"scripture" poems
Give them to me.
All the pieces of your broken heart.
Give them to me.
I'll take them.
All the rough-hewn misshapen bits of your shattered dreams.
Give them to me.
I will take them.
Give them to me.
They are wanted here.
All the parts of your misspent childhood. All the regrets of ticking seconds behind you.
Give them to me.
And we will build a cathedral. A stained glass window of who we are as tall and as beautiful as it should be.
Let me have them.
And we will make a mosaic that stretches as wide as the sky. Showing every color your heart gained from the bits and pieces left on the ground.
I will take them.
And forge a sculpture of how beautiful the ideas are that we cast out in our failings and we will cast it in our failings.
Let me have them.
And we will ***** a monument of all the small things in the shape that you remember them.
Towering. Looming. Striking. Beautiful.
Let me have them so we might bind the words said and regretted, (or worse) left unsaid in leather and call it scripture.
Our Psalms. Our Proverbs:
*“The tip of my finger dangles like my tongue. Wanting to touch something beautiful.”
“If it were not for him, it would have been us.”
“You were all my brightest colors.”
“I wish I were more like you.”
“I wish I were less like me.”
“I am sped.”*
And we will read them at dawn like litany.
Stretching our voices to the corners of the universe. Asking for the wishes you make when you are scared. Or alone. Or both.
That we may take them.
And make a blanket.
A blanket to cover our childhood and let it rest at last.
I will take them.
All the parts you no longer want.
Give them to me.
Because they are what make us beautiful.
Give them to me.
That I may forge them into pitch and feathers and craft mighty wings.
That I may take flight from your worry. And soar on the updraft of your misconception.
Give them to me.
I will take them.
Because I would rather burn like Icarus than to have never dared to fly.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
They say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder
But sometimes I ask myself, how can this be?
Cause when I look with my eyes, I only start to feel resent
and I begin to despise, the things I realize like
how my women of color have been simplified, and hypserxualized
how the black woman's body has been used and abused and now
It personifies, sexuality and promiscuity, out of all the things media feeds us these are some of the worst lies
You see cause black women are queens, and when white culture saw their worth, they were rattled
They couldn't help but try to minimize and de-legitimize, and put a guise over the eyes of all that viewed her
She is not just a big *** big lips or hips
She is the mother of humanity, in her essence from her hair, to lips to her fingertips she is a Queen, and she is to be respected.
And I will die for her honor, We will not go back into slavery days, I will not stand here while she gets up on stage naked and her body is dissected, and her soul, her essence neglected, her heart, her mind infected.
From these queens come the workers, the Kings, without the black woman we have no past and we have no future
We must protect the black woman, for she is sacred like scripture.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 3:51 PM UTC
~~~
*write the scriptures,
the Book of Me,
with authorship
exposed on the books cover,
of every word have ever writ
flawed, ignored, rejected,
necessary to self-publish
upon the unpapered internet,
where words are ionized
I take an oath,
self-administered,
oath sworn upon mine own scripture,
testify before a jury of my peers,
me, myself and I
what you read,
is not imaginary,
I am real,
you are realizing
each of us has a truthful name,
in spite of acronymic disguises employed,
and wearing it,
here, upon this.....line dotted,
place my neck,
ready for
the executioner*
you
~~~
October 24, 2015
7:20 am
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC
Something different in your eyes
Isn't it a fire?
What are you prepare?
Then why do I care?
It can make me melt, I wouldn't dare.
