"scoffers" poems
What dost thou hope in, O' lost man,
Materials, the temporal; castles of
Sand?
Wherein is thy hope, O' children of
Hopelessness, in good deals, fast
Meals; lust of the filthy rich.
What dost thou hope in, being free
From labored chains? Art thou
Burdened with bloodied stains,
From the pains thou hast given
And taken.
What is thy hope? Liberated ***
Bags of dope, needles, hard liquor
To make thee sicker with needle
Pokes.
Wherein is thy hope, somewhither
Beyond the stars, with razors to
Release the angers and pains,
Cutting wrists making pools
Of blood to feel alive
Once again.
Wherein is thy hope, for hope thou
Canst hath, from the free gift of
Christ's blood that was shed,
From the crown of thorns
Placed on his head. From
The holes by nails driven
Through his hands and
Feet, by his tears in the
Garden he didst weep.
By the eternal life he
Didst offer; even to
His murderers, to
His scoffers and
Mockers.
If thou art a lawyer, or a doctor,
Or peasant or slave, one man,
God's son, died for all men,
Yeshua hamashiach, (Jesus
The Messiah is his name).
So all may enter heaven,
Yet only by his name, if
Thou shalt confess him
As Lord, open thy hearts
Door to let him in thou
Shalt be saved. Romans
10:9-10, go read that
Hopeless reader, and
John 3:16, he gives life,
As tis he's the son
Of the creator.
Wherein O' writer is thy hope?
Is it the world that is hopeless?
Or Christ Jesus who arose.
Wherein O' reader is thy
Hope? I tell thee today
Jesus Christ offers
Thee eternal life.
Where thou shalt
Never thirst again; wherein
Thou shalt be with Christ in heaven
After this dreadful life.
© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poet's poetry
©Hope series
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 7:24 PM UTC
Inspiration from a fellow writer
And a chance at contemplation on a peaceful Saturday afternoon
Have led to a quest for forgotten moments
And thoughts of pleasant abstractions.
A hint at appreciative visuals
Carries the thought to a fig tree
Growing majestically in its place in its earthen patch.
Words fail to describe the abundance of life that exists
As sparrows flit through branches heavily laden with fruit
While the wind gently rustles leaves shaped like green hands outstretched,
Casting gentle shadows on a silently bustling anthill.
A hummingbird zooms in to smell a fruit,
Squeaks twice, and exits with the soft thrum of its wings.
A lizard skitters through the jungle of grass and snaps up a mouthful of ants
Bringing chaos to the ant kingdom.
Yet tranquility is soon restored to the fig tree soaking in the solar rays,
And the tomato quietly ripening under a cloudless sky.
Under that same sky, countless battles rage
And boiling chaos tears at its leash.
All of creation groans with pain of labor
As the fallen dig deeper in their graves
And are consumed by beastly desires.
In a forest, countless leaves gently whisper their sorrows
As warm light dances through the shadows.
The surface of a pond, as smooth as glass
Is only momentarily broken by ripples of activity
While the beholder stares deeply into the reflection.
Below the surface, ghoulish beings lurk in the mire
While deeper still, the mud of hypocrisy churns wildly
As the unworthy tongues set in and will clash in unfathomable violence.
There is something desperately wrong
Yet churlish scoffers ignore the signs
Blinded in selfishness and greed.
Again and again they play games of chess
Where all the pieces are pawns
Replaced with fake queens
While the kings of value are forgotten
Set aside until they are shot to pieces.
Yet all this is hidden, beneath the surface of impeccable glass
As devilish turmoil roars beneath the skins of men.
There is but one hope for a life of meaning
In which true peace can be restored.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
The theologian's heart sits heavy in his chest.
He has searched, sought, and out-thought the best.
Yet, he has nothing to show for his quest but gray hairs and a book nest.
Scoffers scoff as scoffers do.
Such is expected, for the Way is few.
The theologian needs not a pat on the back.
Nor gold, for he has no lack.
He knows that of making books there is no end,
He has no credit by which to lend.
Still he writes, and still he reads
Still he taps, and still he kneads
Until his heavy heart stops beating.
Now he'll see if his theology was fleeting.
Such it was if not God he's meeting and if not Christ he's greeting.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
You and I have become a house on fire, a thousand hoses cannot douse us
we just spark up again, like a Phenoix of desire.
