"martyred" poems
.
*
Do I have a tongue,
Can I speak too?
In this strange world,
Am I a human too?
Do I have a heart,
Can I live too?
In this strange land,
Am I alive too?
In the midst of Oblivion,
I search my visions,
I once used to dream,
As a young teenager,
In Sea of Paro s
I try to remember,
The faces of people
I had once lived with
Father, mother, brother
Of all those people
I had once called family.
I came here as girl,
I am shared in the family,
I born plenty children,
I am sold and re-sold
In and around
To any men who
Can afford to buy,
I am kept but
Seldom married,
Each street have
it's own paro,
They all have
But the same story.
After some years
I cease to exist,
For the people
Who bought me
I am an old cattle
Who no longer
give them pleasure,
I am now a burden
A liability soon
To be shedded..
They don't throw
me though,
They leave me alone
In a small room,
I have become a mother
Of a girl or two
I have new family
But no identity
fits me ever,
When I come here
I became a Paro,
When my times up
I die a Paro!!
Paro is short for
Pardesi, a foreigner,
I am the girl
Bought for men
From another land
Into there land,
To born son's
For there motherland.
This is ordeal of
A soul that once lived,
Now it's just a body
With no role,
No fiction this
It's a real story
A reality of some
Distant land !!
That land for you
Is so very strange
Where eight young man
**** a pregnant goat!
And the strangest
thing is they
go away and
Roam scot free..!!
Soon the elders in the village
Will have a big meet,
They will give compensation
To the owner of the goat,
And free from the sin
There precious young boys
The martyred goat
Will also have new name,
And so it will soon
Be christened to
A new species of
"Paro"-
a first of it's kind
A Welcome from
an animal world!!
And so I ask again
Do I really exist?
What form of life
Do I have here?
In this strange land
Are they human too??
Does even a little atleast
A thing called
Humanity exist???
*
Sparkle in Wisdom.
1/8/2018.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
10W
**the argument ends
he won
i am martyred
in silence.**
soulsurvivor
(c) 5/19/2015
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
your face went on every
milk carton in my dreams
when you went missing
& i listened to a song
about how the churches
in your hometown
were built from the martyred mahogany
of shipwrecks
i dare you
to think i can't rip
the very mood
from your temperate fingertips
when i am cold
and hell bent
on seeing you oceans away, wince
this is not an
"i saw this coming all along" poem
or a "i still wonder about the moments between breaths when your phone lights up" poem..
this is a will & a way
with brass knuckles
maybe a barehanded bludgeon
but i swear i'm trying
to sleep at night
without wondering how cold
it is in your bed.
so mother goose
tell me about
the whispered prayers
crammed into the earthquakes
you call hands
about an ennui
that speaks to me.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
What is this, Lord Jesus, that Thou shouldst make an end
Of all that I possess, and give Thyself to me?
So that there is nothing now to call my own
Save Thee; Thyself alone my treasure.
Taking all, Thou givest full measure of Thyself
With all things else eternal—
Things unlike the mouldly pelf by earth possessed.
But as to life and godliness, all things are mine
And in God's garments dressed I am;
With Thee, an heir to riches in the spheres divine.
Strange, I say, that suffering loss
I have so gained everything in getting
Me a friend who bore a cross.
~ Jim Elliot (1927-1956)
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
which man has saved us from a dystopian future;
where each one of us must decide between good
and evil without fear of punishment from the camera
lens or laws that have become as onerous upon our
lives as a world without any law at all; which man
would be genius enough to survive his own evil
no matter the height of our intellectual achievements,
it is the emotional strain of one life in one world that
cannot care no matter how much we pray beyond
gravity’s last remaining outposts that lays waste to
souls that beg to be equal among beings made in an
image that has not been defined but merely assumed
when tears are no longer welcome as before and
when anger serves the strong well, then will the
light know to assume it’s place in the darkness which
hides from the absence of the knowing, undefined
by Gods or beasts that live in the depths choking
on sinks of man’s glorious quest for immortality
if one man knows of the legend if not each jot of
the law then would the spirit hover above his heart;
must he decide between living as a depraved knave
or martyred by unrecorded history, unfathomed
by meaning or the depths that have no end except
his will to suffer for what he once knew to be true?
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
Oh, may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge men's search
To vaster issues. So to live is heaven:
To make undying music in the world,
Breathing a beauteous order that controls
With growing sway the growing life of man.
So we inherit that sweet purity
For which we struggled, failed, and agonized
With widening retrospect that bred despair.
