"profaned" poems
We, too, had known golden hours
When body and soul were in tune,
Had danced with our true loves
By the light of a full moon,
And sat with the wise and good
As tongues grew witty and gay
Over some noble dish
Out of Escoffier;
Had felt the intrusive glory
Which tears reserve apart,
And would in the old grand manner
Have sung from a resonant heart.
But, pawed-at and gossiped-over
By the promiscuous crowd,
Concocted by editors
Into spells to befuddle the crowd,
All words like Peace and Love,
All sane affirmative speech,
Had been soiled, profaned, debased
To a horrid mechanical screech.
No civil style survived
That pandaemonioum
But the wry, the sotto-voce,
Ironic and monochrome:
And where should we find shelter
For joy or mere content
When little was left standing
But the suburb of dissent?
3.1k
Miley spoke it all.
Her twerking weakens
Wonder but renders
Gender to the stupid
**** generation.
Miley spoke it all.
The West won the
Sino-fantasy, infested
With myth of might,
An apple's bait, all
Has a bite. The west won.
Wealth as a boon, akin to
Hard **** faith as
Soft **** "All that is
Solid melts into air;
All that is holy is profaned."
Marx wrote it all.
Miley spoke it all:
Californication.
Call it fornication.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
there will be no love poetry today
Sabbath cancelled
there will be the will to love
and there will be poetry
someplace
but not here, not today
the load bearing suspension
of belief
beyond busted
the mind
no mas
busted
one killing too many
love poetry seems inappropriately fruitless
there will love
and there will be poetry
somewhere
but not here
more than pointless,
sacrilegious,
human sacrifice ruthless,
a ****** sacrilege
the world profaned and the blood spilling
is in everything and everywhere
and has driven the love poetry out of this person
maybe tomorrow
may it be tomorrow, we will pass a twenty four
news cycle
with the bombs gone quiet
the innocents surviving
and the god spark burner inside me will
relight on its own
but not today not here not me
there will be
no love poetry
and this
this not a poem
<>
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it;
One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother;
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the heavens reject not,—
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?
2.2k
322
There came a Day at Summer’s full,
Entirely for me—
I thought that such were for the Saints,
Where Resurrections—be—
The Sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no soul the solstice passed
That maketh all things new—
The time was scarce profaned, by speech—
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at Sacrament,
The Wardrobe—of our Lord—
Each was to each The Sealed Church,
Permitted to commune this—time—
Lest we too awkward show
At Supper of the Lamb.
The Hours slid fast—as Hours will,
Clutched tight, by greedy hands—
So faces on two Decks, look back,
Bound to opposing lands—
And so when all the time had leaked,
Without external sound
Each bound the Other’s Crucifix—
We gave no other Bond—
Sufficient troth, that we shall rise—
Deposed—at length, the Grave—
To that new Marriage,
Justified—through Calvaries of Love—
2k
In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name;
But now is black beauty’s successive heir,
And beauty slandered with a ******* shame.
For since each hand hath put on nature’s power,
Fairing the foul with art’s false borrowed face,
Sweet beauty hath no name no holy bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem,
At such who, not born fair no beauty lack,
Sland’ring creation with a false esteem.
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so.
1.5k
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving,
O, but with mine, compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving,
Or if it do, not from those lips of thine
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robbed others’ beds’ revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov’st those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee.
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example mayst thou be denied!
1.4k
The depictions of
the gods are headless.
The pillars have crumbled.
The spirit has atrophied
and the wonder has gone.
No longer for Dionysus,
a temple to Aion.
Profaned by order and rule,
rigidity takes the place of passion.
In the name of culture,
the wealthy get wealthier.
No longer for Dionysus,
a temple to Plutus.
Blind to what is before them,
passerby’s idolize themselves.
The ancient amphitheater;
a backdrop for plastic portraits.
No longer for Dionysus,
a temple to Narcissus.
Power shifts in the modern age.
Worship changes form.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
Swift bee, the gilded messenger of bliss,
Begirt with golden stars of Heaven’s span,
What draws you to the clover’s gentle kiss?
Sweet nectars, that the strongest drinker can
Carouse with dreams and dizzy waves of sleep,
Or mocks the freshest breath of summer’s clime?
Swift bee, a flame-plumed star of black and gold,
Why do you with your mouth, completely reap
The liquors that each golden bud does hold,
And lulls with somnolence the might of time?
Oh, bee, you spread the tufted pollen clouds
Like nebulae of opal stars crossways
The delicate, soft digitalis crowds,
Which passionately garner sunbeam rays
Within their coral shells. I can’t express
How much your toil’s worth to coming spring,
And how so passioned glide your wings around
The purple, gentle harebell’s loosened dress,
And make, through pretty hums, spring’s hopeful sound
Oft too profaned by your most fearsome sting!
Oh, pretty hummer! Hearty worker! Bee!
I see you roaming round the garden’s bend,
Where sweet, white daisies wreathe a canopy,
And make you but a hearty, cheerful friend.
Swift bee, the aching, swollen heart of mine
Desires comfort where pain knows no ruth
The buds hold, like rich garners golden grain,
Ambrosia of the gods, dream’s honeyed wine
So bring and let dear bee, such moisture stain
My lips and warm my heart with spring’s bright youth!
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
It hurts so much that I could cry--
I could die
asking "why"
was it all a lie?
You had my heart inside your hand,
yet demand
to leave a brand
for my soul's command?
I danced foolishly to your song
while all along
it was wrong;
now caught in pain's throng...
You held my gaze, so hypnotized,
my demise
by your lies
I never hypothesized.
Yet you can say you're not to blame
for your game
that profaned
my heart, now defamed?
Somehow you say: "Why can't you see,
it can't be--
will never be.",
after deceiving me?
Why would you play such a facade?
No laud
for such fraud,
your judgement was flawed...
Tell me why I cannot be mad,
not glad,
and so sad--
does that make me bad?
Why?
I don't understand,
what I've done wrong
to deserve only your guise,
my shame,
and this mute plea;
now crushed in your wicked maw,
left lonesome and mad...
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
Words are beautiful,
Precious things.
Please, respect them.
Think of all the books
That have been banned,
All the hopes and dreams and fears
Silent, or just
Unexpressed
Because the language we had,
The language we have shaped,
Was not enough.
"u" is not "you."
"&" is not "and."
"your" is not "you're."
I understand, in the world of cell phones
Of impatience
We want to get to the next word,
Already.
But stop for a moment,
Savor the taste of you,
Think about all that the word
Could ever mean
To poets
To lovers
To loneliness.
It is so much more than a letter.
And although the world is profaned,
I beg of you,
As a writer,
As a person,
As words on a stark white background,
Profane no more.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
What heroes from the woodland sprung,
When, through the fresh awakened land,
The thrilling cry of freedom rung,
And to the work of warfare strung
The yeoman's iron hand!
Hills flung the cry to hills around,
And ocean-mart replied to mart,
And streams whose springs were yet unfound,
Pealed far away the startling sound
Into the forest's heart.
Then marched the brave from rocky steep,
From mountain river swift and cold;
The borders of the stormy deep,
The vales where gathered waters sleep,
Sent up the strong and bold,--
As if the very earth again
Grew quick with God's creating breath,
And, from the sods of grove and glen,
Rose ranks of lion-hearted men
To battle to the death.
The wife, whose babe first smiled that day,
The fair fond bride of yestereve,
And aged sire and matron gray,
Saw the loved warriors haste away,
And deemed it sin to grieve.
Already had the strife begun;
Already blood on Concord's plain
Along the springing grass had run,
And blood had flowed at Lexington,
Like brooks of April rain.
That death-stain on the vernal sward
Hallowed to freedom all the shore;
In fragments fell the yoke abhorred--
The footstep of a foreign lord
Profaned the soil no more.
841
Familiar wounds oppressed omitted timbre,
Sallow contingencies imprisoned profaned emerald,
Indisposed intuition bares impassive fondness,
And the young girl ceases to exist inside.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
Flickering like a tentative alpenglow corraded from profaned time
A whisper jostles through a crowded rumpus prescient of teleology and design
Jolting with pangs of panic a screech emanates from the brontides of tomorrow
A chagrin outpaces the gingerly apprehension of a peevish sorrow
Among the ruffled plumes quaffed from pedigree and put to disuse
A banausic electricity galvanizes the ****** of the amalgamated acuity pinched from the sordid, the obtuse
Refracted like off a darkened moon that clenches the darkness in an abstruse tomb
Combs through sentience of Saturn presiding over ineluctable doom
A silence louder than a plangent ****** of phantasmagoria debased
A looming victor erodes with the putrefaction of sworn and utter distaste
How to obtrude on the evening with triaged fulmination
Is an affront to the rudders of a piecemeal civilization in tatters with exacting doddering calculation
Graveyards bustle with the eidolons of scurrilous spite
Congregating around a blackened epitaph on an alabaster palace gilded in the swanky pinnacle of light
Scuttling the outmoded flanks of an abortive war
Against a henchman of state too ostentatious to hardly ever ignore
We clamber with insistence hoping on fortuitous deliverance
Yet we are deranged of the clasped distance between the crevasse of the clerisy and the satisdiction of futures passed with meticulous diligence
Absconding with furtive furrows on a wizened guild an entrusted world we helped build
We witness the silence creep over us like a trepidation contained as lethal killers of the cartel willed
That which frightens a self-fulfillment is a fatalism gone awry
Someday soon omens excavated from immolated tombs will beseech a more universal backlash, an alienated sorrow that will one day cry
But until that fetched disaster occurs
Let us meditate only on the process of emanation among wayward words
That dance with a destiny that the hegemony of momentary circumstance much prefers
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 2:19 AM UTC
It would be pleasant, would it not,
If in the world one found a spot
Where peace and tranquil tempers reigned,
No grudges borne nor lives profaned;
Where one could sit and contemplate
In undisturbed surroundings, fate,
Instead of devastation.
