"pilate" poems
Lady Macbeth washed her hands
cleaner than Pontius Pilate
with a new improved, bio-enzyme
oxy-bursting, 99.9% germ-scouring
recommended by dermato-logists
scented with rose attar
oils from Arabia
and spermaceti soothing
unguents from long dead whales.
She’s going to the nail bar
for a manicure and application
of semi-permanent, diamond-
tipped, acrylic base-coated
in red blood enamel.
She’ll scratch
and etch rich tattoos
on her husband’s back
with every ****** he will shudder
with pain and delight
He’ll soon forget long, dark nights
bewitched by ghosts and ambition.
© M.L. Emmett
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
the sounds are there, they come through walls
right around the corner
they're not visual, they're miserable and in need
they're equal opportunity exhibitionists
lovers of a family get together, taking everything in
parasitic and aware, destitute and stuck
but they're also there at the wrong time
the wrong time for the person who's alone
the wrong time for a person who's disconnected
because they want to be enjoying peace and quiet
alone
by themselves in an old house
with summer outside making its noises, crickets
trees rustling under a jeweled sky, the pinnacle of up high
breathing in the home air of cannibus, lotion and food
being disturbed is far from a thought, but unavoidable
simultaneously
because the house has a strange history
the basement floods, and the machinery kicks in
the mind ponders as the constellations wander
the nights grow and shrink, the body is dry, bone dry
the shower is turned on, soap, shampoo
lost in the mind on autopilot
until the spine stiffens
its without a doubt that I'm not alone now
a minute ago i was the master of this house
a minute ago I was naked in the hallway, smoking a cigar
now I've been usurped and I just want to barricade myself
in this house that I've live in for 15 years, now i beg for permission
to stay just one more night
I beg because how could I possibly fight
It's my conscious or the pontius pilate
I hope it's the former, because if not, blowout the pilot light
There's little hope for re-ignition or stellar recognition
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
It's an old question.
Pilate asked.
Keats told us.
It's what we believe.
A lie is truth.
Some lies may coincide
With my truth,
But never quite the same.
There's always a bit of truth
In every line.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 7:42 AM UTC
/ innocent until prōven guilty,
contra guilty until
prōven innocent...
ah!
so the minority report?
guilty, while innocent,
based upon a premonition?
hindsight with a zodiac
type of interpretation...
innocent until prōven guilty
has no superiority
in practice over the continental
guilty until prōven innocent...
no... because the principle invokes
presuppositions,
of suppositions...
treating the two as propositions -
or rather... "verbs" inacted...
innocent until prōven guilty -
then no understanding of freedom,
at least guilty until prōven innocent
allows understanding
restraint, however unfair,
with 18 years lost...
and then the tears of relief!
Tomasz Komenda...
an "espionage" case of staging
empathy...
en masse...
an innocent man walks away
from falsely imposed justice measures...
a redemption...
a count de monte cristo
allowance...
but in reverse?
the evil man walks free...
succumbing to old age,
and dementia, a pontius pilate pardon...
there is no redemption aspect
of the saxon course of applying jurisprudence...
the... innocent, until prōven guilty,
contra: guilty until prōven innocent
schizophrenia?
the latter overshadows
the former...
because we're not babies...
at least with the latter:
there's a redemption exegesis -
but with the former?
bitter-sweet tears within
the confines, of an example akin
to jimmy savile...
guilty until prōven innocent
has much more authentic emotional
content, with a redemption narrative...
innocent until prōven guilty
has? not much,
just a grave,
and the stunted emotional expression,
what ought to be flowers
within the heart,
instead: fungus, growing in the dark...
and thus... translating
to other hearts:
let's allow this chemo-phobia
chemo-philia experiment
be left intact in its the momentum...
honestly... the study of law -
is probably the ********* game
in the allowance of games of
adulthood... one tier above gambling.
p.s.
because you know there's proof:
and that the past-participle
thrown into a future, does require
an omega rather than an omicron...
not an oh, but an ooh...
hence? reign from above,
on the omicron, with a macron (ō).
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
***** Hands
Are they clean?
Pontius Pilate, washing those hands that night, now are the filthy deeds made white!
America, do tell about the politicians blind-eyed toward homeless people in the streets, tell me about children starving to death?
Does a wealthy man cleanse hiimself as the blood leaves his hands?
Banning guns & glocks, as girls
are sold into slavery, in the blocks.
A gift for kids to go to school
It's not a gift to get shot up.
From poverty to bullies to school shootings, Mrs. Liberty has lost her footing.
When we go home, locking doors and turning the noise up, is washing of the hands with soap, making us whole?
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 11:48 PM UTC
Who else in this inhumane edifice
can dance while the suspecting eyes stare
at his moistened armpit?
Pathetically unknowing music uplifts not just the soul but the intellect.
Who else got the fire in imparting?
or …
did theirs even start a single spark since then?
Who else brings out the best in these hopefuls?
It’s all the worse and worst that they see.
And you think San Pedro would be pleased
when you gloat you made all the priests, doctors, and engineers?
Woe to you who humiliate the chair by your indolent butts
while uttering kindergartenous blabbers you claim to be education!
Then you get all you want while tabula rasa remains tabula rasa.
And you
You seated on the higher chairs!
Why don’t you trample down awhile
and put your cataracting sight to use
before it even brings you to the death of light.
Has anyone of you even heard what your god told to Pontius Pilate?
Ha! The you-have-no-power-over-me’s have always been impervious to you bigots!
And you say to your kin let me handle it.
When it is delayed and their impatience grows
you see they’ll leave.
Did you ever fret about deadlines
of bills, of matriculas, of debts?
What do you feed to your clan? Feeds?
Get Ripley’s here!
Oh how divine to utter all the Fs!
©Glenn L. Sentes
February 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 5:41 AM UTC
1735
One crown that no one seeks
And yet the highest head
Its isolation coveted
Its stigma deified
While Pontius Pilate lives
In whatsoever hell
That coronation pierces him
He recollects it well.
3.1k
basic arithmetic in terms of punctuation, otherwise? simply the arithmetic of punctuation: what does (,) equal? what does (.) equal? what does (:) equal? what does (-) equal? what does (;) equal? come on, quick! quick! give me a number!
to think, is to not narrate,
much of what is regarded as
"thinking", simply becomes as art
of narration
that is sofa-bound, i.e. so comfortable
that it feels it has no inclination
toward the use of hands as ever
being idle, it simply replaces
hands with a tongue...
hence: idle speech,
hence political speech;
so if the "devil" has work for idle hands,
then "god" has work for the idle zunge
(tongue)...
but most people don't think,
because their thinkling is solely about
narrating,
their day-to-day...
and i appreciate this custom,
in the cognitive realm...
i really do...
how many jokes ushered into
the void of one's silence, neither whisphers,
nor hummings, nor whistling...
wiser still, essentially unchanged...
but heidegger's aphorism no. 285
really bothers me...
the reader looking into the narrator
given the existentialist inverted commas
(iberian inverted questioning
¿ ? that's the first step toward
an iberian existentialism)
said the third person,
with third party sources, the middle man,
the second person, and then the reader
of the writer's original testimony?
if northern existentialism (french / german...
the english were too reactionary, and
too easily bored by the continental drift)
encompasses the tool that's " "
then the iberian tool has to be the inverted
question mark, i.e. ¿ ?,
sitting comfortably? no? how about a wheelchair...
let me just break your legs and your spine.
but aphorism 285: "worldview",
"grounding", "configuring"...
i don't understand this allocation of ambiguity,
and an italic stress on da-sein / da-sein...
aren't all the three descriptive elements /
adjectives the purposive sentiments for
originating the concept of dasein?
i had to counter with an iberian existential tool...
after all i said, 'he said', "we said"...
it's a third party medium
of supposed ambiguity...
if there's a santa claus (satan's clause),
then there's pontius pilate's clause,
found in the existential tool of double-ditto " "
or as the english like to say: inverted commas;
or the ritual: of washing your hands clean
from passing the judgement...
they're citation marks to be honest, come on,
let's be pompous, they donned 19th top-hats
at ascot's horse races! who's fooling who?
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
“Get ‘em up, Teacher.”
I felt the gun at my back and had no choice but to raise fingers, and said, “Got the drop on me, eh, Judas? Why don’t you pull the trigger?”
“Forget it. We’re going to Jerusalem where I’m going to turn you over to Herod. Pilate’s holding my gang and God knows what he’s doing to make them talk—only they don’t know anything, so they can’t talk. He’s torturing them for nothing but everybody knows the only thing he wants is to get his hands on you.
I’m going to see that he does. That will get him to cut loose my boys and take the heat off me too, see? It’ll be all over the papers when they crucify you.”
“And what will the papers say about you? You don’t know what you’re doing, Judas. Do you think the Romans will let your outfit run the territory?”
“Sure they will.”
“You’ll run it all right—run it right into the ground. You’re not ready for the big dominion, Judas. You’d be getting in over your head.”
“Quiet.”
“You know Herod gets his marching orders from Pilate and Pilate takes his orders from Caesar. Where do you fit in? You’re high and mighty now but those boys will wipe their boots on you and keep right on going. I didn’t come back to get served up on a silver platter. I came to dish it out. Nobody’s going to step on me and get away with it.”
“Quiet, I said. Now move,” he prodded with his pistol.
I walked a little but stayed close to the walls and he shoved me from behind to make me go faster, but he didn’t want me going too fast because that would attract attention.
He called out to the shadows, “Simon!”
There was no answer and he got nervous. “Simon,” he repeated, not wanting to yell out loud. He looked back and forth, taking his eyes off me for a second. I dropped, and swiping a foot beneath his legs toppled him to the ground. The pistol went off and ricocheted off the wall and I kicked the gun from his hand. Simon appeared with his hands held high, the Baptist behind him pushing him along with the business end of his rod.
“What do you want to do with them, Teacher?”
I felt sorry for the saps. They weren’t any better off than when they’d started.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
a gathering;
parietal.
upon the hill.
where truth beguiled,
and brightened by
the suns of gods;
crucified...
somehow
outshone by
the light of our skin.
where
the dagger rests,
now sleeping
in the flesh;
the blood of martyrs
was not enough
for the black sky
over Golgotha.
oh father,
forgive us
for we know not what
we do.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
A hush. A fanfare. It begins
As loved ones huddle close
To the marble hearth.
My grandmother’s eye streams
Bitter cold, she says. So is my granda’s
Gravestone – glinting charcoal, that rises
Through a sea of green. An archipelago
Of poinsettias. Words resonate
Off each little island, every city state
With its own legislature. Have you doused
That water on it yet? Have those roses
Seen the end of their days? Quiet, now
First glorious mystery: the resurrection
Of our Lord Jesus Christ. We power on
Standing firm. Forgiveness. Compassion.
Trust; the chant becomes louder
Closer, closer, we cry. I can see Pilate now
Washing his hands. Closer, closer – even louder
They need to make it through. It all depends on us
To light the way. Where are we? Third? Fourth?
Or even further? The beads shimmer as the frenzy
Grows, a pitch higher. Grant it, Lord
Through your mercy, and yours alone:
Bells toll and toll again, seeking the way
It’s time. Anytime now. With just a little push –
Silence. It is finished. A collective sigh
Done for another year. Did all we could
To save those souls; they’ll make it this time around
I’m sure of it. The crowd swells, swiveling the map
Of the yard, inspecting the atlas to no end.
We don’t stay long. Granny’s cold. She’s satisfied
She’s stood for pretty long.
My mate says we sleep till the time; I hope he’s right
I’d rather they rest than run, stay out of sight.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
Right off the bat, I want to remind you that I'm not sorry.
That being said.
Sometimes, I empathize with
Lady Macbeth
and her perpetually stained hands.
More often, I sympathize with
Pontius Pilate
and his hands that never got *****
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 9:24 PM UTC
Hello. Welcome. Sit down. Get comfortable.
Let me introduce myself.
I’m a man of the finer things in life.
I’ve been here for a long while.
Captured, lured, seduced, and wooed many the heart and mind.
You hear about that Jesus Christ?
All that trouble for uncertainty.
Well as for Pilate
Thought he could get away clean.
I couldn’t be happier
Hearing people fight for years
Over false prophets they made.
It is a pleasure to meet you.
Hope you guess my name.
Perplexing?
I was made this way.
Did you hear about St. Petersburg?
Revolution!
Killed the czar and his ministers.
Anastasia screamed to me.
I was plastered on the walls of Auschwitz.
Smelled the hot flesh burn.
For ten decades.
It is a pleasure to meet you.
Hope you guess my name.
Perplexed?
I was made this way.
Just as the innocent are corrupt
The corrupt are innocent.
As black is white.
As up is down.
Some call me Lucifer.
I can smell it on you.
Someone please hold me back.
But if we meet.
Be polite.
Have some pity and charm
Use all your manners.
Or kiss your *** goodbye.
It is a pleasure to meet you.
I’ll say this once it’s your fault.
Perplexing?
I was made this way.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
Back-stabber count your silver coins,
all thirty pieces do enjoy.
For thou have torn it from the ****
of he whom thou deem to destroy.
Conveyed before said holy male
who fears to take decision home.
Responsibility he doth bale,
forth-giving this to man of Rome.
Upon to Pilate do I see.
Should I relinquish my belief?
Will mine own peoples see me free
instead of murderer or thief?
In my defence nought do I speak
to only God do I ask praise.
Forgive me not for thou art week
and power to thee is but a phase.
Upon mine head a crown of thorns
secured firmly into place
as harassed by unfriendly scorn.
Holy blood, bathes holy face.
Barbs of metal scourge my all,
unlawful hurt do I withstand.
Burdened with weight I make a fall.
Samaritan doth lend a hand.
Rods of steel fix flesh and bone
to that of mans' wooden *****
In painful agony, though not alone,
with Holy Father I connect.
Hoisted aloft on knoll of high.
Visible means to fear their weight.
Drawn upright, that I may die.
Design to clear of human slate.
Soon this pain will free of me.
My passing so that they may live.
Exalted father thou can see
this son gives all a son can give.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
Let as many Bondservants as are under the Yoke Count their own Masters Worthy of all Honor, so that the name Of GOD and His Doctrine may not be Blasphemed. And those who have believing masters, let them not Despise them because they are Brethren, but rather Serve them because those who are Benefited are Believers and Beloved. Teach and Exhort these things. If anyone Teaches otherwise and Does not Consent to Wholesome Words even the Words of our LORD Jesus Christ, and to the Doctrine which Accords with Godliness. He is Proud, knowing nothing, but is Obsessed with Disputes and Arguments over Words, from which Come Envy, Strife, Reviling, Evil-Suspicions. Useless Wranglings of Men of Corrupt Minds and Destitute of the Truth, who Suppose that Godliness is A means of Gain. From such Withdraw Thyself. Now Godliness with Contentment is Great Gain. For we Brought nothing into this World, and it is Certained We Can Carry Nothing Out. And having Food and Clothing, with these we shall be Content. But those who Desire to be Rich Fall into Temptation and Snare, and into many Foolish and Harmful Lusts which Drown Men in Destruction and Perdition. For the Love Of Money Is A Root Of All Kinds Of Evil, for which some have Strayed from the Faith in their Greediness, and Pierced Themselves through with many Sorrows. But thou, O Man Of GOD, Flee these things and Pursue Righteousness, Godliness, Faith, LOVE, Patience and Gentleness. Fight the Good Fight Of Faith, lay hold on Eternal Life, to which thou were also called and have Confessed the Good Confession in the Presence of many Witnesses. I Urge You, in the Sight of GOD who gives Life to All things, and before Christ Jesus who Witnessed the Good Confession before Pontius Pilate. That thou Keep this Commandment without Spot, Blameless until our Lord Jesus Christ's Appearing. Which He will Manifest in His Own Time, He who is the Blessed and Only Potentate, Thy King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Who alone has Immortality, Dwelling in Unapproachable Light, whom no Man has Seen or can See, to whom Be Honor and Everlasting Power. Amen... Command those who are Rich in this present Age not to be Haughty, nor to Trust in Uncertain Riches but Trust in the Living GOD, who gives Us Richly all things to Enjoy. Let them do Good, that they be Rich in Good Works, ready to Give, Willing to Share. Storing up for themselves a Good Foundation for the Time to Come, that they may lay Hold on Eternal Life... Guard what was committed to Your Trust, Avoiding the Profane and Idle Babble and Contradictions of what is Falsely called Knowledge.... By Professing it some have Strayed Concerning the Faith.. Grace Be with Ours All.. Amen.!
GOD Is Our Strength,
GOD Is Love,
GOD With Us,
GOD Bless,
Peace n Love.!!
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC
Do you remember when we were boys?
When mischief was our main profession?
With mud about our corduroys
Walking from the field in our football procession?
We chased and tried to catch the girls
Whom we presumed thought us cool.
We occupied our time in class with jokes
Or smoking cigarette butts behind the school.
Time the tax-collector troubled us not
For all the years of these days,
Time was when we ate and how our race
Told our speed, which meant a lot.
Work was gathering stones to build our forts,
Scavenging sticks to build a fire of sorts,
Setting a trap for some unlucky beast,
Or waking to see the glorious sun rising in the east.
I remember when, God forgive our souls,
We skipped Mass (more than once, I might add)
To eat teachers' kolaches and doughnut holes,
But more for the adventures we had.
When we ran in the forest, we were Injuns.
When we sailed on the lake, we were Pirates,
But now we're just drab grown-ups,
Our characters weak as sand; like Pilate's.
What changed in us?
What made this so?
Temptation leads to sin, plus
Sin corrupts the soul.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
Into the depths of untold depravity,
a perfect creation had fallen away;
unimagined grace poured out from our God above -
As His Hand of wrath was firmly stayed.
The Cross, stark and still, standing upon a naked hill...
subtly calls for the World's attention.
Since the dawn of everlasting time,
our Savior awaited His appointed day;
despite humanity's race to certain doom -
His Hand of wrath was intentionally stayed.
The Cross, stark and still, standing upon a naked hill...
continues to demonstrate His gift of Salvation.
The twinkling stars danced across the midnight blue
as songs arose from the angelic array;
quietly the Messianic babe in a manger lay -
As His Hand of wrath was lovingly stayed.
The Cross, stark and still, standing upon a naked hill...
serves as a testament of Love's perfection.
A carpenter's son? He's just a man!
His godly claim on earth displayed
had believers searching for purest faith -
His Hand of wrath was securely stayed.
The Cross, stark and still, standing upon a naked hill...
reminds that our debt was paid for sin's violation.
In the face of false accusations,
Christ held His tongue to Pilate's dismay,
for God's plan played out for all to see -
As His Hand of wrath was purposely stayed.
The Cross, stark and still, standing upon a naked hill...
is a backdrop for a risen Lord calling us with adoration.
Author Notes:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
This is a collaboration piece with Mr. Jeffrey Jordan of Wichita Falls, Texas.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 10:16 AM UTC
Like it, Hate it
The truth won't change.
You might say religion,
Or mask it in Karma,
Or just call it sad,
That turn of events were.
Like Pontus Pilate
You will never ever
Wash your hand off,
Never Wash off the blood.
Worse, you will never
Be remembered in prayer.
Purgatory will turn on you.
Where will you go
When thousands grab you,
Where will you go
When riots burn you?
For all those who were cut
and burnt even in wombs,
You will answer how?
No Hindutva will save.
No rioter will survive.
Like it, Hate it.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC
And Jesus said, "He who drinks from my mouth will become as I am and I shall be he"
Gnostic Gospel of Thomas vs. 108
*1
They sang and
they danced in
praise of the
Savior
And I left the church
I walked quickly
and I was at the
water's edge.
A man waist deep
offered to baptize
me in the name
of the Lord...
And I did not stop
Further on, a sorrowful
Mother asked if perhaps
I knew of her son
Jesus…
But I pretended not to hear.
In the forest
the twelve
approached me
with a message
of good news...
But I paid them no mind.
2
And when I came
to a clearing I met
a young man whom
I had always known.
His beard was unkempt
and blood was dripping
from wounds in his hands
and feet.
A crown of thorns sat
upon his head, and blood
trickled down his cheek.
'Do you know me?' he asked.
'Of course I know you!' I shouted.
'I left you behind at the church!
At the river, one of your followers
sought to baptize me and along the
road a Mother spoke your name.
In the forest, your apostles
confronted me with your
message.
Did I not take my leave
of them all?
I thought I was rid of you,
yet here you stand
Tell me! Why do you haunt me?
Why can I not leave you behind?'
3
He grabbed my shoulders
and I felt the pain in all
of my body and in all
of my being
and he asked me again:
'Do you know who I am?'
'You are the Christ!' I cried
'And I have heard your
story from every church and
holy man in the kingdom.
But I want nothing to do
with you!
I want only to leave you
behind and live my life
At this he looked into
my eyes and as his
penetrating stare drew
my senses to his being,
his face began to change.
He was one of the
singing parishioners at
the church.
Then another,
and another until the
likeness of each one
was in him.
Then he was the
man in the river
and the Mother,
and every one
of the twelve
and I stared
in disbelief
He began to take
on the appearance
of everyone I had
ever known and
even those I would
never meet.
His face was changing rapidly:
African, Asian, Spaniard, European,
From every race and every creed
he became everyone who ever was
and everyone who ever will be…
A few I recognized.
Mohamed, Caesar, the Buddha,
Pontius Pilate, Krishna, Herod,
Moses, Pharaoh.
Faster and faster he changed until
I was dizzy with incomprehension.
Then, as quickly as it had begun,
the celestial parade ceased.
He was Jesus again, standing before me.
His hands and feet caked in blood.