You introduce me to our river
So I can see you clearer
There's a poison and water
Unintentionally became a power
A couple things I compare
Between you and the scripture
A couple things I aware
When you and me already perspire
It's strange, we bring our bodies to suffer
Why don't wait until we sober
And we can start over.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
**SKY BLACK AS TAR AND TWICE AS THICK GOD I KNOW YOURE NOT SUPPOSED TO WISH DEATH BUT THE WORLD WOULD BE BETTER OFF I ******* SWEAR OH!!!!!!MY GOD I KNOW SCREAMING DOESNT MAKE GOOD POETRY BUT I WANT TO TEAR MY HOME TO PIECES TEAR MY FINGERNAILS FROM THEIR BEDS CURSES CAST OUT WILL COME HOME TO ROOST BUT I WOULD SACRIFICE ANYTHING TO SEE YOU DEAD!!!!!!!DECAPITATION ISNT PRETTY LIKE THE PAINTINGS HUMAN HEADS DONT POP OFF AS CLEAN AS BARBIES BUT ILL SAW THROUGH YOUR CERVICAL VERTEBRAE AND THE LAST WORD ON YOUR LIPS WILL BE A GURGLE!!!!WITH YOUR BONES UNDER MY BED I WILL SLEEP PEACEFUL FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YEARS YOU ARE POISON EATING THROUGH THE HANDS OF MY FRIENDS YOU ARE THE DEVIL QUOTING SCRIPTURE IN THE EARS OF CHILDREN!!!!!TRIGGER DISCIPLINE KEEP YOUR FINGER FROM THE KILLING STROKE TILL YOURE READY TO COMMIT ARE YOU SURE? ARE YOU SURE? ARE YOU ******* SURE ARE YOU READY TO SHARE YOUR BED WITH A CURSE KEEP YOUR FINGER OFF THE ******* TRIGGER BEFORE YOU SHOOT YOURSELF IN THE FOOT WHAT THE FUCK!!!!YOU TOLD ME YOU WERENT CRUEL!!!!YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE SAFE I ******* BELIEVED YOU AS IF I DESERVED SAFETY AS IF I COULD TRUST YOU BUT YOURE ******* EMPTY!!!!WEARING MY FACE TO COVER THE ******* HOLE IN YOURS WEARING MY SMILE YOU USED ME YOU USED ME AND YOURE WEARING MY ******* SMILE!!!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR! LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!**
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
#19 | 31 Poems for August
The light in her hazel-brown eyes is the kind that gets people mesmerized.
I’ve fallen deeply for the words from a lady who creates love with a simple touch of a pen.
She made me realise that true beauty starts from within.
She is my muse, my friend, my lover.
She is my inspiration and for that I love her.
Life tastes better on the curves and edges of her lips.
Her love is the scripture that my heart believes in.
Her love is never enough; I’m always left yearning for more.
In a world ravaged by cold wars, we both know what we’re fighting for.
Nobody should ever come between us because there will be war.
I want to be the unforgettable poem written on the pages of her soul.
I want to be the poem that will always make her heart warm and whole.
No one’s perfect but she’s perfect for me.
Her love is the scripture that my heart believes in.
I want to escape from the cold, I want to nestle myself deep inside her soul.
The light in her hazel-brown eyes breaks through the darkest of clouds that always seem to surround me.
The light in her hazel-brown eyes has me mesmerized.
I could write poetry forever with the inspiration our love provides.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
In that land somewhere of our dreams
all is to be found right therein it seems
where there isn’t a struggle for survival
as the brotherhood of man is in revival.
We help each other and have no real fear
our hope is occassioned with good cheer.
Whatever we think, do or therefore say
is imbued with love and lights the way.
We have all arrived at that promised land
and must work together as a united band;
giving and sharing of the good we all can
while upholding this brotherhood of man.
Non-violence is one of the rules we live by
the essence of love we maintain and glorify.
We all live as one in both our heart and mind
and express those feelings of a universal kind.
There are no problems that we can’t resolve
as all our life around love does here revolve.
In living by the truth we are becoming free
and in this condition enjoy the grace to see
All that exists in the world can be seen anew
which is an affirmation of scripture and true.
Our life now is filled with bliss as it once began
in this state of knowing the brotherhood of man.
We do not therefore seek to get the better of each other
but accomplish all that we need to helping one another.
Being free from any unnatural cares our lives are whole
and all that ever happens a joyful experience of the soul.
Awake to intuition we have to realise our ultimate potential
and so everything bears the stamp of some divine credential.
In being as we are then our years extend for a long span
as we all live in accordance with the brotherhood of man.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 7:08 PM UTC
Death I see, that ugly spectre,
Coarsely overshadows youth.
Lame, they look for interaction
With the bondman. Shame, forsooth!
Drowning in the dams of liars
When they could be shining lights!
They believe what e’er is told them,
****** in by the TV sights.
Culture told them there’s no future,
There’s no healing for despair.
Bet they never read the Bible –
Words of LIFE spelt loud and clear.
There’s no need for this attrition
Of our children. Give them truth.
Let them listen to the old ones –
Hard they learned the facts of life.
By the power of scripture they have
Overcome the skull and bones.
Into joy and peace they’re marching.
Youth could follow in those zones.
Up to them to stop and listen.
Perhaps the media got it wrong.
Find a person in their nineties,
Who survived the wars and so on.
They are old because their attitude
Enabled them to plunge right in,
Boots and all in right perspective,
Shake and move, the truth to win.
They’ve believed in right and beauty,
Principles and sacrifice.
Not for them the great self pity
Serving death – man-trap device.
Rather they’ve bent over backwards
To embrace another’s need,
And serving, felt the great dynamic
LIFE FORCE. Yes. They were a breed!
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
mackelmore got it focused, and eminem did too,
if hip hop can have a tolerance, then why can't you?
you say you're against abortion, but what if your child turned out gay?
would you change your story? or would you try to drug the love away?
pro-life's is what you preach but against gay marriage from a book's depiction?
no wonder we are lost, when we think in contradiction...
this isn't only a hit to Christianity, it's aimed towards religion, insanity comes to definition when a book make your decisions.
we try to preach peace, but peace still hides, when every hateful slur comes with a demon surprise.
so many wars over **** like this,
when we should all stand up and fight against it.
some say it's on oil, but see the bigger picture,
internal wars fueled by hatred written in scripture.
the essence of the soul is trapped within a cast,
maybe we are already in hell but our soul stands center mass,
trying to escape with reason by which you just ignore,
when you speak without though or a pulse within your core.
why does it matter if someone has a lover of the same ***
just because you were raised that way, you have to continue this hex?
ink written on paper, by the hands of man,
over thousands of years, translated again and again.
but you're so set in stone on what you believe,
that if Jesus himself appeared and proved you wrong, he would get the third degree.
set you human thoughts aside for the sake of humanity,
and fill your heart will love, respect, and a sense of humility.
I'm not anti-Christian, pro-life, or pro-choice.
but I am pro-Humanity, Pro-change, and pro-voice.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
Before you get lost in the unfinished maps of her veins
the ones like yours, but not stitched up too many times to count on the ticks of a clock,
make sure that she trusts you enough to tell the truth.
Make sure that she loves you enough to know how you lie.
Remember that every single time you open your mouth, she's wishing
you're saying I love you.
Remember that on Fridays she doesn't want to cook.
And she sure doesn't want you to cook anything that was slaughtered.
Remember that she prefers cheap whiskey over champagne.
And when you're opening your ribcage to show her how fast your heart beats
when she grabs your wrists, make sure the butterflies are set free.
Make sure they find the window.
Make sure they find a home.
Remember that every living creature is just that, living.
Remember that they have a heartbeat.
And when you stop breathing when you see her with her hair down,
when you're thinking about starting a religion about girls with flowers for eyes,
tell her she's beautiful.
Tell her she's so full of the future.
Get her a telescope so you can show her the moon when it's bigger than both your thumbs.
Take her skiing while it's Summer in Australia even though you curse the snow as if it
were born out of wedlock.
Let her know she's not the first but she's definitely the only, and you're so scared of dying.
You never know what you have until it's locked firmly in your grasp as if to not let it run away.
You might lose a lot of blood but you'll never lose your way home.
I don't want to hear the dial tone.
I want to hear your voice, I want to hear you scream. Tell me to leave.
Tell me that I am the only road that leads you to a purpose.
That in a world of blindness I am so technicolour.
Even though I can't promise you that, I can give you my words, thrusted from my lungs
like wildfire.
Searching for the way out.
Talk to me about religion, please please convince me that there is something out there other than
rotting in the ground for all of eternity.
Bible scripture doesn't whisper of your lips like my pillows do.
I never really thought about pillow talk until they started speaking me to sleep.
I find myself found by the curvature of your spine, of the shadows that take up residence on your shoulders like they have lived there all along.
I want to kiss away every bit of pain that has ever stopped you from smiling at strangers
and let you know that I'm coming home and I will always find your hands.
Let your ribs shake when your heart has had enough.
Let them shake.
Let the rain come through your window while you're sitting there in your makeshift darkroom.
You are the only thing I know about consistency.
And before I get lost in the unfinished maps of your veins,
I will be making sure they lead to me.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
The clinical nature of your tests leaves me
A cynical crater of a mess
My interest begins to wane
When your quiz sparks pain
Like little droplets of rain
Falling on the window pane
Of your picture
That once was scripture
But now seems impure
And superficial
Destroying my hope
Like a missile
You probe like a lawyer
And act like Tom Sawyer
And expect my interest
But I have none to feign
When your image is stained
By the grueling test I went through
That revealed your inner truth
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
I have a lisp
It is lovers lips caught in the spasm of a kiss
I have a lisp
that restricts what I'm capable of saying
praying that I don't pass it onto my kids
but there's restrictions on scripture as well.
I have a lisp
It is a gentle twist in words I can't complete
I'll meet many who notices the obviousness of it.
I can't synthesise similar sounds subtly
to induce a feeling of happiness or sadness,
I've been driven half to madness by the flaw.
This is why my voice is within my writing,
it is the lightning without the thunder,
unheard to ears but the same power exists.
I can't give a speech openly, or sing to soothe my soul,
all because I have a lisp.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
Surveillance is the cornerstone to my dictatorship
Over your life
I hold you firmly with my invader's grip
To create strife
To spread fear among the vigilant citizens
And make you feel like you're not fitting in
It's all part of my devious plan
To trap you in my surveillance van
I've got owls perched in trees
And satellites floating in space
Pictures make the world freeze
So I can see your pretty face
I start to drone on and on
Your indifferent mouth yawns
You spy on the clock
Waiting for me to stop
You stare through me
The way I stare into your house
Hell is 200 degrees
When you find your lovely spouse
She doesn't have my pictures
She hasn't read your scripture
I must've gotten my information wrong
I thought my surveillance was strong
My mistakes rule me with an iron fist
And they throw me in prison
I thought I could live in surveillance bliss
But this isn't the life I envisioned
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 5:55 AM UTC
Who do you call when your brain is on fire?
When sunshine strips
begin to fade from the bed sheets,
And you find, yet again,
That you've allowed a day's worth of stability
To deconstruct itself.
For a while, a silhouette you will remain,
Chasing the origin of light,
Only to fall into the one thing blocking it.
What happens when a brain is burnt out?
Drawing out breaths that latch to the cold air,
When you stand with weary muscles,
A title wrapped around your forehead,
And a frustration festering.
Holding close to the last remaining memories,
Of security, of solidarity, of purity.
Losing yourself to yourself,
Costs less and less each time.
When do you decide a brain needs fixing?
When the ride home is full of regret,
And your legs cannot stop shaking.
A miserable night will be swept under the rug,
So dogear the scripture you spoke belligerently,
And the world will suddenly seem small.
A breakdown happens when most needed.
A breakthrough happens when least expected.
How do you fix a brain?
Probably, the day without questioning it all,
Will be the day you figure the most out.
If we can get a mixed up mind to settle,
Then the first thing to learn would
Be the acknowledgment of a new, better life.
We will all survive our demanding brains,
if only someone will show us the way,
Will someone please show us the way,
Before another brain is ignited?
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 7:59 PM UTC
#
Sitting here in front of this screen
my Artist Peppino, across my thigh—
(the greater, for the time being,
giving way to the lesser)
One day, I will be able to breathe life
into your strings, my love…
the way I do words onto paper.
And on that fine, glorious day
I will no longer need these cheese-dick,
stupid ******* online poetry sites
to bring forth the music of my soul.
Nor will I continually need to wade through
this never-ending barrage of classic hiders
and their bastardization-like misuse of poetry—
in order to hide behind the very words
that should be given the permission to make them become,
truly known.
There are those who thrive on this..
this currency of curated words,
seduction dressed as scripture,
all twisted into the soft ropes of poetry
to bind the vulnerable,
to rob the soul of its own infusion..
the self from the soul,
the soul from the self..
*--until all that remains
is the quiet, starving shell
of a heart displaced,
an identity diluted,
left wandering inside
the sociopathic intent
to truly bastardize poetry’s
life-giving potentiality
into nothing more than self-indulgent gain--*
always at the cost of the reader,
who, starving for something real,
somehow falls for their twisted game.
****
eh..
There is no alone-ness within the magnificent resonations
of the perfectly plucked string
of the most perfect, of guitars.
Like this one, sitting right here
in my lap.
#
Feb 4, 2020
Feb 4, 2020 at 9:40 PM UTC
You've come so unexpected,
Slipping through the cracks of my heart
and finding your own place in it.
Finding space in the emptiness
and filling it with your own form of love.
But it hurts.
You're the scab to my healing heart that I want to pick.
Refresh the wound that's now become so self inflicted
and continue the cycle of love and loss.
I don't want it to be scarred.
I just want to remain wounded.
But my heart feels your presence.
You've become a long awaited antidote to this emptiness
and I can't get you out.
Slowly,
I'm healing.
But forces will try to tear us apart.
Our Love will be seen not as a work of art
but crafted by the devil.
A spell cast over our eyes
blinding us from the truth that is God.
We will look misguided and lost,
but not all who wander are.
It's the devil who wants to take us away from love.
Remember that.
It's the devil who doesn't want happiness.
You make me feel love.
You make me happy.
You make me want to go to church and be with God.
How could the thing that's supposed to take me away from him
make me want to grow closer?
But it's not you who takes me away.
It's them.
It's the very people who want me most to find God
that push me away from him.
They are my devil.
They throw scripture in our face to tell us we are ******
They cut us with verses to enforce what they believe to be is true.
But they are not alone.
Remember, the devil knows and uses scripture too.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
In Đà Nẵng my friends cradled me like a child.
We screamed Taylor bridges,
tequila-toasted in bars until the lights blurred.
A single candle in the bathroom
danced warm sighs through open windows,
and all felt calm.
I grew new muscles balancing on a motorcycle,
sometimes gripping Harry’s jacket,
sometimes throwing my weight into the wind.
The city flared neon and gasoline in stuttered traffic,
but along the coast
he drove so fast the vibrations in my chest harmonized.
I pictured my bones becoming butterflies if I let go.
I had entered the Year of the Dragon on a futon,
swayed to half-sleep by a hundred chanting voices
from the temple next door.
I did not dream of dragons.
I only learned to breathe fire.
At midnight Bailey stood at an ancestral altar,
kumquat branches, apricot blossoms, red envelopes, wine,
burning full sticks of incense,
and smoking half a pack of Esse Lights.
This is how the year turns over safely.
Tết is not about faith; it’s about continuity.
The Year of the Snake slid in with new bones and old habits.
It hissed that suffering could be scripture
until letters slithered free from the page
and coiled like cold jewelry around my wrist.
I didn’t make it for Tết that year
no silk áo dài, blood orange, too big
for a body that learned shrinking
before it learned staying.
That was the shedding.
Salt water peeling old skin away,
songs shouted so loud they drowned the ache,
poems that did not start tragic,
nights when my body finally kept time with the moon.
At home the water did not move.
At home the dog’s teeth found my hope.
A terrified mouth rerouted rivers
through my soft parts.
A jewel carved from my nose.
Six punctures blooming across my arms like altars.
In Vietnamese stories the snake waits beneath the water
to claim whoever dares the bank.
I wonder if I was chosen the moment
I opened my mouth in those bars,
when I leaned into the bike’s curve
as if danger could be a swan song.
Now I lie awake at hours unnamed,
tracing scars that hiss answers back.
Something from Vietnam keeps breathing through me,
the candle’s heat, the coast’s long nerve,
voices braided into salt and night,
and I cannot tell if they are echoes
or fangs testing the dark.
They say snakes shed to grow,
but no one warns you how thin the new skin feels,
how everything burns against it,
how you mistake survival for prophecy.
I touch the scar and wonder
if I am still that girl clinging to the bike,
or if the snake has already swallowed me,
patient, sleepless,
feeding on my own venom.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 1:24 PM UTC
I softly tread down marble halls,
my bare feet echoing on white stone floors
that have seen millions of souls
just like mine.
I pass over the stoop
that has felt the endless touch of foreheads
prostrate in humble reverence.
I stand silently by an altar,
coins and offerings scattered at my feet
before this monument that is
the silent ear for so many unknown prayers.
I can almost hear the silent supplications
of all those that have come before,
endlessly echoing from these golden walls.
This place spoke to each of them
just as it speaks to so many today,
just as it speaks to me.
Though my knees do not fold
and my lips do not kiss the marble floor,
though no muttered scripture falls from my tongue,
though the songs on the air remain a mystery
and their lyrics tell stories I do not know,
though I bring no offering, leave no coin
at the petaled base of the altar,
even so,
my mere presence here
has bound me both to this sanctuary
and to these strangers.
To their prayers.
To their alms.
To their songs.
To their hearts.
Every heart
that has been bathed
in the golden light of peace and charity
is forever brightened
and strengthened and soothed.
And now, my heart is counted among them.
Many hearts,
One love.
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 12:30 PM UTC
My lover has a scar
Just above her hipbone;
It's not a small ****
a forgotten accident.
They're words -
Straight lines she etched
Deliberately,
Slowly,
Painfully.
I trace my fingers softly,
Not to wake my love,
But I can't soften their bite.
Words of cruel warning,
An order, imperative.
Commanding, even faded,
Echo a silent scream.
They mock me, mock us,
For they still have a hold:
She is only half mine.
They hurt me, cold,
Like unblinking eyes,
Knowing that she stares back
Every day.
I barely brush them,
Intruders on soft skin,
Indelible scripture
Of darkness within.
And they keep whispering:
don't eat.
Sep 30, 2020
Sep 30, 2020 at 11:43 AM UTC
Down by two
the bruised-blue flesh
of the bronze butterfly's
escape through sacrifice,
flays the emotions..
Unwholesome the silence
that goes before her,
a sound like the heart
bound to beat like butterfly wings...
Gently her absence quick
upon me, inhales the night
and swiftly, the dark
sees only ease to relinquish
her candles sheathed in glass
epitaphs that collapse like veins
to fill the fluent air with the spare
embrace of the blue elements...
Down by two in the bottom of the ninth,
two out, two on, two strikes,
the soul's too tragic abhorrence of details
fails to deliver the impossible syntax
of apocalypse, on the lips
of a courteous Christ, crucified
by light, the night fades
far into the furthest exile...
Under a tropic of cancer,
her un-obscured brilliance
pierces the vault of heaven's vast
gathering of angels,
and their illegible scripture...
Shatters the soul in one primal
instant grand slam dream, quicksilver
through her midnight moment's landscape,
every cherished feature in flight, the light
of the bronze butterfly's escape
through sacrifice, to the silver flame
of moonlight's crucial adieu....
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
As
I dip a piece of broken bread
into grape juice
in a cheap styrofoam cup
My mind races
to
clips from movies,
scripture read so many times
Your body
hanging from
a bloodied cross
The King of Kings,
Pierced
by nail, thorn and spear
A phrase whispers through
my mind,
"This
changes everything"
Pierced
for our sins
Crushed
for our iniquities
The Lord of Lords,
Son of God,
battered, bruised and hanging
from a bloodied tree
Beaten and torn,
"This is My body"
Poured out,
"This is my blood"
Broken for me broken
for you
This,
this changes everything
And I dip a piece of broken bread
into grape juice
in a cheap styrofoam cup
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
Oh, the sensation, the media frenzy,
The spotlight, the fame, the hullabaloo,
When anti-evolution laws
Were challenged by the ACLU!
The year: 1925.
The place: Dayton, Tennessee.
To say it was an extravaganza
Wouldn't be hyperbole.
For many people it was hard
To find a way to reconcile
Biblical accounts with science,
So science found itself on trial.
A young teacher, John T. Scopes,
Was willing to face prosecution
For breaking a Tennessee law for having
Given a lesson on evolution.
The "Monkey Trial" it was called.
The challenge meant swimming upstream
For the feisty lawyer Clarence Darrow,
Who helped to lead the defense team.
A prosecutor was William Jennings
Bryan, who with no apology
Loved to stir up outrage against
Evolutionary biology.
Defendant Scopes quickly found
It wouldn't take long for him to know
What it was like to have a part
In a multimedia reality show.
The courthouse received a make-over:
Platforms for newsreel cameras were built;
Extra spectator seats were added.
They were playing the trial to the hilt.
Concession stands sold food and drinks;
Toy monkeys were on display;
A chimp was dressed in a suit and fedora;
The clergy also joined the fray.
The media and the public loved it!
The country watched the trial progress.
What would win: science or scripture?
The answer was probably easy to guess.
After an eight-day trial, the jury
Deliberated. Nine minutes later
They had their verdict: guilty! How
Could someone question THEIR creator?
Scopes had actually never given
The lesson. That's what he later said.
Strangely, five days after the trial,
Williams Jennings Bryan dropped dead.
Laws later changed, but even during
Current times, some people feel
That stories from the Bible should be
In science textbooks. Now THAT'S surreal!
-by Bob B (11-6-18)
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
You are the commander in Charge.
And , I'm one of your soldier.
Just out fighting your cause.
I can't stop traveling because I'm doing it all for God.
If, I read you a scripture I don't mean to offend.
Who better than Jesus should be your very best friend?
The truth in the bible speaks volume over many lies.
Stand firm on it.
And give the Word a try.
It been there in the beginning and even now.
I doubt if you find a Christian's to state they ever let them down.
Others might twist the truth to benefit themselves.
All they really admitting is that they in need of help.
So, who better than Jesus should be your very best friend?
He been there in the beginning and as we see he still here in the end.
Glory be to God.
For sending us an advocate.
Who is our defenders when some work to cut us down.
Peter might have denied him all because of fear.
But, I'm his supreme soldier's I'll forever be defending him.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 2:38 PM UTC
Tangible sin, its what i'm looking for
let the rants and raves begin
cause tongues of fire can never settle
for a one line poem or a break in tone
they need the blood red of wine in their glass
these aristocrats drinking from the lower class
we are far too outspoken to speak of silence
that's something only the seculars teach
Maddness, now there's an idea i can get behind
Imagine ideas like countries
nuclear weapons at their highest state of alert
what we believe is what we once held true
and whose finger is this on the trigger?
then eventually, yes
the tyrants will get voted into office
doing away with terms and treaties of old
eventually you'll get two shoes per person
as you read your generation's scripture like truth
from the nearest stall bathroom wall
for a good time call, God
cause he doesn't charge you per hour
well, only on sunday mornings nine to noon
but for everlasting life who wouldn't drink that elixir?
just one more broken promise
cause Buddha told me i'd be back again
back again to serve in the same platoon of freedom fighters
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 11:57 PM UTC