Rubbernecks scoff and say we will go out any second
yet we're still burning, and we will glow white hot
long after all the scoffers go find another house to stare at.
Their voyeurism only feeds our carnal flame. I suppose that we should thank them.
Our flamethrower love cannot be snuffed, slingstones and swords will never be enough
to tear down this house, even our own heat will not destroy it.
Our love is made of the toughest materials.
So we will dance in the bonfire that cannot burn us,
their hoses cannot douse us.
All the hoses fire fluff, that evaporates without ever dimming our light.
This Inferno of ours, is composed of coloured myriads
of lust and passion,
always blended with equal parts love and tenderness.
Because tenderness, it tempers us
it turns our lust to loveliness,
nothing is as perfect as us, standing in our pyre
when we realize we are not the ones being burned.
It's our passion that radiates, our love will never hurt us.
Our bodies aflame, they can't take their eyes off of us.
I can't say I blame them,
for I cannot take my eyes away from you either.
So lets stoke the heat between us, and we will stay together,
living inside the fire of our passion, free forever.
A Burns 2012
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
Around the world untold mysteries await
Carefully sealed behind hidden cryptic gates
A few brave adventurers who know the truth
Have fearlessly become God’s secret sleuths.
They are searching for things that to the world are unseen,
Looking for the buried proofs of the chimera and the Gibborim.
Enduring the elements and the government spies
Clandestinely placed to protect the lies.
Lies protected and told for centuries in order to hide
Those things that would surely open men’s eyes.
The truth upon which these adventurers are fixed
Was revealed long ago in Genesis six.
It is a journey into mystery upon which they have embarked
Without fear of the shadows they stand firm facing the rulers of the dark..
They brush off the attacks of the scoffers and enter even the realms of tyrants
In order to find the protected and hidden remains of the giants.
Who are these men who search for the artifacts of earths earliest ages,
Who can decipher the clues with the wisdom of sages?
Searching the world’s most dangerous, hidden and secret places
Uncovering every stone and uncovering all the traces.
Deciphering the clues that have survived now for centuries
Then sharing the truth in revealing documentaries
Following a plan conferred by heavenly instruction
These men are the men of Gen 6 productions.
Take heed to the reports given by these men
They will guide to the Alpha and Omega the final Amen
Through exploits and discovery they have but one burden they bear.
That man will see truth and for the future prepare.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
You may cover the stench with a potpourri—
while you gag, as you finger your rosary.
Sacrosanct nourriture…
or decayed pourriture?
(Other patrons might label it Popery.)
Though the tepidly Protestant matron
of a church that is stagnant and state-run
does not care about Luther,
We’ll bother to truth her
with Calvin or Knox as our patron.
Though the Vatican’s bottomless coffers
make some very un-Lutheran offers,
I would rather talk Tetzel
(with beer and a pretzel)
and drink with the rebels and scoffers.
We forget that the birth of the Kirk
was a vicious, un-Catholic work
One recalls ****** Mary…
and Knox was no faerie.
His doctrine drove Satan berserk.
Many chairmen, deficient in wit
who on flimsy theologies sit
with no justification
hate predestination,
reviling it more than a bit.
Barthelemy (in French: St. Bartholomew)
was unpleasant, as most of the martyrs knew
Roman Catholic correction
or violent deception?
In heaven, they’re getting the overview…
People gag, and then murmur the rosary
seeking solace in incense or potpourri
you must pardon my French
but this damnable stench
smells like nothing so much as like Popery.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC
Precipice
Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy Michael Burch
They will teach you to scoff at love
from the highest, windiest precipice of reason.
Do not believe them.
There is no place safe for you to fall
save into the arms of love.
Keywords/Tags: precipice, scoffers, skeptics, windy, hot, air, fall, arms, love, safe
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 6:26 AM UTC
Sharp shape
Not as dangerous
As it looks
Something silver
Nothing is
Always as it seems
Surreptitiously silent
All they want
Is to simply be
Staunchly stoic
Don't judge those
Books by their covers
Soft sentience
Your judgement could take
A light away
Surrendered self
Drown out the scoffers
Just be
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
Lawmen oversee the old day's hanging's,
Exit signs designed only for those who wear worn out tennis shoes,
Conquered,
Overcrowding as if only cattle can fit through!!!!
