two potent Thrones, that to be less than
ShowYouLove Mar 2018
The world waited with bated breath
What would happen to the man they put to death
The world in solemn stillness lay
It seemed that death had won and hope was far away

All his friends ran away in fright
They forgot the words of Jesus Christ:
"Destroy this temple and on the third day it'll rise
Then you will know this is true and there were no lies"
The people walked with heads bent low
As fear and anxiety continued to grow
Many went back to what they were before
And the faith of so many was shaken to the core
The sky was gray and the sun looked more dim
As if nature itself was dying with him

The world waited with bated breath
What would happen to the man they put to death
The world in solemn stillness lay
Death had won and hope had gone away

But we have seen what comes next
We have read the ancient text
We know the end of this great story
Christ alive and full in glory
Quiet love has conquered all
Scattered fear and darkness, brought down the wall
"The one who died is now alive" the angels sing,
"Rejoice! Sing Hosanna to the Risen King!"
Shout it from the mountain tops so all the world can hear
Spread the good news to all people far and near
We are people of Easter Light in a world dark and dreary
In Him we find our hope and strength when we too are weary
Rise up Oh Children like the sun on that Easter morn
Shine on, like the son for today you are reborn

The world waits with bated breath
The return of the man we put to death
Join me now with the world as together we say:
God has overcome and love has come to show the way!
Valsa George Mar 2018
Far away in ancient Jerusalem
Stood a garden, long, long ago
Home to giant oaks and figs
And plants and shrubs of every kind.

On every season, from time to time
Merrily they would burst into bloom
Filling the air with fragrance sweet
And fuelling the hearts with joy and cheer.

Amid the riot of flashing shades
Where Poppies and Pansies held their heads
In a corner, there a Lily stood,
Sans scent and sans grandeur.

A poor loner never once noticed
Nor skilled to steal the show,
Those, brilliant in shade and shape
With contempt openly quipped

‘It’s such a shame
She grows among us
With such pallid shade
And nothing to rave’,

‘Lilies are such lazy lot
Giving only seasonal blooms’

Rang aloud their haughty comments
Rashly blurted out and blunt

The poor Lily wilted in shame
Wishing she had never been born.

Late that evening, through the garden
Into the newly dug up grave
A band of people came with lights
Bearing someone cut and scathed.
With blood oozing, drop by drop
From wounds, left by piercing nails

The body, carefully wrapped in linen
Was the body of Jesus - Son of God
The one who bore the sins of the world
And courted the most accursed of deaths.

The body embalmed was laid inside
And sealed with a giant block of stone
Soldiers posted to guard the tomb
And every vigil so prudently kept.

Early by dawn, three days hence
While it was still very dark
From inside the tomb had come
Rumbling sounds and a blinding light.

Flowers en masse blinked their eyes
Beheld a man, gently walking out
The wounds still fresh on his palm
And the linen that swaddled, lying behind.

As they watched this queer sight
In awful amazement, they did see
A host of Lilies, white as snow
Far more beautiful than any of them
Bowing their heads in reverential glee
And singing Hosanna to the Lord of Life.

All the flora in silent shock
Sighted from whence the Lilies came
They sprang unforeseen in those spots
Where drops of blood from his body fell

Then onwards, without fail
April sees the grandeur and grace,
Of snowy lilies - those delicate blooms
Sprouting suddenly from the crust of the Earth
Joggling their heads in whiffing breeze,
And giving delight to all who behold.
Wish all my friends a Happy Easter ! Let the resurrected Lord fill joy and peace in every heart!!
Look! The sky is alive!
A writhing, spitting monster
marking off the years
Hosanna! hosanna!
The gay and massive celebration
swelling in the sweltering streets
hurling fire
and music
and the smell of fresh ribs off the grill.
*Good God! Hosanna!
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2012
I have come to the temple
Of your body.  I kneel and prey
Like a sinner.  The holy water
Beads low on your forbidden
Tabernacle, sears my touch
In cleansing flame, what I do
And what will be done is all
For unrepentant confessions
And penances.  Let me truly
Learn the sacraments of flesh
Before I bathe in your wicked
Innocence and commit my sin
At being mortal in your nimbus
Chambers, let the mercies rain
After the fall of my fellowing
Creature, for this night is blood
Sabbath, and sacrilege under
A Pagan moon and let the dawn
In the rising sun of mute morning
Be my absolution, our benediction,
Let the moving waters enfold us,
Pure as lambs, as washed babes,
Baptismal.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
having applied myself to two languages with different parameters of execution: writing in primarily in English, reading fiction and poetry primarily in English enabled me to gain strength in reading philosophy and conjuring up white-rabbits from a top-hat in Polnisch - i can't read philosophy in English - which explains why few interests in philosophy exist - the English have undermined the worth of philosophy, oh sure, David Hume is the rave in Scotland, because he's Scottish - but the English took to solely understanding the world via Darwinism - image deciphering accounts of how the natural order of things is attached to inanimate materials propelled by falling apples - the continental procedure is less concerning Darwinism and more akin to a mental fashion statement, as in: what's vogue these days? what's the cognitive vogue? the English "philosophers" with their rigid Darwinism are like priests - which is why they attracted biblical literal interpretation - the creationists - there's no other explanation why the creationists emerged - it was because of militant atheism, atheism without individual originality - invoked by a sense of herding the sheep to the grazing hills of nihilism - the pillar that became the crutch - of course i admire and know it's true - no Genesis story that's merely a p.s. in history is ever going to undermine the naturalist's fascination with the world in every minute detail - i'm not against that... but at this moment i was thinking of a cult idea for a naturalist - take a pornographic movie, and give it to a naturalist to assess - after all... we're just mammals - i think this could turn out to be a real daytrip for a naturalist - oh sure, it must be ease with organism that apparently do not derive any pleasure from procreation... give two beings that apparently do derive pleasure from procreation... to later debase it with the malignant forces at work in the Encyclopedia that's 120 days of *****... the naturalist narrating a pornographic scene would be bewildered as to why these highly evolved creatures are exponentially higher-up the tiers of evolution, needing so many complex adaptive techniques - boredom for one, people have created more distractions than they have created tools of necessity - but perhaps they're equal - our evolutionary drive? the thing that makes us tick is not necessarily physical discomfort - we exercise for the pleasure of physical discomfort - the drive is boredom, the fear of it drives us mad with constant ingenuity taking form - like a ballerina in a salsa bar... sadism in the aura of hot-sweat-and-coconut-***-shaking as if playing dice in Las Vegas... Don Quixote (the ballet on three days away)... we're done with the empirical satisfaction of Darwinism, we know it, we need a humanistic approach to it, something that goes against the English priesthood - Darwinism will never be vogue in continent Europe, continent Europeans just say: Egyptology is as far back as is necessary to go... our lives are more important and more complex than those of primates... our lives are more important and more complex than those of primates... we want to write history, not look at history as a burden and therefore try to erase it, placing ourselves in a garden of awe and glass; honestly? Darwinism is a bit like creationism - it all starts with a garden, awe, and the grand spectacle - only the other includes a need to procrastinate by doing some ritualistic mumble and Hosanna Hallelujah in the highest - and the other tries not to yawn.