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
A vicious parent shaming still its child,
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved;
Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies,
Die in the large and charitable air,
And all our rarer, better, truer self
That sobbed religiously in yearning song,
That watched to ease the burden of the world,
Laboriously tracing what must be,
And what may yet be better, -- saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the multitude,
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed with love, --
That better self shall live till human Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb
Unread forever. This is life to come, --
Which martyred men have made more glorious
For us who strive to follow. May I reach
That purest heaven, -- be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty,
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense!
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world.
4.6k
This is a song to celebrate banks,
Because they are full of money and you go into them and all
you hear is clinks and clanks,
Or maybe a sound like the wind in the trees on the hills,
Which is the rustling of the thousand dollar bills.
Most bankers dwell in marble halls,
Which they get to dwell in because they encourage deposits
and discourage withdrawals,
And particularly because they all observe one rule which woe
betides the banker who fails to heed it,
Which is you must never lend any money to anybody unless
they don't need it.
I know you, you cautious conservative banks!
If people are worried about their rent it is your duty to deny
them the loan of one nickel, yes, even one copper engraving
of the martyred son of the late Nancy Hanks;
Yes, if they request fifty dollars to pay for a baby you must
look at them like Tarzan looking at an uppity ape in the
jungle,
And tell them what do they think a bank is, anyhow, they had
better go get the money from their wife's aunt or ungle.
But suppose people come in and they have a million and they
want another million to pile on top of it,
Why, you brim with the milk of human kindness and you
urge them to accept every drop of it,
And you lend them the million so then they have two million
and this gives them the idea that they would be better off
with four,
So they already have two million as security so you have no
hesitation in lending them two more,
And all the vice-presidents nod their heads in rhythm,
And the only question asked is do the borrowers want the
money sent or do they want to take it withm.
Because I think they deserve our appreciation and thanks,
the ********* who go around saying that health and happi-
ness are everything and money isn't essential,
Because as soon as they have to borrow some unimportant
money to maintain their health and happiness they starve
to death so they can't go around any more sneering at good
old money, which is nothing short of providential.
4.5k
while you were singing in the churchyard
i was sleeping in the ***** barn
beside a withered picture of an astronaut
and a long beard filled with street secrets
while you were burning up in sainthood
i was screaming into a melancholy leaf
wearing sweat on my miserable *****
and a liar's grin on my face
while you were murdering your wife
i was milking this dream for all the light
and i thanked god on bended knee
saying you're a turtle dove in an icebox
while you martyred yourself into the ocean
i carried you with me on my road to freedom
like an aligator stomped hard by a mockingbird
or a mermaid shot full of antibirth tablets
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves
The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood
In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves
For battle’s fruitless harvest, and the feud
Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves
Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown
Along the westering furnace flaring red.
O martyred youth and manhood overthrown,
The burden of your wrongs is on my head.
3.3k
The argument ends
He "won"
I'm martyred
In silence
[10W]
Catherine Jarvis
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 1:32 AM UTC
Another prophet who got his top knocked off,
this system’s toxic thought we’d found hope but lost it,
Nipsey Hussle shot down outside his clothing store Marathon,
live and die in LA grow up only to get shot down on Slauson in Compton,
and the irony is that he was taken out,
in the same neighborhood he had invested in,
from Proud2Pay to AfroTech Nip was a Community Activist,
in a system of force fed poisons he was medicine,
and maybe that’s why he was martyred,
just like MLK Tupac and Marley,
this is all real life in living color,
life’s not a Game but this is The Documentary,
every word true,
I mean do you,
think it’s just a coincidence,
that Nip was murdered when,
it was announced he was about to come out with a film,
about Dr. Sebi,
the herbalist,
who was also possibly murdered when,
he went public with claims of curing AIDS and other illnesses,
nothing random about this act of violence,
it makes so much sense when you think about it,
nothing senseless in the message,
I mean seriously think about it,
MLK shot on 4/4 at 39,
NIP shot on 3/31 at age 33,
why do the most violent things happen,
to the brothers that preach the most peace,
it all makes sense everything adds up,
but most will probably dismiss this just as another conspiracy,
I mean I guess it doesn’t matter ‘cause nothing will bring Cuz back,
RIP NIP Rest in Peace Nipsey another brother gone to young at 33,
and it’s all so eery it’s creepy,
all the above evidence plus,
“Having enemies is a blessing.”,
was his last tweet,
as the words of his last sound sit in my ears as they ring,
**** I wish my n!gga Fats was here,
how’d you die at 30 somethin’ after bangin’ all them years,
Grammy nominated in the sauna shedding tears,
all this money power fame and I can’t make you reappear.”…
RIP NIP
∆ LaLux ∆
LA 2019
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 7:27 PM UTC
A silver moon engulfs a thousand suns
and sheds blue silky light across the land.