No salt nor pepper to design creation meals of home,
Fall is near,
Plumbings far to clogged,
Days passeth night,
As night begins to freight!!!
Wolves on the outside trade fur's with ferrel dogs!!!
Clenching of teeth siren off as oven's they bake,
They brew,
Country town folk with rod and ungodly staff they overtaketh and rule!!!!
Crises of all temptation,
Bleeders to readers,
****** deviants get out to put down their own indignations!!!
Desire all thou wilt,
Desiree's,
Empathies,
Chalkers, scoffers , doctors of deaths pill!!!
Read on,
Read on uneducated pillar,
For thy hooks art thy scrolls,
Thy eyeglasses maketh thou gnomes of such readings to bring thou thrillers!!!!!!
Fragrant destiny resistant to all microbial force,
Accusation's humbling,
Sovereignty is a mystery to us mortals!!!!
Dragon's slayed to stature founder's ditches of war dug out of centurion portals,
Wreaking architecture drawn out of mapped whirlpools lies,
Some groweth deathly,
Sweet talkers are refusing to trust their own worried minds!!!!
Black coated tuxedoed hosts delighting their own escapes,
Some window's stay open,
Some stay closed in the fortress,
This inescapable place!!!!!!
Tis,
This human landfill,
Dump,
Waste!!!!
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
Bored poets write ennui
Sad poets psalms
Bad poets penning's
Are made into songs
Silly poets write limericks
And limericks they read
Drunk poets write scribbles
Drunk on their mead
Angry young men
Write rants by the hour
Wide-eyed young girls write
Of bunnies and flowers
Idiots write nonsense
Off the seat of their pants,
Got news for you, scoffers!
So do savants!
Gays write of rainbows
Saints of sonnets of old,
Storytellers write
pirate plunder and gold.
Broken poets write humbly
Strong writes unadorned,
Happy
write of roses
Bleeding poets of thorns.
Soul Survivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
A little boy sits alone, with a world before him to explore
soon this boy grows up, not that same little boy as before
when reaching adulthood, feeding his curiosity becomes his goal
but he has not yet learned, true wisdom to maintain that control
Now a young teenager in a crowd, he senses he’s different and feels sad
so he inquires of others, and is given answers that to him just don't add
not long after this young man marries, happy and with a family of his own
he becomes overwhelmed with this depression, and feels like he is all alone
The challenges of marriage were too much, on him taking their toll
reaching that point many of us get to, he begins searching his soul
in time a transformation takes place, a degree of serenity he finds
his life slowly becomes focused, confidence and belief now shines
How many of us at one time or another, fall into this melancholy and start to wonder
is it possible that we were so deaf and blind, unaffected even from the noise of thunder
all our lives heaven sent us those messages and signs, to wake us from this our slumber
yet we chose to satisfy our materialistic desires, priorities on our list, each with a number
Skeptics and scoffers evade the logic of their folly, ignoring the truth hidden from within
unwilling to change their ways, acknowledging this truth means having to admit their sin
they err lacking the knowledge, G-d does not treat us severely when we repent while alive
but if we fail to mend our ways, love and forgiveness, for ourselves alone do we deprive
I learned this lesson myself many years ago, praying for direction from the One above
never again to put my faith in man, I was rewarded with the wisdom of truth my true love
wisdom is within the reach of all, patiently awaiting those willing to drink and draw near
with but one condition which all must follow, to acquire true wisdom, sin you must fear
Where there is fear of sin, there is enlightenment, and wisdom has a place to call home
without fear you cannot control yourself, unhindered, your evil inclination is free to roam
your hopes and desires they can really be achieved, but remember to always remain true
that road to ultimate happiness, is to acquire that wisdom, a gift understood by so few
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
Scoffers, skeptics, fools,
too far away from God
laugh at my convictions
and often call me odd.
Because my faith is solid
because my faith is strong
I laugh right back at them
and call them wrong.
Morals have been lost
values down the drain
ethics out the window
intolerance...insane!
The devil throws the dice
and wins most of the time
most anything now goes
what's done is just a crime.
It's too late to save them
from the lake of fire
they've tossed it all away
by the flames of their desire.
Jan 27, 2020
Jan 27, 2020 at 8:16 PM UTC