so onto my favourite topic... rich boy's slang -
do you really think a *prince
of Egypt would speak
slave tongue Hebraic?
do you think **** & 'arry could speak Bulgarian
or Romanian? let me think... no.
they might speak French... maybe German...
but certainly not the eastern tongues -
now, whoever wrote that book wrote it in ancient
Egyptian, the chronologically speaking
yes, female genital mutilation was practised first
in Africa, notably Egypt, prior to male genital
mutilation being instigated by frustrated Abraham -
the collision was bound to happen -
see how pretty prince slang looks?
it's poetic - the rich boys call it poetry, the poor
boys call slang - which is why poor boy raps
and over uses rhyme - or perhaps rhyme is easier
to remember than free verse poetry -
rich boy brings a page on stage and recites because
he's too lazy or not bothered to memorise,
poor boy says yeah a lot in between his lyrics
without a page so he can the the bowling aisle
movement as if he's rolling in a convertible Cadillac -
sing ***! yo! ***! yo! so the chronology matches,
Eve first, Adam second - but not as in: they did it first -
later down the line they cut off the precious skin
and hence felt naked, they fell, they revised was not
to be revised - sure, the man got the favour right -
he was the winner - but at the same time, the loser -
hence the good & evil bit - we don't really know -
is it really necessary to have good *** to later have
a fickle partner and laws being in her favour via what's
called the missed prenup thought? to me it's just a literal
reading of the text - looking for laurel leaves to cover
the revision of the genitalia - not the actual genitalia per se,
just the revised versions - so if the female variation is
whatever it is - less pleasure from *** and what not,
for man that also means counting the stars and weeks
and having no pleasure from ******* when her period
arrives and you have to try a diet of **** or something -
well of course it's slightly uncomfortable with it -
but at the same time you increase your endurance with it -
a slight sadomasochism, no whips no ******* women,
no leather, no adventure, just raw meat and raw meat -
no fantasy no role play - just a little bit of skin making all
the difference - can you imagine Marquis de Sade writing
as frankly as this? well... every time i revise my thought
on the book of genesis, i obviously become a covert literal
reader of it, deciphering the eloquent slang of a prince of
Egypt would use on such "delicate" matters -
but with that being said: it becomes all the less fascinating
a myth-making engine, and given he was forced out of
his comfort zone (and i mean a comfort zone) he would
cite God as the word (reason), but by word alone and
the word only - the reasoning behind what entered the land
of Egypt as being the same as what entered the Garden
of Eden... and tempted... the temptation came with the pyramids -
oddly enough only the Eiffel Tower was higher than
the pyramids - look at the time it took man to become so bold again!
look at it! massive - and in some weird quantum physics
interpretation of the mythological past becoming the actual
future - the tower of Babel... and... yep, you guessed it:
the Burj Khalifa (or the Khalifa Tower) is its equivalent;
but ****, only the Eiffel Tower overshadowed the pyramids -
something must have happened back then then,
if man was so shy in rising his structures too far up into
the sky - but i guess the Enlightenment spurred him on...
later to crash back down with the atom phobia of the second
part of the 20th century, which in the 21st century morphed into:
well, how will wars be profitable if we drop a nuke?
e'oh! no, sorry, one nuke will make us bankrupt -
we need tanks, guns, bullets... huge bulks of them!
stockpiling nukes ended up a bit like stockpiling too much...
ah crap... don't have a good analogy - just started thinking
of a desert of sugar - sugar dunes... imagining a desert
like that... well, partially true - with the Arabs not drinking
alcohol and eating too many sweets, diabetic amputees throughout
the desert land.
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2015
.
I have come to the temple
Of your body.  I kneel and prey
Like a sinner.  The holy water
Beads low on your forbidden
Tabernacle, sears my touch
In cleansing flame, what I do
And what will be done is all
For unrepentant confessions
And penances.  Let me truly
Learn the sacraments of flesh
Before I bathe in your wicked
Innocence and commit my sin
At being mortal in your nimbus
Chambers, let the mercies rain
After the fall of my fellowing
Creature, for this night is blood
Sabbath, and sacrilege under
A Pagan moon and let the dawn
In the rising sun of mute morning
Be my absolution, our benediction,
Let the moving waters enfold us,
Pure as lambs, as washed babes,
Baptismal.
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2013
I have come to the temple
Of your body.  I kneel and prey
Like a sinner.  The holy water
Beads low on your forbidden
Tabernacle, sears my touch
In cleansing flame, what I do
And what will be done is all
For unrepentant confessions
And penances.  Let me truly
Learn the sacraments of flesh
Before I bathe in your wicked
Innocence and commit my sin
At being mortal in your nimbus
Chambers, let the mercies rain
After the fall of my fellowing
Creature, for this night is blood
Sabbath, and sacrilege under
A Pagan moon and let the dawn
In the rising sun of mute morning
Be my absolution, our benediction,
Let the moving waters enfold us,
Pure as lambs, as washed babes,
Baptismal.
Ylzm Apr 2019
Not unknown nor unseen,
but not as conquering hero came.
Not crowned with many crowns,
with unknowable Name,
but as Branch, on Beast that spoke,
departs from the Father, to serve,
with his Body, to pay the Bride's price.
And when in the fullness of time,
on the tenth of the first month,
with a blast of angelic trumpets,
He shall return as King
with Bride and twelve Princes.
Palm Sunday
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
ᚠ                       Φ

             F

Θ                       ᚦ

                                     no explanations
exist within a geometry outside
the circle, only architecture, sole,
yet the sole geometry of architecture
is an encircling, a lifting,
and had i wrote my poetry
in the comfort of rising beyond Marx
is socio-political schematic i would,
but i rather talk to scaffolders than to poets,
i'd rip my heart through enough thin
veil to prove it so that i shared an entombing of lips
wholly bodied with one! i rather!
care for this ******* Parisian princess
in your divorce as best you can...
i kept a cat for seven years before my neighbour
decided it was time to un-wed affection
to an animal neither tilling for ably feeding
to instead choose his daughter as my wife:
i rejected feeling no compass of conversation...
the cat died, i went into the graveyard and dug
a gravestone out and buried my cat in
the moonlight: don't ever come across me and my pet!
you killed half the intelligence that was me!
*******! humanity engaging with humanity
it plagiarises as itself an ownership to suit puppet
strings like it might tailoring,
POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POST COLONIAL NATIONS SEEK NEW *******
TO CRAFT THE LOST COTTON BUDS INTO
GRANULE CEMENT SET! POLAND ******
EUROPE! POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POLAND ****** EUROPE! POLAND ****** EUROPE!
MAMA RUSSIA! PAPA PRUSSIA! HOSANNA! HOSANNA!
LAUREL LEAFS AS I SAT ON THEM! THE CROWN
OF KING TU-154...
ROMANIA DONKEY DON QUIXOTE!
WHOOP WHOOP! WHOOP WHOOP GREK IZLAND
CORFU! then the postman comes with my jealousy
as within reach of hope to attain old age...
(snigger)... i hope i don't... i want million
dollar baby's truth to wake me.
I

Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,

Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;

Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt

The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.

II

In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.

Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.

She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.

A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned--
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.

III

Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.

They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;

And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.

Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.

And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.

IV

Beauty is momentary in the mind--
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.

The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.

Susanna's music touched the ***** strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
DEDICATION


This first book of the trilogy: “The Odyssey of Heart,” first appeared August 28, 2001 online under BeingQuest.com Academy of the Arts, a Minnesota based publication dedicated to the prospect of the reclamation and reformation of the moral world.

We at BeingQuest.com have adopted the proposition to consider, among the many ten-thousand apparently worthy aims we may engage our energies on whether, in fact “…really, only one thing is necessary.” ~Jesus of Nazareth

“The Odyssey of Heart” is our attempt to decipher this enigmatic proposition, and if true, what it may mean for both us individually in our daily lives, and for The People in the birth-pains of their struggle upon this same mission. May the humane and best of our hoped-for future prevail!