No doubt all parties have just cause,
Or think they have, and hence the wars
That scar the waters, land and skies
And in doing so give rise
To doubts of man’s professed desire
That he should rise above the mire
Of constant devastation.
Man’s history records with awe
Long millennia of war,
And to its heroes points with pride—
A monument to suicide.
Does this prove that man’s insane
Inflicting wretched endless pain
Pursuing devastation?
So will it be man’s timeless fate:
Continuing carnage, endless hate?
Or can he ever have the will
To disobey the order: ****
Can it come about? It may
A long night’s journey into day
Rejecting devastation.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
Peace comes with surrender or destruction
Peace comes with restraint by greater powers
Powers ordained from on high for peace
But cowardly harlots wooing kings for profits
That such powers now impotent and abused
The heavenly decree profaned and corrupted
Peace is at an end, peace no more on earth
So too goodwill and favour abrogated
And judgements come, the book of life closed
Mar 9, 2025
Mar 9, 2025 at 11:44 PM UTC
*Guilt endures a weighty shroud
first aggression taints our deed
self-righteousness stains our trail.*
I saw you today...
flickering image across a flat screen.
One hand clutching a precious doll,
worn ragged from trust’s tight embrace.
It wears the tears from your half lidded eyes.
Camera pans left revealing the crime...
a ****** stump where an innocent hand
once held a child’s inquisitive fingers.
I wonder what I would say
if ever forced to face you,
exposing my great shame.
Perhaps I would repeat the spin from our
doctors of the twisted and profaned word.
They preen with vain pride,
“So few are as you".
Just a casualty of a righteous war...
As if the crippling of even one
guiltless child was not one child too many.
one child too many
one child too many
*Guilt endures a weighty shroud
first aggression taints our deed
self-righteousness stains our trail.*
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.
Part Three: Love
XIII
THERE came a day at summer’s full
Entirely for me;
I thought that such were for the saints,
Where revelations be.
The sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no sail the solstice passed
That maketh all things new.
The time was scarce profaned by speech;
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at sacrament
The wardrobe of our Lord.
Each was to each the sealed church,
Permitted to commune this time,
Lest we too awkward show
At supper of the Lamb.
The hours slid fast, as hours will,
Clutched tight by greedy hands;
So faces on two decks look back,
Bound to opposing lands.
And so, when all the time had failed,
Without external sound,
Each bound the other’s crucifix,
We gave no other bond.
Sufficient troth that we shall rise—
Deposed, at length, the grave—
To that new marriage, justified
Through Calvaries of Love!