The wind plays its howling symphony,
with trees and mountains as instruments.
A cold body awakens from rigid sleep
putting tendons and muscles into motion.
Slowly, but ever faster it moves along
until spirit and body merge – creating life.
Consuming all its resources around
the goal has become a distant dream.
Then a jolt runs through the martyred figure
and it searches in vain for a familiar point.
From the deepest black it is driven,
without its doing and stiff resistance.
It must leave this beloved place
in exchange for coldness and piercing light.
However, all he sees is a giant devouring his body
to the sounds of his first screams.
But instead of terrible pain,
he now looks at the infinite cosmos.
Not with the spirit of an ape,
but that of a god, who experienced his birth, death and re-birth.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
He's been through this before
Writer's block
No, not that
But the feeling of it
Applied to life
As a whole
All's dank near the dream
The dream
That which we all have
Dreams of our lives
Dreams of our lies
As we abandon all good and evil
In our search for stability
What we seek
shining nameless
walking out of the world
we chase it
visualize it
black on glowing grey
the green light deferred for a grey one
It walks, then runs.
From these dreams
the witness
turns aside
constantly
throughout his life
the witness runs
the distance grows
the impossibility is perceptible
We know what is happening
We are all witnesses
yet we do not know the solution
so we watch on
the arid climate of our world scorched by our own infallibility
our race
the one we share as inhabitants of this earth
the one drawn as a cartoon image of itself
drawn in its own image
redrawn, modernized
The traveller waits on the shores of our beach
He beckons to the shadows in the distance
He calls out, warmly
like a father to his son
He calls once more
He calls no more
The traveller waits
I wish to call out to the traveller
I wish to exclaim
'disguise not your battered soul'
I wish to comfort
But I cannot
I am in the distance
My limbs will not carry me in that direction
I am in the distance
amongst a flock of martyred guns
in our digital world, a blank text box is a blank page.
we need not think about what we will write
we need not think.
yet we are human.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
I am here now
Amidst the ashes;
Away from the world's mystification.
Do not weep for me now
Remember my sacrifices;
My love, my life for the nation.
They reckon they've won now
They laugh, they celebrate-
Sad! they do not grasp the ramification.
Mother have lost her child now
Holding a grave ache in her heart.
And me- a fallen father for my girl and son!
Will I be avenged now!
Or end up like a long lost memory
Of honor and love for my country?
Will I be avenged!
Or end up as a tool in the game of politics
Between vultures clutching on the opportunity?
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 11:38 AM UTC
She said a prayer
to which I was not an answer
and yet I burned
until I burned myself out
like a candle on Shabbat.
And the words of her prayer ceased
and her lips were still
like the surface of the salt sea,
and yet I still burn
like a wound exposed below
the surface.
And the words of her prayer
went unanswered
like the cries of my martyred dead
and yet I still burn
like the silence of a candle remembering them.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC
thirty years
since Mark gunned you down
thirty years, passed
like a long sleepless night
that ends with taunting morning light
no brilliant sunrise grandly pronouncing
a glorious new dawn of man
although that would have been your plan
with your entreaties to give peace a chance
and imagine, imagine, imagine
now I kneel in this rain gray park
like a reject from some holy ark
a pilgrim in doleful disappointed pose
after seeing what your earthly brothers chose
was not to imagine a world of peace and love
but to wear reality like a cast iron glove
making mockery of your martyred chants
proceeding like a billion scurrying ants
deaf to your childlike pleas
across the soaked soil where your ashes lay
yesterday and today…and tomorrow
I feel the soggy sorrow
that you would have felt
if you could still see
all the rage of humanity
(written 7 years ago on the 30th anniversary of the ****** of John Lennon)
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 2:53 PM UTC
Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
Cross legged I sit
Swallowing stables to repair my inner self
Am I to be martyred?
Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
I'm in a panic, my heart's edging its final fit
Cross legged I sit
With a scissors I cut off my rough edges
Am I to be martyred?
Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
In my head I feel this is it
Using a ruler to guide my knife
Blood falls like a liquid hour glass ending my life
I can't be who I have to be
My aspirations far outweigh my ability
My motivation is hindered by my stupidity
I'm sick of the annual near life experience
Depression is the zeitgeist of our generation
Correct me if I'm wrong
Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
I try to hot clue my memories
The fondest, I fear, aren't even true
I feel like I'm being eaten alive
I'm a lobster in a *** slowly being boiled
My claws are being torn from me
My very soul being soiled
My heart is still beating
My legs are being ripped from my rife carcass
I cry louder than I ever thought possible
Still breathing I am in gross darkness
My eyes feel like they're going to bleed
My tail is ripped from me
I wish I could plea
But I'm just one
I'm just me
Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
But I will share
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
child of two moons
the harvest wheat grows
diamonds
on its stalks
daughter of the broken king
your carousel’s chained bears and albino
peacocks scream at night for
their release
lonely lover
the keyhole is rusted since he last
touched you
the oil getting rancid
martyred saint
your doe heart has an arrow of Cupid’s
skewering through a demon’s
confession written in fire
weeping widow
your maid took your cup of tears
to water the lilies giving
root at his grave
sanguine seamstress
do not stitch the bird’s
wing that has bashed
out its brains
non-existent soul mate
your fingerprints stain
my poems
with star grease
lover whose number I lost track of
I feel your footsteps ricochet
within my bones please
stop running I’m trying to sleep
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
Standing on the peak of the hill
with no one to stop me to jump into
the oblivion from the mist to hard soil.
I was kissing the uncertainty of the
overwhelming wind that unusually
bade me a cold-hearted good bye.
Death was an easy choice to make
with life ready to leave me in 2 feet away
and thousands martyred moments
begging me to come and mingle
with them for ever and ever.
But NO,this is NOT the end my friend.
I have to be awake in order to pretend
this dream is not a reality indeed....
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
I apologize if my eyes,
Tend to wander into your worlds.
Penetrating the walls you’ve built,
To get a sneak peek into your last nights
And next years
And what are you doing todays.
I apologize,
If my ears air-waved into your waving dictions,
Dropping tones,
Dimming voices,
Dictating the peace you want yourself to attain
Through the side conversations
And the cocktail effects
Attending, to what you’re not aware of.
And I wasn’t aware that you are going to treat me that way;
I gave you my heart over dinner
Last night; under the table your family was sitting on-
As we put on our decorous smiles
And threw our shy giggles;
Cracking up with strong inner laughter within,
Because the same
Lost, upset, wild
Shoot first ask later couple
Are pretending to blush over “grown up” jokes
Made by our fathers
To test our inner surfaces;
I gave you my heart over dinner last night,
And that was
THE last night;
Because my heart and yours
Stopped exercising their vividness
On a Tuesday morning.
They, stopped writing musicals of us,
For my heart was executed
And yours got shattered-
Nowhere to be found;
Martyred in between the lines of a political message
They wrote with your blood
Forgetting about mine,
They carved their letters
With the nymph in a black sweater;
And the river that she used to own,
Took her away
Before anyone can see,
The disfigured goddess now list in the sea
Of blood-of my thoughts and reflections.
My voice,
Now layered into dissimilar tones;
The lowest, is the one I use to constantly pray for you
And the highest is for me to scream for your fallen eyes.
I stand steady
Against the tidal waves
And write on the walls
The poetry I kept inside,
The walls you’ve built;
The walls everyone builds
And I try to penetrate
To get a sneak peek
Of their last night’s
And next year’s
And what are you doing today’s.
Because my walls are destroyed
My pillars are demolished
My life is but a living memory of hers,
And my eyes are nothing but thieves,
Staring their way to steel the words
From the faces in the crowd
In order to write something
That can get me to forget
That I am mourning;
That in my head plays a sad guitar,
With a silent base
And a lost drum beat.
I apologize for writing this,
For letting your eyes conquer these papers
For letting your ears hear those words.
I apologize for feeling the urge to apologize
But that’s what I grew up on
And no one can seem to get rid of their bad habits…
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
In an age of persecution
When Christians died
For their beliefs
Apostle John wrote
Revelation
To encourage and
Bring relief
First century folk
Who held Jesus' tenants
Were martyred in
Most horrid ways
But John wrote about
His coming
Christ described the
End of Days.
The early faithful
Found their solace
In the Gospel
Sweet & pure
The Bible's WORD
Was ever spoken
And its precepts
Still endure
Modern man cannot
Believe it
Because he has
A hardened heart
But when tribulation
Finds him
Rest assured he'll come apart!
So we put our trust in Jesus?
IS He simply "fairy tale"?
Why did Christians
Sing their hearts out
When lit on fire and impaled?
How could they endure
Having their heads drilled
Molten lead then poured within?
How could could they
Be so calm & joyous
When lions tore them
Limb from limb?
Their contemporaries
Could not believe it!
When Christ was preached
It was received!
The Gospel forwarded
By each man dying
By their blood
The folk believed!
Now Christian people
Won't mention Jesus!
They give sin a little wink!
They're afraid of persecution
By caring what the
Lost may think!
Wake up, folks!
The toast is burning!
Give witnessing
The college try!
There are hearts
Who're out there yearning!
Cap'n Crunch waves us goodbye!
I may get flack
For this assertion
I may get comments
For to spare
I may get called
A backward person
People... I don't really care!
If I don't warn of
God's Judgment
Tribulations in this land
I'm not a Watchman on
The Wall here
And
your blood is on my hands!
I'll read & preach
From Revelation
The ending always
Helps us cope
Read the outcome
Of our suffering
It will give ETERNAL HOPE.
SøułSurvivør
(C) 9/27/2017
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 1:41 AM UTC
What has become of my lost brothers?
Trimmareus, the insane voice of the sensual pig,
who fled from his blue mural
to the land of jazz and muffaletas
only to discover the senselessness of clothes...
Peter, the pine tree apostle,
who paved the way to indifference
on a needle point, silently
prophesying the burning of Atlanta (in Atlanta)...
Time Crisis, the first disciple of
the salt or pepper Antichrist,
who physically assaulted his mind
in an attempt to defy gravity,
finally settling for three
squares and a cot...
Amante, the disturbed and uprooted lover,
who, by some accounts, fancied
urinating in the face of his
keepers.
All of these brothers have fallen,
cherub wings or no, and the
meek are left behind in
quiet speculation of our vain attempts
to ***** out these small campfires
of insurrection.
We have taken the low road,
carrying our hearts in wicker baskets
and our monkeys on our backs,
spitting and cursing about
time love money *** school work
life the safety bar money ***
violence apathy love and time
when we discover we do not have
the ones we feel we need.
(do you want peace?)
We cried over the death of the apostle
knowing he had martyred himself
for no particular reason, and
after vilifying his role and path,
attempted to follow his lead
into the night regardless
(I make peace.)
We vomited on the lover's dossier
in response to repeated professions
of innocence and conspiracy
at the hands of the merciless
system (created by sensuous hands).
The outsiders can see the dragon,
rising out of the depths
and whispering our demise like
sweet nothings in the ears of the
desperate hopeful;
(Come and be free in my sunshine.)
the beckoning of the crashing surf
and the beauty of the half sun
radiating and filtering our
reservations into happiness at the
acts we commit in its name
(Sacrifice to me your children's tongues and hearts,
send them away bleeding and crying.)
We are the pure of heart in
this sick land of Golgotha,
where the rain is only the urination
of our higher powers, the
soap we cleanse our souls with
and witness to others so
that they too can enjoy
this ancient bliss.
(Visit my website and see...)
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
Once, long ago
I gazed upon
the world with
conformity’s eyes
and found it absurd
And I cursed existence
and my fellow man
I built a wall to defend
the tattered remnants
of the sanity I perceived
I still possessed
I built a wall that quickly
became a desolate prison
standing cold in the face
of forgiveness and love
I ignored beauty’s gentle bliss
I insulted love in the name
of an antiquated morality
Oh spirits
Oh demons
Oh harbingers
of what lies
beyond
perception
It was to you
that I entrusted
my salvation
It was to you that
I prayed in expectation
of deliverance
I begged for naught
but a cessation of being
to relieve the nightmare
of existence
In desperation
I grasped the reins
of intolerance
I drew the sword
of superficial righteousness
carving a swath of condemnation
through the ranks of my brothers
for the sake of a disapproving God
I wounded virtue in the name of heaven
I exchanged reason for faith
I threw compassion to the dogs of indifference
What pain has my existence
brought my fellow man?
My path to salvation lies
hidden among the bones
of those I once held dear
Heaven should not
exact such remuneration
for paradise cannot be
purchased with the blood
of hatred and the
tears of martyred tolerance
I will not kneel before
such an altar
Not again
Never again
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 10:46 AM UTC
~
*lost library books
and broken lunchbox thermos,
her childhood under a forgotten
leaf on a pond.
she's attracted to the sound
of the breeze through her hair,
inner-city birds recommending
she listen with her head underwater,
to experience it as a fish might.
this is inescapable.
blood roses in the snow,
her unemployed martyred
fingers in the factory.
the manufactured years go by
at a price too great to recover from.
for every flash of beauty,
there is a hint of anger; a dash of violence.
this is inescapable.
her sleep-flower recital
in a dew-swathed spring morning hospital,
some kind of faraway pink funeral for
dead trees and traffic lights.
treasure impaired clouds capture
an isolated moment in time.
perhaps several moments.
perhaps several parts of the same moment.
this is inescapable.*
~
Apr 30, 2023
Apr 30, 2023 at 1:29 AM UTC