Orientation


Not in myself I trust, for I am weak
To noble deeds and proofs of lasting worth
But ever forms of faith and hope poured over us
When meekness, in heart, with love communes.
Better than reason, brighter than the tropes
Wrought by our sager minds who, for all times
Sought to mark down in sign that yet unseen...
Better the just humility of faith
That, from itself, bears truth’s emerging light
Able to steer the golden reins through heights
Of knowing, where the dryer air imbues
Essential manna: food of gods, the mead
Which heroes owning, few dare earn, is sup
Of perfect comfort, ever over-flown
In foment of new life; from pride's decay
To boundless grace, our liberty revealed.

Best Charity, heart of saints and ever true
To faithfulness of hope!  Great care you show
Where there’s no rod of law save principles
Most holy, by the proud unknown; exalting
Sacred sense, beyond surmise; submissive
Tender, patient, always kind with comfort
For the sojourn soul, from tribulation born…
Relieve our cause, pour down your shining balm
As in this world we all must yet forbear
And lead us straight.  Held fast in you we live.

Such faithfulness of care is born Below
Where many hours again we turn aside
Ignoble ways, by empty musings led
Where much is lost of hope, too troubling bound
But helped by love and truth for healing song.

Even the best of faith, not always solved
For clearest virtue, evident in deed
Is made exempt from trial; better to prove
The gold of piety when thorough plied.
Such constancy of soul is sooner known
When, as is judged by some, we're given leave
To go our way when yet is left behind

That care of grace we’d own, born from the heart.
So help my halting verse your work portray
Set down with pain to coax the one in all
And tend the goal of peace our heroes seek.

May then we own consistently our worth
Through mundane laws that, constant, drape the soul
And from the faintest things, secure our truth
Distilled to clarity in care of all.

Always, for grace, this comforting's renewed
Untainted by the loot of rusted gain-
Foul dross!  Many, for this, are bound in chains
Though freedom shunts the petty tyrant’s rule.

We look to sift and ply our souls again
For better ways, to each more kindly given
Though groaning under pride; wretched stain
Of brutal men, too noisy under heaven.
Yet heaven in each we sing for tiding songs
And phantom ways distrust.  In each is all-
That honest faith, for which the brave are strong
And proving glad, the patient cares install.

Great sympathy, the worth of each conjoined
To mirror in the promised, home-felt rest
Our truth and proven love, forever coined
In honor of the victors’ upright quest!


This call upon the wild that springs
To dignities of life, refined
Not of ****** mind-
A secret that has long been kept
Of old, which seers saw and wept;
Yet how shall one so lonely, frail
Train the flashing reins to follow?
Steady now, upon the gates and gap
Defending 'gainst presumption, overflown
To self-conceit, abominable
We glimpse the true and lasting vision
Whose care is no fruitless burden
But for the proper meekness, bidden
And yoke, humility, sure-bound
Not glancing here or there
To fix in heart upon the clear-
New city, famed uncloven stone
That tends azure upon the midnight sun
Out-braving that of brutal minds
By light of faith and the sublime.


Yet can the child's waking care
Through tribulation heroes bear
Overcome the vast depravity
Being only a child?
Resolved upon their sojourn friends
They bide the cornered time among the trees
Whose verdant leaves
Drip honeyed milk from gently swelling hills.
Reclined beside our sacred hearth
They turn aside the mortal strife
For truth in love, assaying peace;
So drinking down their heart’s content
They fortify ‘gainst burdens, bent
By iron rods, waved over the whole-
This world’s proud tyranny.
Some pain to bear, yet worth to lend
Through grace, by ways that flows within
The open gates of honest faith!
Not wielding rule of force, they sway
To ends, the burnished virtue won.
Of such is the vision-
Demeter’s preternatural ones.


Heigh kind upon the sacred fountain
Whose sentiments brought forth upon the fold
Life's faithful brook, more true than what is told
Of bitter waters, flowing pure as gold!

What can put at naught?
As ageless, undaunted abides
The head, by right established
From the heart, just inclined.
No thing in heaven or earth
Thwarts their destined uprightness
But straight through the gates they pass on
With wholly complied intent.

Blessed are those who shall drink
The waters that flow out this throne
As ancient wonders rise on the brink
Of Eleusinian fields, whose hearth is home!


Descending on the heart anew
Anointed by the morning dew
They seek consistently
To own their bright integrity.
With fuller' soap in hand
They wash the inner walls
And scourge away what is not grand
Within the darkened chamber's hall.
Relying on substantial grace
Comes falling on corrupting stains
A foment on the one relation
Love has earned and faith persuades.
Intending for a future, cleansed
Inclined and fixed, the will more pure
Finds out what lasting, perfect friends
Commend as worthy and true.
Thus seeking only to reflect
Their crystal best in every word
They overthrow the world, naught bereft
Of innocence, one mind and heart assured.


Though many cynics traffic in the hour
Barking at the heels of sacred power
Truth kicks the scale of false standards
As light from out the dark more daring spreads
Through the wilderness
A flowering festival of peace, assured
.
Now mythic, seven thunders ring
A promised day of liberty;
A day of freedom for the captive-
Hurrah, the day of Jubilee
Hosanna, arching Sabbath for all times-
Light and life in love’s relation!

The potsherds scoff
Alack! They cry-
Aurum heirs treading down the mountains.
serpentinium Jul 2018
i. there’s a girl. narrow-*****, wild hair like a lion’s mane, sprawled underneath the shade of a looming fig tree. her teeth are all that’s sharp about her. soft curves, soft lips, a soft paradox in the Garden. in this lost land, there she is, subtle and tinged with the same stardust you once believed could save us all.

angelic, you’d call her, if she looked more grotesque. more like the cherubim of ol’, dressed in flames, impaled on swords, screeching the name “hosanna, hosanna” without mouths. but there are no wings, no heavenly trumpets, just the afterimage of divinity– something laced with hope, but already rotting. she spits out seven seeds and you don’t know if this is a land of God or gods anymore.

ii. she smiles and it feels like death.

you are unable to solve the riddle sprung from the lion’s ribcage– but the roof of your mouth tastes like honey and blood and you don’t mind. there’s no linearity, no familiar whine of a donkey, nor the sound of sand against gravel or sandaled feet marred by sunburns and blisters.

there is simply you and her and an eternity of possibilities that whisper in a forked tongue, “adam, oh adam,” and your heart drops. is this the end? but it tastes so sweet and you are alright to die like this, cradled between what was once in your womb and a creature of scales.

you do not expect the guilt that drips down your chin with each rivulet of juice.

iii. they call it love.
you call it divine absolution.
she calls it the beginning of humanity.
idk sometimes i think about eve like a lot
Tant que mon pauvre cœur, encor plein de jeunesse,
A ses illusions n'aura pas dit adieu,
Je voudrais m'en tenir à l'antique sagesse,
Qui du sobre Épicure a fait un demi-dieu
Je voudrais vivre, aimer, m'accoutumer aux hommes
Chercher un peu de joie et n'y pas trop compter,
Faire ce qu'on a fait, être ce que nous sommes,
Et regarder le ciel sans m'en inquiéter.

Je ne puis ; - malgré moi l'infini me tourmente.
Je n'y saurais songer sans crainte et sans espoir ;
Et, quoi qu'on en ait dit, ma raison s'épouvante
De ne pas le comprendre et pourtant de le voir.
Qu'est-ce donc que ce monde, et qu'y venons-nous faire,
Si pour qu'on vive en paix, il faut voiler les cieux ?
Passer comme un troupeau les yeux fixés à terre,
Et renier le reste, est-ce donc être heureux ?
Non, c'est cesser d'être homme et dégrader son âme.
Dans la création le hasard m'a jeté ;
Heureux ou malheureux, je suis né d'une femme,
Et je ne puis m'enfuir hors de l'humanité.

Que faire donc ? « Jouis, dit la raison païenne ;
Jouis et meurs ; les dieux ne songent qu'à dormir.
- Espère seulement, répond la foi chrétienne ;
Le ciel veille sans cesse, et tu ne peux mourir. »
Entre ces deux chemins j'hésite et je m'arrête.
Je voudrais, à l'écart, suivre un plus doux sentier.
Il n'en existe pas, dit une voix secrète ;
En présence du ciel, il faut croire ou nier.
Je le pense en effet ; les âmes tourmentées
Dans l'un et l'autre excès se jettent tour à tour,
Mais les indifférents ne sont que des athées ;
Ils ne dormiraient plus s'ils doutaient un seul jour.
Je me résigne donc, et, puisque la matière
Me laisse dans le cœur un désir plein d'effroi,
Mes genoux fléchiront ; je veux croire et j'espère.
Que vais-je devenir, et que veut-on de moi ?
Me voilà dans les mains d'un Dieu plus redoutable
Que ne sont à la fois tous les maux d'ici-bas ;
Me voilà seul, errant, fragile et misérable,
Sous les yeux d'un témoin qui ne me quitte pas.
Il m'observer il me suit. Si mon cœur bat trop vite,
J'offense sa grandeur et sa divinité.
Un gouffre est sous mes pas si je m'y précipite,
Pour expier une heure il faut l'éternité.
Mon juge est un bourreau qui trompe sa victime.
Pour moi, tout devient piège et tout change de nom
L'amour est un péché, le bonheur est un crime,
Et l'œuvre des sept jours n'est que tentation
Je ne garde plus rien de la nature humaine ;
Il n'existe pour moi ni vertu ni remord .
J'attends la récompense et j'évite la peine ;
Mon seul guide est la peur, et mon seul but, la mort
On me dit cependant qu'une joie infinie
Attend quelques élus. - Où sont-ils, ces heureux ?
Si vous m'avez trompé, me rendrez-vous la vie ?
Si vous m'avez dit vrai, m'ouvrirez-vous les cieux ?
Hélas ! ce beau pays dont parlaient vos prophètes,
S'il existe là-haut, ce doit être un désert
Vous les voulez trop purs, les heureux que vous faites,
Et quand leur joie arrive, ils en ont trop souffert.
Je suis seulement homme, et ne veux pas moins être,
Ni tenter davantage. - À quoi donc m'arrêter ?
Puisque je ne puis croire aux promesses du prêtre,
Est-ce l'indifférent que je vais consulter ?

Si mon cœur, fatigué du rêve qui l'obsède,
À la réalité revient pour s'assouvir,
Au fond des vains plaisirs que j'appelle à mon aide
Je trouve un tel dégoût, que je me sens mourir
Aux jours même où parfois la pensée est impie,
Où l'on voudrait nier pour cesser de douter,
Quand je posséderais tout ce qu'en cette vie
Dans ses vastes désirs l'homme peut convoiter ;
Donnez-moi le pouvoir, la santé, la richesse,
L'amour même, l'amour, le seul bien d'ici-bas !
Que la blonde Astarté, qu'idolâtrait la Grèce,
De ses îles d'azur sorte en m'ouvrant les bras ;
Quand je pourrais saisir dans le sein de la terre
Les secrets éléments de sa fécondité,
Transformer à mon gré la vivace matière
Et créer pour moi seul une unique beauté ;
Quand Horace, Lucrèce et le vieil Épicure,
Assis à mes côtés m'appelleraient heureux
Et quand ces grands amants de l'antique nature
Me chanteraient la joie et le mépris des dieux,
Je leur dirais à tous : « Quoi que nous puissions faire,
Je souffre, il est trop **** ; le monde s'est fait vieux
Une immense espérance a traversé la terre ;
Malgré nous vers le ciel il faut lever les yeux ! »
Que me reste-t-il donc ? Ma raison révoltée
Essaye en vain de croire et mon cœur de douter
De chrétien m'épouvante, et ce que dit l'athée,
En dépit de mes sens, je ne puis l'écouter.
Les vrais religieux me trouveront impie,
Et les indifférents me croiront insensé.
À qui m'adresserai-je, et quelle voix amie
Consolera ce cœur que le doute a blessé ?

Il existe, dit-on, une philosophie
Qui nous explique tout sans révélation,
Et qui peut nous guider à travers cette vie
Entre l'indifférence et la religion.
J'y consens. - Où sont-ils, ces faiseurs de systèmes,
Qui savent, sans la foi, trouver la vérité,
Sophistes impuissants qui ne croient qu'en eux-mêmes ?
Quels sont leurs arguments et leur autorité ?
L'un me montre ici-bas deux principes en guerre,
Qui, vaincus tour à tour, sont tous deux immortels ;
L'autre découvre au ****, dans le ciel solitaire,
Un inutile Dieu qui ne veut pas d'autels.
Je vois rêver Platon et penser Aristote ;
J'écoute, j'applaudis, et poursuis mon chemin
Sous les rois absolus je trouve un Dieu despote ;
On nous parle aujourd'hui d'un Dieu républicains.
Pythagore et Leibniz transfigurent mon être.
Descartes m'abandonne au sein des tourbillons.
Montaigne s'examine, et ne peut se connaître.
Pascal fuit en tremblant ses propres visions.
Pyrrhon me rend aveugle, et Zénon insensible.
Voltaire jette à bas tout ce qu'il voit debout
Spinoza, fatigué de tenter l'impossible,
Cherchant en vain son Dieu, croit le trouver partout.
Pour le sophiste anglais l'homme est une machine.
Enfin sort des brouillards un rhéteur allemand
Qui, du philosophisme achevant la ruine,
Déclare le ciel vide, et conclut au néant.

Voilà donc les débris de l'humaine science !
Et, depuis cinq mille ans qu'on a toujours douté,
Après tant de fatigue et de persévérance,
C'est là le dernier mot qui nous en est rester
Ah ! pauvres insensés, misérables cervelles,
Qui de tant de façons avez tout expliqué,
Pour aller jusqu'aux cieux il vous fallait des ailes ;
Vous aviez le désir, la foi vous a manqué.
Je vous plains ; votre orgueil part d'une âme blesses,
Vous sentiez les tourments dont mon cœur est rempli
Et vous la connaissiez, cette amère pensée
Qui fait frissonner l'homme en voyant l'infini.
Eh bien, prions ensemble,-abjurons la misère
De vos calculs d'enfants, de tant de vains travaux !
Maintenant que vos corps sont réduits en poussière
J'irai m'agenouiller pour vous sur vos tombeaux.
Venez, rhéteurs païens, maîtres de la science,
Chrétiens des temps passés et rêveurs d'aujourd'hui ;
Croyez-moi' la prière est un cri d'espérance !
Pour que Dieu nous réponde, adressons-nous à lui,
Il est juste, il est bon ; sans doute il vous pardonne.
Tous vous avez souffert, le reste est oublié.
Si le ciel est désert, nous n'offensons personne ;
Si quelqu'un nous entend, qu'il nous prenne en pitié !

Ô toi que nul n'a pu connaître,
Et n'a renié sans mentir,
Réponds-moi, toi qui m'as fait naître,
Et demain me feras mourir !

Puisque tu te laisses comprendre,
Pourquoi fais-tu douter de toi ?
Quel triste plaisir peux-tu prendre
À tenter notre bonne foi ?

Dès que l'homme lève la tête,
Il croit t'entrevoir dans les cieux ;
La création, sa conquête,
N'est qu'un vaste temple à ses yeux.

Dès qu'il redescend en lui-même,
Il l'y trouve ; tu vis en lui.
S'il souffre, s'il pleure, s'il aime,
C'est son Dieu qui le veut ainsi.

De la plus noble intelligence
La plus sublime ambition
Est de prouver ton existence,
Et de faire épeler ton nom.

De quelque façon qu'on t'appelle,
Brahma, Jupiter ou Jésus,
Vérité, Justice éternelle,
Vers toi tous les bras sont tendus.

Le dernier des fils de la terre
Te rend grâces du fond du coeur,
Dès qu'il se mêle à sa misère
Une apparence de bonheur.

Le monde entier te glorifie :
L'oiseau te chante sur son nid ;
Et pour une goutte de pluie
Des milliers d'êtres t'ont béni.

Tu n'as rien fait qu'on ne l'admire ;
Rien de toi n'est perdu pour nous ;
Tout prie, et tu ne peux sourire
Que nous ne tombions à genoux.

Pourquoi donc, ô Maître suprême,
As-tu créé le mal si grand,
Que la raison, la vertu même
S'épouvantent en le voyant ?

Lorsque tant de choses sur terre
Proclament la Divinité,
Et semblent attester d'un père
L'amour, la force et la bonté,

Comment, sous la sainte lumière,
Voit-on des actes si hideux,
Qu'ils font expirer la prière
Sur les lèvres du malheureux ?

Pourquoi, dans ton oeuvre céleste,
Tant d'éléments si peu d'accord ?
À quoi bon le crime et la peste ?
Ô Dieu juste ! pourquoi la mort ?

Ta pitié dut être profonde
Lorsqu'avec ses biens et ses maux,
Cet admirable et pauvre monde
Sortit en pleurant du chaos !

Puisque tu voulais le soumettre
Aux douleurs dont il est rempli,
Tu n'aurais pas dû lui permettre
De t'entrevoir dans l'infini.

Pourquoi laisser notre misère
Rêver et deviner un Dieu ?
Le doute a désolé la terre ;
Nous en voyons trop ou trop peu.

Si ta chétive créature
Est indigne de t'approcher,
Il fallait laisser la nature
T'envelopper et te cacher.

Il te resterait ta puissance,
Et nous en sentirions les coups ;
Mais le repos et l'ignorance
Auraient rendu nos maux plus doux.

Si la souffrance et la prière
N'atteignent pas ta majesté,
Garde ta grandeur solitaire,
Ferme à jamais l'immensité.

Mais si nos angoisses mortelles
Jusqu'à toi peuvent parvenir ;
Si, dans les plaines éternelles,
Parfois tu nous entends gémir,

Brise cette voûte profonde
Qui couvre la création ;
Soulève les voiles du monde,
Et montre-toi, Dieu juste et bon !

Tu n'apercevras sur la terre
Qu'un ardent amour de la foi,
Et l'humanité tout entière
Se prosternera devant toi.

Les larmes qui l'ont épuisée
Et qui ruissellent de ses yeux,
Comme une légère rosée
S'évanouiront dans les cieux.

Tu n'entendras que tes louanges,
Qu'un concert de joie et d'amour
Pareil à celui dont tes anges
Remplissent l'éternel séjour ;

Et dans cet hosanna suprême,
Tu verras, au bruit de nos chants,
S'enfuir le doute et le blasphème,
Tandis que la Mort elle-même
Y joindra ses derniers accents.
jat Dec 2016
oh jesus
you work in ways i do not see
in and through the ones i adore
"love the unloveable"
the second i fit myself in another's
i am truly undeserving or your love
but you still do, nevertheless
you pour your blessings unto me
so i could transmit the same
unto others
it is you i am blessed
Vernarth describes in the voice of Saint John: “They continue with the scented camelids from looking at their backs… they were about to reach the walls. When they approached Jerusalem, it happens like the biblical passage, as in that of Bethphage and Bethany, in front of the Mount of Olives, they crossed the entrance as it was made by the Messiah when he faced this cosmopolitan city”. Saint John remembered his teacher…: “Go to the village that is in front of you, and as soon as you enter it, you will find a tied colt, on which no man has ridden; untie it and bring it, if someone says to you: Why do you do that? Say the Lord needs it, and then He will give it back. They went and found the colt tied outside the door at the bend in the road, and they untied it. And some of those who were there said to them: What are you doing untying the colt? They then told them how Jesus had commanded; and they left them. And they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it, and he sat on it. Many also spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. And those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting, saying: Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David!!! Hosanna in the high! And Jesus entered Jerusalem, and into the temple; and having looked around at all things, as it was getting dark, he went to Bethany with the twelve. "

So everyone is ecstatic to gird them to this entrance ceremony as if they were putting their first feet as the Messiah did. They all went to Bethany on the twelve camels to settle down and have a moment of rest. All in deep silence tried to relive what the Apostle had described to them, seeing how they synchronized the unequivocal exactitude of what had to happen and will happen now with them. They come to Bethany for just one day of relaxation and experienced rebirth. In this place, it would perhaps be the house of a nearby town such as Betábara or Bethany, or in the mountains in a simple bower or temporary tent made of wattles, that is, with interwoven branches, and perhaps covered with striped rags. Perhaps his abode was in a cave next to a campfire in view of what we have in the most probable ontological point which is Jesus, who had no home ..., he was staying in a rather poor or humble place, always stating that he had reliable its category-space where to arrive. Every place where He went…, the places went to Him, agglutinated in their mischievous sandals of stout retracing…!
Raeder and Petrobus flew for hours and hours this plains and promontories, however, in the midst of physical humility, there is no doubt that this was one of the retouched moments that San Juan and those who rewarded him by reincorporating him to the credible access in the dimension of her work in front of herself captured from a Eureka. Perhaps Lázarus, Mary from Bethany, and Martha in a brotherhood that continues to live walking in invisibility, but tangible by the blind of the night. This I could see from above,  witnessing seeing these three brothers without the others being able to see them. The perspective Aerial managed to attract magnets to them by virtue of the halos that each one carried on their sacred kaleidoscopic heads ..., when they came flying very close to them, only the halos that moved on the road of San Juan were manifested before them when he went to visit them, in such a way as to link this mental deficit, innocuous being added to the good of being received by the interwoven ambit of history, that it does not fight stammering to hear passages that history itself could not relate belatedly nor in the stories of the fearful ones who were eyewitnesses of a moment that was and will come, for beings with more than two eyes!

Etréstles and Vernarth, sit on a few outlines with metamorphic rings, which resembled being housed in the belly of an unborn newborn donkey, there they sit solidifying archaeological ruins that did not exist as a result of these intense changes in pressure, temperature, and chemical environment; dispersing the changes that are associated with bending forces, layer faults, magma injection and elevations that depress the rock masses flattening them only for their visits ..., then they would return to their original proto-chemical state. Right here they manage to repeal the silence by snatching a rusty sulfo green sandal like a shred of refined friction from the sword of the wind  Hamsin, leading them to get closer to each other, so that he covered them with his moderate generosity with a linnaceous white cloth each one, judging each one of being an Apostle in his memorable and sacred visit to Bethany.

Eurydice sings some songs of Kalymnos in a lullaby, by the iridescence of the roar of the fabrics knotting on their faces in affinity with the out-of-tune Hamsin, creating in them the nascent amber that sprouted from the brown ringed rocks in front of them supporting them angularly. His song fell in love with the global amber and each instance of remaining united that did not ****** or besiege them, generating in them that sacred night not having dinner ..., rather they would fast until the later sacred day that they would leave back to Jerusalem sheltered in their punishment of half severing, in the Lithostroto with his arms broken from the humerus to the ulna by Pilate and disheartened henchmen, in excessive cadaverous instances i.

As soon as the morning dawned, the camelids passed their tongues over the colossal face of Vernarth, telling them that the interval between the cross to reroute to Jerusalem was coming. They all leave, the twelve camels and Alikanto very close to them, feeling very important, for being so kind to his master Vernarth. Alikanto isolated himself between them, observing the actions of his master because here there is no palatial verve of swords Xifos or Dorus, but this allowed him to protect the others if it is so at some point, so these camels could or could turn themselves into fierce imaginary enemies of Trojan Lothophages piercing their mythologies!   Emotional and strategic curiosity, which will always have them on its tragic payroll ...,  in the fates that could run leading them towards the tempting Macedonian void.

They entered the same citadel, which from afar looked as dazzling as full sewers, where the naive condemned still circulated through it. But as it approached they vanished through some of the seven impressive doors, although in reality, they sounded like eight since the Gate of Mercy or Golden Gate closed later, being the oldest and the one that allows access to the Esplanade of the Mosques. "It was closed by the Muslims since it is said that through this door the Messiah will return to save the living and the dead on the Day of Judgment." Here they all pose to pray upset by the fluxion of the camels that did not dare to pass; they refused, having to select another entry.

Later they broke through the Jaffa Gate that leads directly to the Jewish and Christian quarter. Beyond the Tower of David, in an old citadel of the Armenian neighborhood that is another of the essential places that they saw when they arrived. They walked with their camels with their eyes covered, at a slow pace seeing all these testimonies in giddy incense, as if they were walking on their own sore feet. In other city gates, they invade with their twelve shadows, the Dung Gate or Gate of Manure which is the one that leads to the Wailing Wall and the Esplanade of the Mosques, that of the Lions, through which one goes to the Olives Mount, that of Zion, near the Tomb of King David, that of Herod, the New Gate and that of Damascus, in the north of the wall, one of the most impressive in the city and the one that leads directly to the Muslim quarter.
Bethany Brotherly Halo
L Dec 2014
"Sing me your songs, but not for me alone
Sing out for yourselves, for you are blessed
There is not one of you who cannot win the kingdom
The slow, the suffering, the quick, the dead..."
A little Thursday inspiration...  
Song from the 70s rock musical, Jesus Christ Superstar.
Hope it brings you some hope :)

**
Leigh
I live in strange cities and talk with strangers
About things dear to me
I walk on alien paths and eat foreign food
And remember
I paint **** women, their hips large
Dark hair and full *******
And I know
We all seek perfection, not knowing
We are already perfect
I sing, my notes rise and fall endlessly
Like a tireless swallow in the sky
And I praise
Hosanna in the highest
And as the dust motes dance in the wintry sun
In my wooden church, I am transported
To singing with Irish nuns
My skin browner, in a country of heat and dust
A country of mangoes and temples
Of saffron and silks
And as I don my jeans
Memories of my mother’s swishing silks
Take me home
But I live in strange cities and talk with strangers
And home is just another four letter word
Lexie Jan 2022
some, older than you
prophesied, I would never be cold
all my duties
are to avoid burning
I told you of my temples
you come empty-handed
asking for frankincense, myrh
I knew of this ghost once
a thousand years ago
some, say he will return
humans are so god-awful impatient
some, waiting in white
will never see him
others, shackled at the ankle
say he is still here
I am not one for answers
I pour my questions out
into the street
as if it was a river
more often than not
is it a graveyard
if I do die
bury me shallow
why should I be silent
even the stones would cry out
Nickolas J McKee Feb 2022
You’re the next Jesus Christ,
Waiting to be crucified,
Among your flock of sheep.
Blue eyes ready to slice,
I, your prophet beautified,
Heresy to stab deep.
Let’s gather around you,
To magnify your glory,
Nails to skin under glass.
Raindrops rising from dew,
Superficial & weary,
Ready the blinding mass.
Hosanna of the high,
Dare you me to deny…
Louie Luepke Jul 2012
You think after so long
The pain would be gone

I know you're home with the Father
But I can't say the same for another

Is my sorrow for my own loss?
Or for others who have lost?

For I have hope, but they have none
But who's to really say till judgment day has come

Openly I weep, I don't care who sees
Out in the open my grief brings me to my knees

Some day I will see you again
So I'll press on until then

I wish you were still here
But I celebrate that you are there

Where angela tread and saints sing
"Hosanna in the highest" "Glory to the King"

How beautiful it must be
But I wish you were here with me

One day you will meet me a the gates
On the day that decides our fates

On the day my body goes to the grave
When my spirit soars and my soul is saved

Once again we will meet
And I'll cast my crown at the Fathers feet

Then we will embrace, before any other
A child reunited with his mother.
O'Reily Oct 2014
Bossa nova, Barcelona, Box and two weeks over,
Music to get hold of,
Newly weds to Right said Fred,
Calypso spot light sun beams down a twinkle baked shoulder to strike a pose.

Bossa nova, what's on, record it,
Promote It with some guile,
He She who stole it,
With limelight their staged arena owned it,
He She dished out the smiles,
They clapped as the show survives,
They danced to each others beat,
Bebop a lula its jive came unique.

Accapella, Bossa nova, Hosanna from the highest,
Bossa nova, a rock n roller, a ballad till midnight,
Encore if you got through the night in hindsight,
Stage Fright had this moment,
What is going on?
Bingo numbers,
Feathers a house!

Bossa nova it aint over till its over as for a starlight it may strike the board with a star face in the sun.

Now maybe, maybe not that's a Bossa nova!

O'Reily@20082014
05022020

I was standing in the middle of worship
People were worshipping God
And everyone was singing.
There’re pairs but they don’t have any relationship
One sings beside the other, one sings alone.

There were two different hymns
Or everyone was just voicing their hearts out
I ain’t a singer and yet I heard my voice good.
And together with others,
The first song I was singing was a heavy song
I was about to kneel,
I was bowing my head.

And there I recognized that many songs are being sung.
I heard someone said from the back,
“Kelan ba papalitan yung kanta?”
I recognized what has been said
But I can't control the words coming from my mouth,
And from the bottom of my heart,
It just felt so natural --
It felt so relieving.

Both of my hands started grasping a railing
As I continued in the spirit of worship.
And then the song changed to an upbeat one
And then to “Hosanna.”

While everyone was singing “Hosanna”
Someone has changed in the atmosphere.
I saw my body gliding and others too
People started coming while I was singing with others.

Some remained walking towards us --
Seeing but they’re only looking at us
But I never heard and seen anyone of them singing.
I was even shocked with myself
Because I was dancing like I was a good dancer
Those who sing also do their dancing
As if we were leading everyone else
But it seems they have another place to go with.

I recognized that they were walking
While I was flying with others.
Then I saw a man who’s also dancing and singing
And he was very good at it
We continued guiding those who are walking.

Then, the scene turned out to be an LRT station
But there was no means of transportation
I saw people strolling beside a platform
On my right side
And they’re somehow stuck
But I saw no reaction from them.

And there was a stair going upwards
It's like in the form of an escalator
I was holding the railing and it was steady
But the steps seemed to be invisible
All I know was: it’s a staircase.

Then I saw the man singing and dancing earlier
Telling the people to raise their hands
And they turned to look like zombies
They were obeying and copying what was instructed to them
And we were all giving them examples
As we do the “arms forward” thing.

Then I heard someone said,
“There’s something wrong,”
And he was pertaining to those people in the platform
They were about to chase a woman
And he pointed her out
And then the dream ended —
The dream ended and as I opened up my eyes,
I found my heartbeat too fast.
To men waiting in groups along a certain city street .. The man praying to be picked for a hard days wages performing manual labor ... When Jehovah marches triumphantly from the East he will inquire of thee from the beginning shouting Hosanna ! Hosanna !
Copyright March 23 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
RAJ NANDY Apr 2017
TRUE CONQUEST
A bird's resting nest may be very small ,
But that is of no consequence at all !
Since the sky above its head is vast and
wide ,
Where it can spread its wings and fly, -
Across the vast expanse of the ethereal
blue sky !

Here on ground where we jostle for living
space ,
Man’s hunger and greed does not abate !
Alexander , Napoleon, and ****** had tried
conquer and shackle this earth,
But their conquests never could last!

I recall Leo Tolstoy's short story once more.
After having covered the furthest corners
of the land under his feet;
Galloping at top speed to make his conquest
complete ,
The rider totally exhausted falls on the ground,
Collapses and dies without a sound !
Only six feet of ground sufficed for his grave!
And so it has been for the bravest of our braves !

Now I recall the great Buddha under the banyan
tree ;
And the Messiah who entered Jerusalem mounted
on a donkey,
With shouts of ‘ Hosanna’ and with palms spread
across His feet !
Were true World Conquerors beyond defeat!
- Raj Nandy
   New Delhi

Notes: Leo Tolstoy's short story is titled -"How Much Land Does A Man Need".
La satire à présent, chant où se mêle un cri,
Bouche de fer d'où sort un sanglot attendri,
N'est plus ce qu'elle était jadis dans notre enfance,
Quand on nous conduisait, écoliers sans défense,
À la Sorbonne, endroit revêche et mauvais lieu,
Et que, devant nous tous qui l'écoutions fort peu,
Dévidant sa leçon et filant sa quenouille,
Le petit Andrieux, à face de grenouille,
Mordait Shakspeare, Hamlet, Macbeth, Lear, Othello,
Avec ses fausses dents prises au vieux Boileau.

La vie est, en ce siècle inquiet, devenue
Pas à pas grave et morne, et la vérité nue
Appelle la pensée à son secours depuis
Qu'on l'a murée avec le mensonge en son puits.
Après Jean-Jacques, après Danton, le sort ramène
Le lourd pas de la nuit sur la triste âme humaine ;
Droit et Devoir sont là gisants, la plaie au flanc ;
Le lâche soleil rit au noir dragon sifflant ;
L'homme jette à la mer l'honneur, vieille boussole ;
En léchant le vainqueur le vaincu se console ;
Toute l'histoire tient dans ce mot : réussir ;
Le succès est sultan et le meurtre est visir ;
Hélas, la vieille ivresse affreuse de la honte
Reparaît dans les yeux et sur les fronts remonte,
Trinque avec les tyrans, et le peuple fourbu
Reboit ce sombre vin dont il a déjà bu.
C'est pourquoi la satire est sévère. Elle ignore
Cette grandeur des rois qui fit Boileau sonore,
Et ne se souvient d'eux que pour les souffleter.
L'échafaud qu'il faut pièce à pièce démonter,
L'infâme loi de sang qui résiste aux ratures,
Qui garde les billots en lâchant les tortures,
Et dont il faut couper tous les ongles ; l'enfant
Que l'ignorance tient dans son poing étouffant
Et qui doit, libre oiseau, dans l'aube ouvrir ses ailes ;
Relever tour à tour ces sombres sentinelles,
Le mal, le préjugé, l'erreur, monstre romain,
Qui gardent le cachot où dort l'esprit humain ;
La guerre et ses vautours, la peste avec ses mouches,
À chasser ; les bâillons qu'il faut ôter des bouches ;
La parole à donner à toutes les douleurs ;
L'éclosion d'un jour nouveau sur l'homme en fleurs ;
Tel est le but, tel est le devoir, qui complique
Sa colère, et la fait d'utilité publique.

Pour enseigner à tous la vertu, l'équité,
La raison, il suffit que la Réalité,
Pure et sereine, monte à l'horizon et fasse
Évanouir l'horreur des nuits devant sa face.
Honte, gloire, grandeurs, vices, beautés, défauts,
Plaine et monts, sont mêlés tant qu'il fait nuit ; le faux
Fait semblant d'être honnête en l'obscurité louche.
Qu'est-ce que le rayon ? Une pierre de touche.
La lumière de tout ici-bas fait l'essai.
Le juste est sur la terre éclairé par le vrai ;
Le juste c'est la cime et le vrai c'est l'aurore.

Donc Lumière, Raison, Vérité, plus encore,
Bonté dans le courroux et suprême Pitié,
Le méchant pardonné, mais le mal châtié,
Voilà ce qu'aujourd'hui, comme aux vieux temps de Rome,
La satire implacable et tendre doit à l'homme.
Marquis ou médecins, une caste, un métier,
Ce n'est plus là son champ ; il lui faut l'homme entier.
Elle poursuit l'infâme et non le ridicule.

Un petit Augias veut un petit Hercule,
Et le bon Despréaux malin fit ce qu'il put.
Elle n'a plus affaire à l'ancien Lilliput.

Elle vole, à travers l'ombre et les catastrophes,
Grande et pâle, au milieu d'un ouragan de strophes ;
Elle crie à sa meute effrayante : - Courons !
Quand un vil parvenu, marchant sur tous les fronts,
Écrase un peuple avec des pieds jadis sans bottes.
Elle donne à ses chiens ailés tous les despotes,
Tous les monstres, géants et nains, à dévorer.
Elle apparaît aux czars pour les désespérer.
On entend dans son vers craquer les os du tigre.
De même que l'oiseau vers le printemps émigre,
Elle s'en va toujours du côté de l'honneur.
L'ange de Josaphat, le spectre d'Elseneur
Sont ses amis, et, sage, elle semble en démence,
Tant sa clameur profonde emplit le ciel immense.
Il lui faut, pour gronder et planer largement,
Tout le peuple sous elle, âpre, vaste, écumant ;
Ce n'est que sur la mer que le vent est à l'aise.

Quand Colomb part, elle est debout sur la falaise ;
Elle t'aime, ô Barbès ! Et suit d'un long vivat
Fulton, Garibaldi, Byron, John Brown et Watt,
Et toi Socrate, et toi Jésus, et toi Voltaire !
Elle fait, quand un mort glorieux est sous terre,
Sortir un vert laurier de son tombeau dormant ;
Elle ne permet pas qu'il pourrisse autrement.
Elle panse à genoux les vaincus vénérables,
Bénit les maudits, baise au front les misérables,
Lutte, et, sans daigner même un instant y songer,
Se sent par des valets derrière elle juger ;
Car, sous les règnes vils et traîtres, c'est un crime
De ne pas rire à l'heure où râle la victime
Et d'aimer les captifs à travers leurs barreaux ;
Et qui pleure les morts offense les bourreaux.