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
First love to fish. 1: 1 in one, justify true freedom. After returning ESQ. Definitions (section). These institutions are less violent than automated work (among other things) the girls undergo (among other things) between periods, speech services in diameter of the T Cone (a) can be used to wrap / cap the head of the gang member as has happened in London and the world of wine and spirits; and Spanish complexioned color and blood boiled at garden parties [Extinctorium] 2 cases and fire and a safe way. |||| |||| 1 1. 1 am a thief, a sense of the base 1 gram of thousands 13:00. From now, please pathological products (dictionary) and marginally (4) to support the leaders of the region. || Sometimes the electricity. And all the words are well. 1. France, this year only in Greece, Sanskrit and six colors in the garden when the sky is invalid? Kelpler's awareness of the people of both sexes that otherwise would be profaned in Los Angeles, which is the spirit of the Lord and the wind; the wind and the wind of the wind and in the summer of Emperor Julian, queen of Russian spiritual development in Europe, six is only for boys full of poetry; the moon is a remarkably old French call girl; ounces of poetry are easy for a child in Russia under a starry sky, George Thomas' hot toys sent to the hospital to replace stone devices, Christian through the glass Falakarokrax, who loves and 1 practices have begun to quit last an idiot which will makes the left hand drinking; House for me to join a grief of Gate ME COME Arty Pediculture. Colonel, you do not need points of connection and the smoke arose from the scroll in the peace of the memory of our fathers; the remembrance of the wall of the top of the mountains, to settling in Canada's male child, the father of Bettie Riki in January and machines might be the history of the new church, an MP and the powders
of the teeth in Germany but the reason for the attire of the twelve was buried with the seeds of the gifts of the Jews or of the air at the same time to try them; and the Golem in Europe, said: "1, which will started learning"
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 11:41 PM UTC
I Feel More
Profaned
Everytime I
Explore
My Broken
Pieces.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 10:45 PM UTC
We are all born in a jar
(with a view of Mother from afar)
and it’s the glass we learn to see through;
refining me while defining you.
Those poor souls whose glass is opaqued
with smudges of fear and cracks of hate,
who never learn to see through
the jar that defines me and contains you;
they are the ones who hope and pray
that you only see your world in their way.
As these souls bloat too large to be contained
they burst the boundaries and are profaned
by the sharp edges of the jar
their rage casts the jagged pieces of; near and far.
But if, instead, our soul transcends
like light that remains unshattered but only bends
through the glass of our individual jar
and gives a glimpse of just how far
we have, yet, to go and have come:
What beauty, what symphony
we can glimpse more clearly
and ourselves more nearly
when we are willing to see ourselves, ajar.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
Wide awake, hyperreal,
Drifting in and out and back, daze of dopamine and clouds of smoke curled up in your fingers and around your neck,
I can't help myself,
Cross myself beneath a bloodred sky, seven times for each sea and continent,
Close my eyes and I disappear into the space, I become formless and liquid and I dance across the room in perfect repose,
I solidify somewhere in your shadow, nervous silhouette naked against an electric backdrop, become tangled up in the nuclear fusion of a kiss, tongues tracing bones and bones buzzing hallelujahs for the street lamps to fall asleep to,
Heavy daze, marijuana moonlight, thick as liquor dripping down my neck just like, just like, just like honey, honey, what strong teeth you have,
You're hyperreal in this light,
I can taste your battery acid veins from here,
Like sweat and wine and fragrance,
Sweet energy, sugar cane,
Dreams and cosmic visions,
Starlight, starlight, come into me
Fill this space and ignite this body,
Listen to the sky, they're playing our song,
Shoot me again cause my soul is still dancing,
I lean close, heat and static,
I whisper in your ear,
All that is solid melts into air,
All that is holy is profaned,
Let us desecrate this earth,
Let us bring gods to tears
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 1:45 AM UTC
Look!
now they sleep bloodless warriors
pandemonium stilled agony slain tranquil
death sanctified in rigid cartesian rows
honored for their sacrifice and selfless valiance
laid to rest beneath mourning grasses
Ask!
where was the higher honor due them before war
are sacred vows to be profaned to be misemployed
Why!
do once verdurous lives lay cold and pulseless
as spatters of red petals tearfully fall
families breathing wistful flowers
distilling rue with lulling scents
Adjudge!
all men who enact lies
dishonoring crossed graves
greed calibrating scales of injustice
bodies tilted high by tonnages of gold
Aurelian kisses vaulting wars riches
Do Not!
dishonor a warrior’s willingness to die
for bravados mouth is a soldier’s tomb
do not forsake truth and honor our only faithful ally
ask ten-thousand whys before one soldier dies
before the bugler's breath sounds death's lamenting cries
Think!
Contemplate war’s fiery womb
hatred born inextinguishable
good & evil indistinguishable
Look, what stillborn bones lie locked in battle
this fleshless monster we mis-named peace
gv.2014
Matthew 6:13 . . . deliver us from “evil”
Evil as translated in 6:13 is "Poneros" A name also attributed to Satan
Which means: "he is not content unless drawing others into the same destruction as himself"
(From Lexicon to the New Testament by Spiros Zodhiates, TH.D
"Soon
the world
won’t have a rib intact.
And its soul will be pulled out."
A line from Vladimir Mayakovsky's 1917 poem , Call To Account
“They made a wasteland and called it peace” Publius Cornelius Tacitus
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC