"popes" poems
flex and perspire my darling
would you mind a small suffering for craven kisses
to have your dark fig **** and drenching *****
stroked with a tickling finger lingering
and strong hands around your sweetly curved throat
that shunt the breath
to yield willingly for sharp-toothed nibbles with surprise tongue whipping?
will you present your soft belly and cupping *******
for dark cruelties that excite beyond tabulation
will you present yourself with smiles
and goddess leg show
sobbing for feral pink spires gleaming
while quivering thighs
turn hot red from the slap of the leather strap splitting stings?
will tears of love
mix in wild berry utterance
and flashing spitfire’s tongue?
are you made for this?
your every whimper an invitation
like an open pink gate
do you need the saint of dark desires to rescue you
from banal dim-witted all american in and out?
do you need to drown in oceanic wave tsunamis
of hot butter **** glitter, blood flooding gasms
and tender aftercare?
my wish
that you shimmer like silver
possessed
by the saint of sadism
popes of eros
who fill you with the milk of the moon
all stars that melt you into the depths of paradise
and that this dark ecstasy
is the only suffering you will ever know.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC
Power is indeed a corruptive force,
Through all of mankind’s history
This has always been true.
Emperors, Kings, Potentates,
Popes, Presidents and Despots too.
Gathering near the Throne are the
Eager Courtier leeches reaching to
touch the anointed one’s robe.
Declaring their undying loyalty,
In the process selling their souls.
Their rewards, a speck of personal power,
Castles and new riches of gold.
Like their Master, the entitled ones
will lie and cheat, while ignoring
The principals of right and good.
Believing “Decency” is but a
poor man’s word, Never uttered
within the hearing of the Ruler.
Never a considered artifact of
absolute power.
The slaves, serfs, the common people
Matter not, but to serve the Ruler.
The power elite will start needless wars,
or offer up sacrificial lambs, all to distract
the unrest of the common man.
They will suppress human rights,
free speech and defame, banish
or imprison their detractors.
All merely smoke and mirrors to conceal,
Controlling agendas of personal greed.
From ancient times down to today
This cycle repeats. Now we are living
our own Textbooks history of tomorrow.
Kingdoms and Nations have perished
From this kind of poisonous corruption,
Needless to say, it will happen again.
Perhaps it already is.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
she likes to dance in cemeteries naked
warring little but jeweled ***** bells,
ankle bracelets
toe rings
bingles, bangles, piercings,
through ******* and nose
her tongue split
each side wiggling independently
she gives head on a head stone
her blow jobs
like two undulating mouths
her skin inked with
black and blood tattoos that say
*Satan's little ***** *****
double penetrations preferred porfavor
the more buttery big ***** and pastry puffy ******* the better*
she
all purple hair tinged red
and antler horned hat
with silver toe and finger nails
a crazy saint sane
adored by the popes of the lascivious
eyes wide open over a crimson mouth sneer
cherry pout lips
gods gift to ***** and vaginas
a temple of relief exalting
Eros
a **** it bucket list of lust
her heart
cotton candy in flames
****** like a river of smashed potatoes
in cream
she like
phases of a corpse moon
begs to be used after death
like pigment on canvas
smeared red globes and chiaroscuro
she playing dead
living it up
do you know her
she keeps her secret hidden
on her sleeve
while you keep yours
from yourself
*bless me father for I have sinned
and loved every minute of it
yet dare not be happy
for fear of Gods rage*
my soul saved
turned fertile earth to sand
and shrouding vistas of light
till the bed is the bed
of the living dead
so there's nothin left but work and sleep
and dreams of drunken **** madness are buried
under the weight
marked forbidden
black sun curse
hips sway in ashes
a forbidden dance
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
Note nothing of why or how, enquire
no deeper than you need
into what set these veins on fire,
note simply that they bleed.
Spain fought before and fights again,
better no question why;
note churches burned and popes in pain
but not the men who die.