Est-elle triste ? Non, car elle est formidable.
Puisqu'auprès des tombeaux les vainqueurs sont à table,
Puisqu'on est satisfait dans l'opprobre, et qu'on a
L'impudeur d'être lâche avec un hosanna,
Puisqu'on chante et qu'on danse en dévorant les proies,
Elle vient à la fête elle aussi. Dans ces joies,
Dans ces contentements énormes, dans ces jeux
À force de triomphe et d'ivresse orageux,
Dans ces banquets mêlant Paphos, Clamart et Gnide,
Elle apporte, sinistre, un rire d'euménide.

Mais son immense effort, c'est la vie. Elle veut
Chasser la mort, bannir la nuit, rompre le nœud,
Dût-elle rudoyer le titan populaire.
Comme elle a plus d'amour, elle a plus de colère.
Quoi ! L'abdication serait un oreiller !
La conscience humaine est lente à s'éveiller ;
L'honneur laisse son feu pâlir, tomber, descendre
Sous l'épaississement lugubre de la cendre.
Aussi la Némésis chantante qui bondit
Et frappe, et devant qui Tibère est interdit,
La déesse du grand Juvénal, l'âpre muse,
Hébé par la beauté, par la terreur Méduse,
Qui sema dans la nuit ce que Dante y trouva,
Et que Job croyait voir parler à Jéhovah,
Se sent-elle encor plus de fureur magnanime
Pour réveiller l'oubli que pour punir le crime.
Elle approche du peuple et, guettant la rumeur,
Penche l'ïambe amer sur l'immense dormeur ;
La strophe alors frissonne en son tragique zèle,
Et s'empourpre en tâchant de tirer l'étincelle
De toute cette morne et fatale langueur,
Et le vers irrité devient une lueur.
Ainsi rougit dans l'ombre une face farouche
Qui vient sur un tison souffler à pleine bouche.

Le 26 avril 1870.
I live in strange cities and talk with strangers
About things dear to me
I walk on alien paths and eat foreign food
And remember
I paint **** women, their hips large
Dark hair and full *******
And I know
We all seek perfection, not knowing
We are already perfect
I sing, my notes rise and fall endlessly
Like a swallow in the endless skies
And I praise
Hosanna in the highest
And as the dust motes dance in the wintry sun
In my wooden church, I am transported
To singing with Irish nuns
My skin browner, in a country of heat and dust
A country of mangoes and temples
Of saffron and silks
And as I don my jeans
Memories of my mother’s swishing silks
Take me home
But I live in strange cities and talk with strangers
And home is just another four letter word
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
and now, i too, can jest, waving the brick,
the 20th century's Odyssey,
so too Ulysses, father of, this cantos poet,
it's a well worn book,
to make books like leather, the older
the better, lost the colt stink of freshly
peeled, leather rather than fur,
so too, i, can now close the book and leave
it's ancestry in lost conversation among
the living in cafés and pubs,
so now i can give you a bewilderment i too
am aware of: the chaos of kept Latin
geometrics, style, indeed orthography with
accent here and there, but to dwell on
the past like that, per se, prae se or any such
coercion to disregard the general public,
no surprises with such a pompous raucous,
elephants and stilettos, mass and weight,
bouncing on the moon, the sheer chaos
of how the barbarians lost runes and incorporated
the gaps, i.e.: a, e, o, p, R, b, B, Q, g, d...
                       with Hindu 0, 9, 8, 6, 4...
or as Arabs say: our ten commandments.
but still the chaos, once meaningful now meaningless,
hence programming, encoding, data structuring,
fish tanks think tanks, and SLANG, or SHLANG
as i call it, impromptu youth too cool for school:
still don't know what you're talking about...
the lettering survived because their arithmetic
that gave us beauty like the Coliseum and marble
testicles (later missing with castrato hosanna
in excelsis de
o - o took a baritone stance) -
the fall of the Roman empire? all due to
                      I + VI = VII
                      XI + V = XVI.
                                               everyone was like... huh?
can you really **** around with these symbols
in modern physics and mathematics?
... no thanks... we'll keep the alphabet but bring
you down on your mathematics...
but have you seen the Appleton Tower in
Edinburgh? or the library in George Sq.?
you haven't... both are hardly Islamic mosaics and
minarets. as many curves and glitches of beauty
as the models on a catwalk during London's fashion week;
anorexic imagination: keep it square and bony,
me and my godforsaken x-ray vision.
so suma summarum:
it began with: and then went down to the ship...
but ended up with the ship being a gondola
i.e. you in the dinghy (piccioletta) astern there!
i'm not even going to read the drafts & fragments
section (CX - CXVII - C X C V - or the curriculum vitae).
Hank Pym Oct 2016
Praise be to God!

Like a shell on a turtle
She is always here for me

At 5:00 in the afternoon when I am crying about all the work that I have
You tell me that it'll be okay and not to worry

At 8:00 at night when you need to be in bed
You stay up past your bedtime and lend an arm and a leg

At 6:00 in the morning when you are just out of bed
You wet my face with dozens of kisses and warm me with hugs

God bless you my angel
Hosanna
Hosanna on the highest
Praise to my messiah
Who hath cometh to save me
My gift from God

When I twas but a tot
I asked for a playmate
But I got something better
A helper
A forever friend
A supporter
A younger sister

Praise be to God!
For Evanthia
Elizabeth Burns Oct 2016
Jesus, make me your conduit
Make me your soldier
Who oozes righteousness and
Fervently speaks your word
With passion and praise
May my tongue never cease to praise Your Holy Name
Holy, Holy, Holy
Hosanna in the Highest
I proclaim Your Name on high
Oh, Jesus
Make me an instrument of Your Mighty Word
May my lips thirst for Your Word
May the Longing in my heart fail to cease
Make me Your Conduit
So that Your Word may easily flow through me
Praise Jesus
Yahweh
My King in Heaven
I give you praise.
phalaenopsis Oct 2015
sadness.
twisting and coiling its way,
around my frail heart.
sending its deep poison in
through its jeering fangs.

it numbs me.

sweet numbness,
take me away,
to the valley of all things
unfeeling and
uncaring.

i want to know no strength
i want to feel no pain.

sweet poison,
infiltrate my heart,
make me numb.
i am nothing but dead to the world.

because that is what dead people do.
they open a void that ***** people in,
wrapping their hands in chains of gloom.
they cry for help,
beg for mercy.

fools.
wasting their time.
the numb don't feel anything.
only a cold that spreads
through their body
like a virus,
or some sort of
disease.

spreading through them,
filling their arteries and veins,
until they are numb,
like the cold, grainy sands of the earth
they are numb.
they feel nothing.

sweet snake of sadness,
send your venom.
straight to the heart,
send it quick.

for before death,
there is always a great sadness.

but is death ideal?
do i want to eternally
wander the earth waiting for
the mystical hosanna to call us
all for our last judgement?

is death the only means of permanent numbing known?
i mean, there are drugs.
but do they last?

do we last?

what effect do we leave
on this coccoon,
this shell,
of protection called earth?

what do we leave?
do we leave hatred,
unsettled feelings,
and people in chains of sadness?

or do we leave a sunflower?
a sign of hope, peace.
a sign of looking towards the brighter light?
Okay so I basically poured majority of my recurring thoughts into this poem. That is why it is titled "my wandering mind"

— The End —