The crown of thorns still resting atop
his head.
4
'I do not understand,' I said.
And he smiled.
And again he looked into my eyes.
'You can never leave me behind.'
And as he spoke he began to change again,
And I found myself standing before another image.
One I surely knew well.
There…
In the clearing of a forest
that existed beyond the boundaries
of space and time,
I looked into my own eyes...
And understood.*
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 5:16 AM UTC
At the foot of the Cross stood the Magdalene
with Mary, his mother, and John.
Jesus was now in extremis-
the curious people had gone.
The mark of the whips were upon him,
an ugly bruise under his eye.
Blood filtered down from the crown made of thorns.
dripping down from his face to one thigh.
Mary watched as her eldest was dying.
Bore her pain with incredible calm.
She wished that, his agony over,
She’d hold him once more in her arms.
With breath that was labored and shallow
He spoke with his life nearly gone
He commended young John to his mother
And commended his mother to John
He looked at the Magdalene sadly
With a love that’s ineffably rare.
Then with loud voice he cried out to Heaven
A fool might think this was despair.
Joseph of Arimethea
came with a ladder near dusk
With the help of the Priest, Nicodemus
He took the crucified Son from his Cross.
Mary was silently weeping
at the body of Christ in her arms.
She looked at the King Pilate murdered.
Whom the people had greeted with Palms
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
527
To put this World down, like a Bundle—
And walk steady, away,
Requires Energy—possibly Agony—
’Tis the Scarlet way
Trodden with straight renunciation
By the Son of God—
Later, his faint Confederates
Justify the Road—
Flavors of that old Crucifixion—
Filaments of Bloom, Pontius Pilate sowed—
Strong Clusters, from Barabbas’ Tomb—
Sacrament, Saints partook before us—
Patent, every drop,
With the Brand of the Gentile Drinker
Who indorsed the Cup—
1.2k
In the Garden of Gethsemane
My Lord did humbly bend the knee
Praying all night for the world at large
And wrestling with His mighty charge
Yet as His disciples prayed to God
Their weary heads began to nod
And soon drifted off to sleep
Jesus alone; they slumbered deep
In the morn He woke them saying
"Why sound asleep; you should be praying"
They had no answer for their Lord
As soliders came they slashed with sword
Severed ear fell to ground
Which Jesus replaced without a sound
He was led away in captivity
But they did not know it was His destiny
Pilate succumbed to the crowds demands
To the cross they nailed His healing hands
"Forgive them, they know not what they do"
He pleaded to God for me and you
"It is finished," He said with final breath
And the Devil rejoiced at His death
His followers mourned for Him aloud
Yet on the 3rd day He threw off His shroud
For He came to seek and save what was lost
Bringing light to a world at great cost
He freely bore the sin of every man
Securing once and for all Salvation's Plan
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
Your words sizzle,
spouting fire in the back of my mind
from kindling
to flames from the maw of an unappeased dragon.
They twitch at my lips,
begging to be set free
but I keep them trapped.
They want to flee
so my mind rinses cleaner than Pilate’s hands.
They cling like spiders to my gums,
finding holes from which to poke
a solitary spindly leg
and then explode,
scattering shadows and hallucinations
and vocabulary *****
But now the monsters are lurking in corners
not just in my brain
and they reach out with scaly claws
to brush passersby on the shoulder
or neck
and I am Pandora and you are
the box.
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
sometimes, i look at dainty strong marble effigies
of the ****** mary holding her birth-bloodied son
and wonder if some loves aren't meant for everyone.
chastity-locked inside my heart, there's a woman
who wears long sundresses and lives in the little mac and cheese potluck moments;
she prays her rosary and feels the warm arms
of her traditional husband who loves her as a duty.
as for jesus, well, he's a cheap plastic figurine
she bought from ebay and stuck on the dashboard of her car;
the heat melted his feet in a crucifixion of 2020
but he still stands, wobbly and shaky and commercialised.
when she travels, she prays to him for safety.
(she doesn't travel a lot. she's happy to be stagnant and pray for still waters every morning.)
who cares about my heart, though?
who loves unconditionally and always,
and sees through the rips of cartilage and crushed aorta -
who will look and look and look
and see me? sorry, see me? sorry, see me out.
sometimes, i want to be a child again;
cradled in my mother's arms. sometimes,
i want to no longer put my dreams on hold.
sometimes, i want the world to look at me and say
"hey, pontius pilate, there's another one for martyrdom."
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 7:33 PM UTC