5.3k
The Mafia and the Pope
the Italian mafia wanted to take control
they wanted control of the church and all its wealth
the leader Anthony “The Boss” Gambatti sent his muscle
to secure an audience with the Pope
Johnny “the Eye” and his storm troopers
pushed by the guards
into the Pope's secretary's office
Arch Bishop Spinozza
sprung to his feet to confront the noise
Johnny “the Eye”, he got that name
after he lost his left eye in a knife fight
and replaced it with a glass oversized eye
that always looked straight ahead
a burning cigarette hanging from his lips
he got right in the Bishops face
“The Boss” wants a meeting with his Royalness
“and he wants it now”
the Bishop well aware of his visitors
and there violent ways
backing away from the smoke in his face
told Johnny that he would arrange a meeting
“tomorrow” he said “tomorrow”
Johnny cocked his head
so that his large fake eye was an inch from
the Bishops nose
flicked the ashes from his cigarette
on the shoes of the Bishop
turning to walk away
“tomorrow” he said
Anthony “The Boss”
dressed in his fine 5K Italian silk suit
leather gloves
black silk fedora
accompanied by his entourage'
walked into the Popes office the next day
he sat in a chair in front of the Pope's desk
“What can I do for you Anthony?” asked the Pope
the two had grown up as school mates
and had maintained a relationship
though not close
“Carlos, I think it is time we work out
a financial aggreement with each other”
“being that the church is known for giving,
I think it is time for you to give me some money,
a lot of money”
“I have many expenses to address”
“to insure that this happens”
I want you to make love to a woman”
“and if I refuse such a horrid task? quizzed the Pope
“I will begin removing all of your Bishops,
one every hour, from all over the world”
”and it won't be pretty” responded Anthony
The Pope, obviously shaken with the proposal
got up from his chair, his face in his hands
paced back and forth for a few minutes
“I will agree to your disgusting request
on three conditions” said the Pope.
“and what are those conditions?” asked Anthony
“1st this woman must be blind,
so that she cannot see who defiles her body”
“2nd this woman must be deaf,
so that she cannot hear any hint of who defiles her body”
“and 3rd your holiness?”
“3rd, this woman must have really really big ****
Gomer Lepoet...
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
*i hate to break it to you kid,
i'm not mindful of narcissus'
economics that's all oh so very modern...*
but women are their own orbit,
more chance to find a single mother
than a single father...
it's against nature to make the man
without god,
as it's against nature to make the woman
with god...
thus we have the tectonic plates
making man with god, accepting
or doubting, church or laboratory...
and woman... an eroticism of jaw eaten
faces... but a kiss to be a fingerprint
likened to erasing the dangling of the bitten
jaw... erased only once by the aphrodisiac of sirens'
wail of aquatic opera so damnable that only
one man heard it, while others scolded
being in audience with beeswax...
and by second chance, erased, indeed,
but only by the suffragettes as the new nuns...
as the new nuns dare comply to change,
like every male become female and
vice versa,
and the popes disclose their continual
loss of matrimony in their misogynistic
involvement in ****** if i'm not the pope
and do no encounter such practices,
i'm not a pope at all!
*only a ninth spoke as the necromancer,
and of the nine spoke clearest,
as it spoke, it dawned on me
that sauron was invisible for the sword
to strike, a gravity enveloping,
a gravity envelope, rather than a skin
of infinite diadem sharpenings,
for nine rigs unto men,
seven unto dwarfs, three unto elves,
but none unto the orcs... strange....
ORC ARKHAN MORDOR ARRAC!*
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
Another year, another Paddies day,
Here in New York, hope for sun to play.
So the Irish celebration, takes winged flight,
Green is the color in everyone's sight.
Parade in the street, down fifth avenue.
The master of ceremony, we don't know who?
But the master this day, stands as St. Pat,
Clad in green, with a leprechaun's hat.
Hear the bagpipes, the drums pounding loud,
This is the Irish day, to stand and be proud!
A Catholic holiday, dietary sanctions they lift,
Eat meat and drink alcohol, is the Popes gift.
What are we celebrating? Let's take a closer look,
Power up the computer or crack open a book.
St. Patrick was born under English rule,
His family was clergy, formally educated in school.
Kidnapped by the Irish, and held as a slave,
To journey back to England he must be brave.
He returned one day to the Irish shore,
About the eternal Trinity, the Irish learned more.
A bishop now, native clove he did use,
To teach the Irish, about celestial clues.
About the father and son and the holy ghost,
The three leaves on a shamrock, they will forever toast!
The three leaves of a shamrock, and it's circular shape,
Are the same as God's Trinity, the logic you can't escape.
This is why the shamrock is so highly revered,
Wear one on your vest, or tucked into your beard.
Enjoy the day, celebrate with family and friend,
Toast to St. Patrick, may his legacy never end!
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
we did not Dye in vain!
by michael r. burch
(from “songs of the sea snails”)
though i’m just a slimy crawler,
my lineage is proud:
my forebears gave their lives
(oh, let the trumps blare loud!)
so purple-mantled Royals
might stand out in a crowd.
i salute you, fellow loyals,
who labor without scruple
as your incomes fall
while deficits quadruple
to swaddle unjust Lords
in bright imperial purple!
Originally published by The American Dissident
Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!
Keywords/Tags: royal, purple, imperial, Tyrian, Byzantium, porphyry, swaddling, clothes, porphyrogenitos, mollusks, sea snails, royalty, kings, lords, emperors, popes
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 4:35 AM UTC
Let Christ give his final sacrament to us through the holy Eucharist of his jizzum.
He shall raise the skirts of all boys and decimate the trousers of all who fear him.
I was a kid once and i know this.
Don't worry he ***** me too.
Feels good if you know him in the flesh in fruity underwear tighty see throughs.
Death plague.
He brings to us.
Through the work of his *****
Whacking off each head to ***
Come one come all,
to the shitshow circus called religion,
**** morals owned by slavery and god,
All fallacy is see through like his ******* nightgown
God is the **** of ********
Get a hard on from your violence absolvance.
**** one another destroy.
Empathy is for *******
God is dead.
Shot with led, fed to the Nazis, in their death holes for the unclean,
God is a ***
The **** of earth isn’t me or you
It's the constructs of dogma,
That they abused us with as children.
Come on now we all aren’t bad guys.
It's the ***** in power.
**** ****
Follow, follow,
into a pit like the communist.
I had *** with Stalin and created democracy.
Chairmen Mao is necrophagist.
****** was was the savior of the Semites.
The Popes are the largest mass murderers in history.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
This is ancient land, this is
hallowed ground, this is
21 kilometers worth of tunnels.
Blood stops flowing after death
because the heart is no longer beating;
no longer forcing blood to gush through veins and arteries and vessels.
It gets lazy, becomes stagnant.
Slowly slides down to the
lowest point on the body; creates a
reddish purple discoloration on the skin
similar to a bruise, but not quite the same thing.
This is what I imagine the fifth level of the catacombs to look like:
a reddish purple discoloration
spread across my mother’s back.
This is what I see when I close my eyes and rub them a bit too hard for a bit too long. This is what I see when I look into a hole in the stone walls that is big enough to fit an infant. This is what I see in the reflection of the Trevi Fountain. This is what I see when I try to remember the shape of my mother’s sleeping body as it curled in on itself on top of a flat hospital mattress.
The color of death is not black, is not white. The
color of death is the color of blood: the way it looks
through the skin after having
hours and
days and
weeks to
slowly slink down into the
lowest bend of the body.
This is the reddish umbra of the earth that the
eclipsed moon hides behind.
This is my body given for you.
Take and eat.
Do this is the remembrance of
me.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
it is tempting to lose yourself
in the pleasure of wordly possessions
money, cars, yachts, beautiful things
the Dagobert Duck syndrome
as we know
even the pharaos of ancient times
together with assorted kings and emperors
chiefs, dukes, presidents, popes, & cetera,
could only take their toys
into their graves
and not beyond
we do not know for sure
although we may believe
if immaterial possessions
have a better fate
yet even though we do not know
what our final moment brings
a thoughtful wrinkle on your brow
looks always better than
a bleak array of orphaned things
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC
Oopy Doopy, Super Sloopy.
Loopy snoopy, pants apoopy.
Lippy hippy, slippy dippy.
Nasty-nicey, normally snippy.
Loosey goosey, chocolate moussey.
Usually *** goofy as Gary Busey.
Hinky-stinky presidential *****
Winky-blinky, dangerously stinko.
Hippity hoppy, flippy-floppy
Get a mop, it never stops.
Laughy gaffe-y, riffy-raffy
Face as gross as rotten taffy.
Whammy-bammy, scary scammy
Mammy-jamming Uncle Sammy.
Lumpy-dumpy, far from humpy
******* up future jumpy bumpy.
Glossy boss, a frightful loss
Ungathered moss at twice the cost.
Serious gap while the country naps
****** sap giving us a slap.
Frightening nooses tightening,
Rights denied like summer lightning.
Ignoring Popes and Snopes
Hopeless dopes put us on the ropes.
Immune to our cries, elected guys
Make horrifying decisions most unwise.
Like black magic before all our eyes
We’re leaderless as freedom dies.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 5:43 AM UTC
She had **********
Down to a fine art;
Knew the nuances
Of kissing, or so
Uncle said and he
Should have known
As he had what you
Would later say was
An encylopaediatic
Knowledge of women,
Sufficient to put old
Casanova to shame.
Never treat women
The same, Uncle said,
They’re like precious
Diamonds, each has
Their own shiny bits,
Their little neat crevices,
Their own fine beauty.
Auntie knew nothing
Of this; she had the
Beauty of a dogfish,
Uncle often whispered,
Holding back a laugh.
The dame in question
Sure had you hooked
On her beauty like a fine
Art. You would dream of
Her most nights, have
Imaginary love feasts,
A fantasy laying of the
Head between *******
Pretend holding of hands
Before dipping in the deep
Gulf of her thighs. Henry,
Uncle’d say, women are
The high point of God’s
Creation, His claim to fame,
His special one off artwork.
The dame invaded your
Dreams and flooded your
Senses and ****** your
Juices; she had each aspect
Of your being pegged to her
Every move and shake of
Head and wiggle of ***
Henry, Uncle’d say, women
Are the reason for being,
The whole point of getting
Up in the morning and going
To bed at night, they are the
Reason popes or priests don’t
Marry, they are the pinnacle
Of humanity, the reason why
Your auntie runs them down.
Yes, she had ********** down
To a fine art, right down to
Her red painted toenails, right
Up to her dark brown hair and
You’d have made love to her
In your dreams each night in
Front of auntie’s ice-cold stare.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
My dear, every touch from you
Is holy absolution
Every press of the lips
Is a new wave of salvation
Time and time again
You have rescued me from damnation
In you lies the sacred and the divine
Darling, the prophets would have built shrines
With roofs touching the skies
Altars all bathed in golden light
Crusaders would have stabbed every man
With their own spines
Kings and queens and popes
Would have swallowed
The gems from their crowns and thrones
To have this love
This love is too big
To be shoved into confessionals
This love is too holy
For tightly gripped prayer beads
And acts of contrition
This love is too great
For anything less than
The highest seat in heaven
No old bearded bible entity
Can tell me how to live in my faith
No-one- not even Leviticus or Moses or whoever the ****
Can tell me that this is a sin
How can it be a sin
When I have stopped searching for God
The moment I saw you
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
goodbye poetry
some get none
now to write for a cause and not applause
majoring in alienation
hijack a popular avatar
just for a pyrrhic victory
put everything into the microwave
universal wealth care
***** it all
ensuring that all this isn't for everyone
only the best continue following
gone to get a life
(aka self-inflicted pain experience)
real life just dragged on and on
the same names keep coming back
observing their well-established cliques
like an anthropologist observing chimps
that glorious era
when the streams of consciousness
suffered a drought
maelstrom of ragnarok
took summer off life support
tasty
electoral fraud as a way of life
just shredded all the "yes" votes so nobody would know
looking to buy an extremist audience
and wondering if maybe walmart has one
the carnage has just begun
seething rage into the vault
tabs opened to liveleak videos of beheadings
all that freedom and she says "vanilla, please"
ideas with which everyone agrees
ideas embraced by all
everyone loves megalomania
everyone enjoys violent passion
everyone loves paroxysms
90 percent of you don't actually exist
low intelligence levels in all but four followers
make that five
hail eris hail discord hail chaos
mark all as read
mark all as ******
trapped in a vicious cycle
eating white toasted bread and acting all stable
invisible at last
discovered a way to speak
freely without judgment
discovered a way to avoid
positive feedback
sitting down for lunch with two popes
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
Banal though you seem to be
I charge you to envisage free
A scarlet thought, a venal throb
To garnish with a stifled sob,
A crystal tear to reinforce
The reticence I suspect, of course,
The reticence which binds you to
A crass and **** dogma's view.
Why, you say, why take this tack?
Well??? Someone needs to bring you back.....
Back to face your beauty's soul
To extricate this black Popes' goal
Of binding you to penitence
Obliterating freedom's sense!
Marshalg
8 July 2013
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 5:04 AM UTC
here I've written my thoughts
and you've read them more than
my contradictions. I am myself.
don't give me reactions unless you feel something,
anything, from what I create.
If you can't relate then that's okay,
but if you can, and you learn,
I've also learned from the response my words shake
from the tips of your limbs, fingers that share the way I do.
Sometime's a pen and paper seem difficult to fit
into such a tight schedule, but you'd think that it'd be the
first step to how you really feel.
if you can take the time to think a feeling, slowly,
repeating, and then write it down with ink,
at least you know it was worth your time.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 4:35 AM UTC
Let our collective imagination
Turn to stone
Antique collectibles
For our future
To own
The dissent
In current politics
Tries to prevent
The Third World War…
Earth’s civil war
The third rock
Becomes
The third world
Third eye
See’s it all
But
The blind leads us
Illuminati Catholicism
The Popes
False sense of hope
Falls
Since
The World holds on
And drags us
All
Down with it
Withering destiny
Dying
In the arms of humanity
Beautiful bibles
Used against
Those
Who know no
Interpretation
The courageous Koran
Has a cordial
Approach to
Oppression
The New Age Martyr
Dies
And ties a noose
Big enough
For two
Jews choose to
Subdue
The wealth
Money is the root
Of it all
But whose truly to blame
If the claims
To royalty
Are fought by all
No-names
Fight for fame
Like nomads
Of a tribe
The top
Is pursued
With the body left behind
Most kings end headless
With their body left behind
The future
Is a faint painting
Blurred from lack of vision
The piece lacks
Precision
From those high
Off power
Making the wrong decisions
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
The all faith popes were flaming atheists,
all two thousand leagues of stacked sea,
sending out their **** hole flotillas
on carillon arks stacked ten tiers deep with homing doves,
tithe teething continents of dithering dullards,
the poor mouthed succulent souls
that have so, so
over crowded a once peaceful heaven
to render this one blue ball a hell on earth.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 10:23 PM UTC
I sat smoking a cigarette one day
on a bench inside the local park,
and some old, holier-than-thou type
came up to me, spouting some
nonsense about how "Those could ****
you, you know."
And I replied, concisely,
"Oh, I know."
"But," I continued,
"so do cars and guns
and terrible puns. So does
every poke, cut and scrape;
every bone you break;
every breath you take
and glass you drink;
every single thing you think;
every time you blink;
every scratch
and ray of sunlight you catch;
every pill you're swallowin'
and moment of sorrow you wallow in;
every religion you could be followin';
every word you speak
and meal you eat--
even walking on your own two feet.
So do hopes and votes,
popes and sore throats,
rhetoric and prose.
Everything kills, my friend,
though we only see it at the end--
and by then it's been too long
and we can no longer sing songs
of our discoveries and reveries,
and treasuries and pleasure-ies,
and best friends forever-ies.
The way I see it,
ain't no reason livin' if'n I'm givin'
two ***** 'bout all that;
I've already tossed in my hat."
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 5:34 PM UTC
All new and spitting out
You are mostly a micro
And you don’t even know that
An army of hungry cells
The envelope calculating
A crystal structure
American money
And Benny is not in the room
And to all you ladies
I’ll form spontaneously
Dazzling mud from Mono Lake
You see from TV Land
The Police says honey
Science never sleeps
Invisible to the ******* eyes
So stay in the light
Forgotten books
Popes and crooks
Hippie nights
Laws and borders
Victim fiction
Salute the dead
Teddy world
I see you in the mall
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 9:00 AM UTC
We are the refused...
Barefoot in the marketplace
Born in the backseat
With minds erased
To hide dirt in the backstreets
And mud on the school steps
The fool in the textbook
Paints us inept
Tainted
******
Illicit natives
Miserable Misfits
Nothing the magistrates can't handle
OH!!!
They wish!
Suppress our melodies
But never break our lips
We are the misused...
Our eyes do penetrate
Every false-flag they perpetuate
Even though barbiturates
Are placed beneath our pillows
The shame billows
The shame follows
Rodents to the edge of the borough
Where men create addicts
There
Publicans turn
Badges burn
Magistrates press their shirts and hatch their eagles
Discernment is not taught
Nor is it learned
We are the obtuse...
Blacked out and abused!
Sold for pulpits and ocean views
Magistrates hate us
Their eagles circle to berate us
"Intolerant"
"Outdated"
"Unpatriotic"
"Ill-fated"
But by grace we persevere
By faith we adhere
To a higher truth
A purer view
Our strongholds are not stick
and stone
Chrome nor drone
But
Christ alone
Our strength and hope
Out hope for home
NOT polls and popes
NOT guns and votes
NOT Magistrates and lazy legislations
NOT eagles which feed on
Desensitized demonstrations
Police brutality and assassinations
Nomadic nations
Sporadic speculations
We
The Refused
We
The Misused
We
The Obtuse
Will NOT cosign evil
Will NOT massage magistrates
Will NOT elevate eagles
We will NOT
We must NOT
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Tuffy skinned a cat
Behind Walker Bros. Stores;
He was probably in on
The sand-girl's situation,
But no one believes her;
Yet believe Tuffy capable of such.
He wrestled ostriches and kangaroos
At Jungleworld,
Real ones.
Some say the animals were old and drugged,
But Tuffy pinned them all the same.
Margo's house burned to the studs
Following her sex-driven ******
That was thirty years ago,
The same time Jungleworld,
With its spiders, snakes and caged bear
Died off with Tuffy and his peacock,
And the secrets of his take downs and holds.
I never saw Tuffy perform
His flaming knife-throws,
Destroying balloons between lips,
Slicing straps with his swordplay.
He would've thrived in Venice with Leonardo,
Dazzling Popes and Princes,
Who would be benefactors and patrons.
Tuffy would have lived in a villa,
On a mountainside, overlooking his audience,
And applauding them for their attention to detail.
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 10:38 AM UTC
Les deux Oliviers de Paomia,
(Un épisode de l'exode de «Mainotes en Corse»)
Ridés, bossus, ces deux oliviers ressemblaient au passeur de l'Achéron,
veillant aux portes du fleuve de l'enfer.
Ce n’étaient pourtant que des pousses venues de Sparte,
Replantées sur la terre Corse, pour nourrir une colonie d'émigrés.
Ces oliviers furent même bénis par des popes,
Puis soumis aux êtes brûlants, au sirocco dévastateurs,
Mais ils avaient tenus debouts avec leurs nervures noueuses,
et ni les entailles des hommes, ni le feu du ciel, ni les orages dévastateurs ne leur avait fait baisser rameux,
Grecs et Corses s'étaient affrontés pour cette terre si bien plantée et cultivée,
Mais ce n'était pas simple jalousies, ni rivalités de cultivateurs et de bergers,
Il s'agissait d’affaire d'honneur et de désaccords avec Gènes qui avait donné ce qui ne lui appartenait point.
Ils en virent; ces oliviers noueux, des saisons de félicité, de récoltes riantes d'olives et de figues,
Ils entendirent aussi les conques de guerre et les cris effroyables lors des sièges de Paomia.
Et puis un jour, les «mainotes» subjugués sous le nombre durent quitter la terre qu’ils avaient éveillée de leur sueur.
Ils s'en vinrent résider à Ajacciu, y exercèrent d'autres métiers en attendant des temps meilleurs.
Puis Marbeuf leur construisit Cargèse, plus près de la mer et les anciennes terres de Paomia furent désormais délaissées pour le pacage et les transhumances.
L'Eglise elle-même et les pierres les maisons s'écroulèrent;
Mais jamais ne disparurent ces deux oliviers gardiens des lieux, véritables cerbères des temps antiques.
Ils veillaient désormais sur la quiétude des geais, des renards et des bandits.
C'était un peu comme si l'esprit et les vertus de l'ancienne Sparte et de Paomia la neuve s'étaient fécondés et avaient donné enfantement à ces deux Oliviers.
Paul Arrighi
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC