"sect" poems
Hey lets start this thing and gain a little mnemonic
Cuz the teachers always explaining things so dull and robotic
But you got it, just trust this rhyme and I promise you'll have it
Let me teach you the equation for the function quadratic
It goes A, X and a 2 up high
Add that to a B multiplied with a Y
Put a plus sign and add the third term, the C
And set all that equal to a 0 bee
It's that easy, with that you can plot the graph
That will show you where the ball went and its flightpath
See the value of X shows where the line hits the axis
To illustrate where the ball was caught and where it was passed
It's cuts of cake to find this data with a formula rap
So keep in mind these fresh rhymes to the beat of the clap
You set X on the left, follow with an equal sign
Put the next little sect about a dividing line
And that little piece starts with a negative b
Add and subtract square root of B high 2 minus 4AC
Then divide what you get by 2 times A
If you forget this part man, your whole answers at stake
But if you follow my rules, and do all of this rap's math
I guarantee the next reports gonna say that you passed
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 3:42 AM UTC
When the hands of your journey reach down to guide
and that still small voice says you failed
Remember your shoes that have come through it all
Their laces have helped you prevail
One store gave you shoes of the rarest kind
Not only to try on but wear
One gave you shoes just like all the rest
To judge if life has been fair
The rarest of shoes are made from truth
And can walk you through any test
Through winds of lies and perceptions of men
This shoe lifts you over the best
I’ve had shoes from my mother and shoes from my dad
Shoes from my lovers and friend
Shoes that planned future and how it would be
Shoes that stood still tied together at ends
Always remember our journeys not measured
By those who stare down at our feet
Who are baffled by color, religion or sect
Or judge who our shoes help us meet
Wherever your journey may take you in time
Wear shoes that best suit you
The rarest of men whoever prevailed
Knew it came in the truth of their shoe
I wonder if heaven is really a place
Where our personal journeys complete,
And the shoes we wore here suddenly become
The truth that shines on our feet
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 4:40 AM UTC
From the House Of Ali -Najaf to the House Of Hussain-Kerbala,
Swarms of people walk 80kilometres for threes days- united,
The largest peaceful gathering in the world with free services,
An experience like no other.
Blessed are those who walk,
More blessed are those who serve.
No discrimination,
Regardless of sect, profession or social status,
Rich or poor,
Young or old,
Men or women,
In wheel chairs, crutches or with Zimmer frames,
Prams or hand carts,
All march with respect and dignity,
With one thought in mind,
To pay allegiance to Hussain,
Who sacrificed his head for humanity.
Every eye is moist,
Every heart torn in grief,
Chanting"Labbaik Ya Hussain."
With an iron will to complete the walk.
A nation, war-torn, wounded,
Embraces the whole world in the name of Hussain,
The longest dining table,
Where every zuwar is honoured and treated like royalty,
To pay in currency, none,
Only love and kindness and an urge to serve the zuwars.
Along the roadside are set up Mowakebs (tents),
That provide every kind of facilities and amenities ,
Food,beverages medicines,toiletries,
Fresh clothes if need be, shower rooms and toilets,
A massage of your feet,
Services to charge or repair your phone's,zimmer frames or prams,
Anything for the zuwars,
All in the name of the Ahle bayt,
Mohamed,Ali,Fatema,Hassan and Hussain.
What Hussain and his followers were denied is served with outstretched arms,
The aftermath of Kerbala was more tragic and callous,
The tears of Binte Zainab that retold the tragedy again and again,
Has born fruits,
The zuwars multiply in numbers
every year,
The rewards greater.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
dedicated with hope to all of us
Imagine a Human Family Picnic
where everyone shows -
from every sect and hue and nation -
gathered at a common table.
The Almighty swoops down
to speak the blessing:
known to all from Torah, Q'uran and Gospels
and countless other books of wisdom -
author of our souls' aspirations.
After supper the Holy One
would call us to the sacrificial pyre.
*“Brothers, sisters and cousins,
images of your creator,
every unholy war
desecrates the face of God
and there is no other kind.
Cast your pride into the flames
and live together in peace!”*
Obediently, we'd toss our
pride into the fire,
recoiling from its smoldering stench.
The Lion would lie down to preen the Lamb's fleece
and Universal Love, released from her chains,
would walk free in every land.
August, 2006
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
Lust is a sin everyone will enjoy,
from the bums in the courtyard,
mingling and thrusting ***** privates,
to the chaste; to you and me, and celibate,
The celibate lust for self-recognition,
for their gods,
for a higher purpose,
To strive is to lust and to lust,
it is only human to lust for comfort,
for control,
for order.
Goals of every sect are prized,
Sought after are the lusts
that guide us,
that energize the batteries in our backs,
tells us to do crazy things,
some promote devastation.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
Life, in a mannerism, they proclaim
Is fragile, untouchable, limitless, rather a chain
Life, the folks sing, as delightful and indescribable as it is, is only here to stay
I do not know where, I do not know why
But thoughts mingling within my nerves apply
A paradox of significance within the definition
Of the purposeful journey we call life
Albeit the good, we choose to focus rather unwisely
Precisely of course, over delusional mastery
Understanding only comes in hand when necessary
When it threatens our existence, calling Bravery
You see, humans as smart as we are perceived to be
Might as well be a laughing stock to the rest of the scene
What we value, we fail to pursue, what we preach, we fail to reach
Would it hurt to let go of Prejudice?
An individual who has been imagined by generations beforehand, woven by bits of uncertainty and; well, where is he?
Hold on, here comes another
Violence and Destruction stand on the porch
Should we let them in? Should we not?
They are there, ready, ready anytime temptation hits now
Humanity degrades what she has created
Humiliates what she has achieved, and criticizes her dignity
Worth has lost its value, hence wonder
What have we done to help save her?
Sense has lost all contact
With wicked games being played, selfish pact
Response no longer yearns for Suffering
Such that, we deceive our own sect
Where is Understanding when we need her?
A few doors down the street, go ahead and wake her
She has not heard from us for a while now
Last time we spoke, I reckon, was when our own path was in danger
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 5:57 PM UTC
PYTHAGORAS planned it. Why did the people stare?
His numbers, though they moved or seemed to move
In marble or in bronze, lacked character.
But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love
Of solitary beds, knew what they were,
That passion could bring character enough,
And pressed at midnight in some public place
Live lips upon a plummet-measured face.
No! Greater than Pythagoras, for the men
That with a mallet or a chisel" modelled these
Calculations that look but casual flesh, put down
All Asiatic vague immensities,
And not the banks of oars that swam upon
The many-headed foam at Salamis.
Europe put off that foam when Phidias
Gave women dreams and dreams their looking-glass.
One image crossed the many-headed, sat
Under the tropic shade, grew round and slow,
No Hamlet thin from eating flies, a fat
Dreamer of the Middle Ages. Empty eyeballs knew
That knowledge increases unreality, that
Mirror on mirror mirrored is all the show.
When gong and conch declare the hour to bless
Grimalkin crawls to Buddha's emptiness.
When Pearse summoned Cuchulain to his side.
What stalked through the post Office? What intellect,
What calculation, number, measurement, replied?
We Irish, born into that ancient sect
But thrown upon this filthy modern tide
And by its formless spawning fury wrecked,
Climb to our proper dark, that we may trace
The lineaments of a plummet-measured face.
April 9,
2.3k
Is humanism Utopian?
You really have to think about it.
Or is it rather more dystopian?
No, then I think you’d never doubt it.
It seems that disbelief is best.
Humanism owes a debt
to thinkers of the Enlightenment,
although I haven’t paid it yet,
I think of it as my entitlement
to settle it at some behest.
I very early cleared my mind of Kant,
experiencing a vast relief,
approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant;
removing knowledge to allow belief;
the opposite of what he had expressed.
It occurred to me I ought to dig up
(or should I say instead ex-hume?)
what constitutes at least an egg-cup-
full of wisdom that I might consume
with non-platonic zest.
But wondering how on earth to do so
and thinking he might hold the key,
I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau
and set sail for my destiny,
while trying not to feel depressed.
Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears
as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu
and failed to still my latent fears.
And thus I felt no need to rescue
Adam Smith (morality-obsessed).
To put Descartes before the Horse-
men of the Apocalypse
War, famine, pestilence and worse.
Who could guess it would eclipse
my thought, wherefore I was oppressed.
Or take the case of Denis Diderot
a friend of Hume and others seedier.
and one you might consider so
rash as to produce an encyclopedia
to get his knowledge off his chest.
That precious quality of truth
was Mary Ann’s# description of it.
It would not take a Sherlock sleuth
to simply thus produce a conviction of it:
an elementary request.
I cut my questing teeth on Russell.
His secular logic had a profound effect
and seemed to stir each red corpuscle
inhabiting this fervid non-sect-
arian but doubting breast.
I later turned my eye on Dawkins,
and his concern with my divine delusion.
A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings
validate my disillusion
and emphasise an ill-starred quest.
And so I felt the pointlessness of it.
Progress is the best end for a man to see
And belief simply produced less profit
for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy.
So, in the end, I acquiesced.
#Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in Adam Bede
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Its not love.
Now don't think I'm crazy. I swear I'm not, at least not mostly. But its true, its not love, it can't be yet, its been one night and I'd be a true psychotic if I thought it was.
Once I thought one night was love, but I was also high off the fumes of my own cruelty and didn't know left from right and Up from Toy Story.
But it matters.
Not in the way you think, God, I swear not like that. I am not mentally able to catch feelings right now as I stumble through the vacant halls of my own sanity, or better put, the filled asylum of my own insanity.
Still, though.
It was a night I could be me, a night I want to feel again, where I'm bare and broken and real and **** and that doesn't happen very often for me. My mask of smiles and lies tend to hide everything, but not that night, and not with you.
Here in this new sect of Wonderland I can be me , be Grace, with little to no question. Well, there's been some rejection and tears and pain and all the average Wonderland shenanigans, but its been magical. I feel like Wonderland is a place I can live in again.
In old Wonderland, I was beginning to suffocate, to feel the cold hand of stability take over me. But I am not ready for that, I'm ready for freedom and dancing in the rain and having *** until the moon goes to bed.
I wasn't ready to be in love with the Caterpillar. Crazy, considering I always thought it was he who was unprepared, but all along it was me.
Guess I can't live my life wondering what's just around the river bend, I have to investigate. I have to know. Things must get curiouser and curiouser, its how it goes.
Let my youth wash over me, let my childlike Wonderland wash over my eyes and let me be me for awhile. Its not normal for me to be this malleable. Everything used to be lies, but now everything is freedom, and for now I love it.
Thank you for that night. Its a beginning, a new one, for Wonderland and I. Why?
Because for the first time in forever, Grace of Wonderland is free.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
Wherein without a mouthful of air,
He spoke of materialism with
a judge’s
Merciless verdict.
His eyes so glazed yet passionate,
He threw his thoughts to the ceiling,
Like rocks in a plastic bag,
To see if it could make a bang
And his speeches are so angelic
Amongst the ignorant giggles
And the frayed songs of yawns,
You really had to give him credit. For, you
See, he stares out at a whole different cosmic
Sect in a wanton orchestra
Filled with red wallows of
Flags and pride.
Scared jumbles strewn like flowers across this dying opinion-land,
He’s seen it all despite his accent.
He’s strummed cold and excited to be here.
His life is a rusting metal scrap
Tossed to the side of the masterpiece from whence it came.
He thinks that everybody must have been a spy…
No, wait, two quirks tossed in to
Hear the Man talk. It’s all a
Meandering walk from where
The toads squat.
He describes it as a war for the value of academic standards,
Which are now expiring before his eyes, and how we’re all
A bunch of rotting worms dying as we speak. The hope is
That the people from your life will be defeated by you,
Right? That’s how it goes in the war of everybody
Against everybody. He desires to make all of life
Into a dream… but that would result in economic
Impediments.
Give him the $1 million, also known as “the cool mill.”
Everybody must have been a spy.
You couldn’t look for this logic
Beneath a rock
Or stuck in your lover’s hair.
He’s depressed because he is not asleep – he’s acutely aware.
He speaks like rapturous nuns,
throwing themselves on to the cross
And begging me to ready the nails.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:42 PM UTC
We will start with every Jew of every sect.
then every Muslim of every sect.
then every Christian of every sect.
then every Buddist of every sect.
Then every Vedic Hindu of every sect.
then every Animist of every sect.
then every New Ager of every sect.
then every person who lives "religiously".
then every person who "believes in and worships" any "god" or "goddess".
then every person of either *** or any of the five skin colours.
then the redheads.
then the disabled.
then the "gays" male or female.
then the "Politicians" of any belief.
then every member or supporter of any Oligarchy anywhere.
then every Capitalist and supporters of every sect.
then every Socialist and supporters of every sect.
then every Liberal and supporters of every sect.
then every Monarchist and supporters of every sect.
then every "aristocrat" and their supporters.
then every Militarist and supporters of every sect.
then every Fascist and supporters of every sect.
then every "Freedom" lover of whatever belief.
then every Revolutionary and supporters of whatever cause.
then every Criminal of whatever crime.
every Hippy.
every Ecofreak.
every alcoholic user.
every tobacco smoker.
every Cannabis smoker.
every priest of every "religion"
every Khat chewer.
every ***** of any junk.
every celebrity especially public ones.
every historian.
every novelist.
every poet.
every lecturer.
every expert.
every "adviser".
every spokesperson.
every print or electronic journalist especially.
every Television chat show host.
every one else.
Its the only way to get neither War nor Peace
on this war ravaged planet,
but simple existence without any corruption or criminality.
and then who will be left?.
NO ONE!!
Except me and my twin flame
and oh boy will we have a great time of it.
Alone but all one.
just us and the Isness of the Universe.
wandering this beautiful playground gifted to us by the Isness of the Universe.
The Isness of the Universe to walk with and talk with.
Fruit hanging from trees .
Cold clear waters to drink.
Nuts to crunch.
oh and Amber our huge sheppie--
connosseur of Pork Crackling
and doggy nonsense and wisdom.
www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
. . . . . . .
. .
. . . . . . .
i would like a space marked out
wherein in silence i'd observe my sacral auguries,
and insularly divine
amid mid-dawning light contingencies,
to sweep a magic sweep for sunrise-
-tabula|_|rasa
and find, founded in a flout: a sect beyond sects
to section self sectionless~
inwrought helix interhelix nest~
and there reside attentively
()blinking() s l o w ...ly
in rainbow eyelash quiver flow,
arrows soaring ' ' ' ' ' 'centerly
to pin
each
whirl
of dream,
of sleep,
mneumonic residue,
prehensions right or wrong clear through --
symbological goo, too--
all too evidently called
from out an obvious deep
oblivion of plenum om,
or so it's said it's seen
in clear eidetic percept room
of alter overmInd of mindstuff's tomb [*]
and form of selfish altar drama gone and soon
for looking in or out or neither both
oblique, about aboutness-mirror zoom~
to which what spectionism halves
behaving in a twofold twining intro free: the finest of the fine:
insight-interred intuited sign
quiescently, albeit doubtfully at times, benign
.
.
.
.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
Eliza! what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who, to woman, deny the soul’s future existence;
Could they see thee, Eliza! they’d own their defect,
And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance.
Had their Prophet possess’d half an atom of sense,
He ne’er would have woman from Paradise driven;
Instead of his Houris, a flimsy pretence,
With woman alone he had peopled his Heaven.
Yet, still, to increase your calamities more,
Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit,
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!—
With souls you’d dispense; but, this last, who could bear it?
His religion to please neither party is made;
On husbands ’tis hard, to the wives most uncivil;
Still I can’t contradict, what so oft has been said,
“Though women are angels, yet wedlock’s the devil.”
This terrible truth, even Scripture has told,
Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture;
If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold,
Of ST. MATT.—read the second and twentieth chapter.
’Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex’d,
With wives who eternal confusion are spreading;
“But in Heaven” (so runs the Evangelists’ Text)
“We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding.”
From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,)
That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more,
And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway,
All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar.
Distraction and Discord would follow in course,
Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor ST. PAUL, can deny it,
The only expedient is general divorce,
To prevent universal disturbance and riot.
But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin’d,
Yet woman and man ne’er were meant to dissever,
Our chains once dissolv’d, and our hearts unconfin’d,
We’ll love without bonds, but we’ll love you for ever.
Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes,
Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you,
Your nature so much of celestial partakes,
The Garden of Eden would wither without you.
1.8k
A rider's quest, ****** reverie
The colour of your soul invites me
The essence of you humbles me
The smoothness of your skin makes me melt
Your eyes glow and kindle my darkness
We sparkle, we shine as we undress
Dripping oils, Burning incense; ****** chemistry
Your body succumbs as I stroke your waist with my keen thumb
I wrestle you and you take whiffs at my neck
I collect your scent and
pinch on your ****** biting on your ilium sect
There are colourful and organic effects
This passion inspiring unprotected ***
STDs, *** a child to pure serendipity
Raw and coarse, hissing and grunting
Panting and rhythmic crying
Warmth all around
Bone to bone, close and bound
Music playing in the background
The day is bright and shining
The ocean of love deep and wide, let us dive in.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
I come from Kashmir
where land is green & white snow bed
and I come from Kashmir
where roads aren’t black but are red.
I come from Kashmir
where Daughter Tajamul brought Gold
and I come from Kashmir
where daughter Nafiya craves for her father’s body and lost his soul.
I come from Kashmir
where journalists get Peter Mackler & Pulitzer awards
and yet I come from Kashmir
where journalists get charged under UAPA as a reward.
I come from Kashmir
where Thekedar gets benefits under the Roshni Act
and I come from Kashmir
where an internet shutdown of 551 days was for every sect.
I come from Kashmir
where Gupta g ranked 1st in the country
and yet I come from Kashmir
where youth have to carry ID’s to prove their identity.
I come from Kashmir
which was known for its cultural dress Pheran
and I come from Kashmir
which now has more business in selling Kaffan.
I come from Kashmir
which Allama called the valley of braves
and I come from Kashmir
which now is the valley of Graves.
I come from Kashmir
which was called Earth’s Heaven
and yet I come from Kashmir
which now is the World’s Biggest Prison.
I come from Kashmir
where Chinars paint the autumn gold
and I come from Kashmir
where every spring, new tombstones unfold.
I come from Kashmir
where Dal Lake mirrors the moon’s glow
and I come from Kashmir
where blood taints the rivers’ flow.
I come from Kashmir
where children dream of books and play
and I come from Kashmir
where childhoods vanish in smoke and clay.
I come from Kashmir
where lovers once whispered in gardens wide
and yet I come from Kashmir
where silence now walks side by side.
I come from Kashmir
where poets wrote of love and fate
and yet I come from Kashmir
where verses now carry only weight.
I come from Kashmir
which history books fail to define
and I come from Kashmir
which lives between the headlines’ lines.
Mar 4, 2025
Mar 4, 2025 at 10:36 PM UTC
Fashioned by grace amazing and mercy
Divine. Wrought by his unparalleled Passion:
His suffering, death and resurrection--
The cross of Christ in Calvary
Is the lone bridge, the only ladder
That reconnects man to his Maker.
No one who has traversed
That Golgotha-link hath ever
Fall'n into the deep r'ver
Of hell 'neath, nor by damnation
Touched in Satan's condemnation.
"Hey, what about so-and-so prophet,"
Said one, "and such-and-such sect?"
I do not, sir, over religion quibble.
Compare to grave matters--trifle.
Get books and the Bible. It's futile,
Argument, making a sage an imbecile.
And why lose friends to gain foes,
Multiplying instead one's woes?
God doth not any man in life compel.
Each soul chooses 'tween heaven and hell.
Yet his love daily he whispers to you
And i. College cobber, that is true.
"Oh, you are just a pedestrian
Writer, without wits and sans brain,
Like an *Onitsha-market author."
"Thou art also a paltry poet, a bad bard.
Folks should simply thy collections discard.
For i can nought make of thy poetry ethos.
Your works wherefore are but bathos."
Hallelujah!!
Praise i Jehovah!
"Hell. Away now thou pedantry."
Thanks for your commentary--
It's heavenly--erudite Professor.
Faith ferments finer than wine.
Thy decision it is with whom to dine.
The self-righteous, the holier-than-
Thou art, who prefers to leap
Over to God on his on major merit
Will always go under the heap--
Thinking he can close the chasm
Created by sin,
And cover the gulf caused by transgression
By ritualistic rules and doctrinal devotion,
But ends up in some bedlam--
In Sheol's loony bin.
Broad are the twain heaven's arms
Filled with warmth and soothing balm
Often open to embrace prodigal souls.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
Sand-written Christians claiming to remember
the computer's food, in jeopardy & daughters
dancing enough in the Temple; & heard
over the radio on the table; naturally hidden
off a gypsy feeling the heat from burning
torches, ways corner holding the prostitute's
picture of her mom; Jack's lover in sheath town could
bring to move more corporate leather desert
skinny lady's dawn planet body like a hairy mantle;
a shade; In the kissed him, and as much as
they call it, Latin east of the garden to look
at the lights of the flame of the knowledge
of the plastic Einstein's abstract sense,
the invisible is greater than the sight
of the beat the bottom of the New;
moving sweat, receives fate come to be known
is a living being hot the skin, which is the fall
of the leaves according to the letter; to play a stranger
the true lord,
is taken to read the goddess, in the middle of the book
of b/c leading to a hot start for you to speak to the queen
of the stomach, a teenager's clothes & the waves of the wide part
of the shore of ***** almost to stand still the middle of the night,
a witch holds the lady naked; 1 shall return against the writer
that he is already a-dying, blessed are they,
w/ their armed sect Moorish & thin, of course,
to leave behind the knees bathing
in the hot springs in the Hills?
[The cut is greater than the tongue of madness
of the sounds of a loud ****
30 shall be the wicked desires of Asian investors;
Said the Christian, remember what the computer does;
I put food on the table, natural daughter dancing
enough to house music on the radio hidden off in the corner;
holding a gypsy & feeling burning torches; the ways of prostitutes
have the same mom as Jack; lover's sheath in a state
where she is able to move more corporately, in its skin,
as the body of a planet; the light of the wilderness
of the ladies' skinny body like a hairy garment:
& they in the shadow; Kissing him, & beyond their means
call Latin east of the garden & look at the lights;
in the flame from the knowledge of the plastic Einstein,
in the abstract, the invisible things is greater than
the number of people viewing the bottom
of the trendy new thing that moves the sweaty way to accept a fate
to be known, that being to be alive
or to be hot on the skin, which is in the leaves of the
trees which were according to the letter to play the
stranger in the future he is true, LORD taken in the Law
of the goddess, for you to speak to the queen
of the middle of the little book out of a hot start
to the ventricle of a teenager the garments b/c the
waves to the shore of the broad middle of the night,
told by a witch who can barely stand the mistress
of the city, he was naked; Then returned
to the 1-in's, which is already dying,
happy w/ the sect in the arms of a Moorish one indeed,
to leave on its knees in the Hills?
the cut is greater than insanity,
a loud banging noise of languages;
the wicked desires of Asian investors
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:17 AM UTC
The Church in its awesome majesty
Looked down, from over the hill,
From faith, to hope, to travesty
It stood, and is standing still,
So proud in its fine regalia
Its ritual, and never the least,
Its potent God who would wield his rod
Deter the jaws of the beast.
The Bishop of Saint Ignatius Church
Was a proud and holy man,
Who wouldn’t suffer the jibes of fools
From Rome to Afghanistan,
And certainly not those down the hill
In the new Masonic Lodge,
That beastly, secret doctrine that
He advised his flock to dodge.
He’d stand at the steps of his church and stare
Down at the barbarians,
He hated Lodges, he hated Mosques
And Rastafarians,
‘There shouldn’t be anyone else but me,
I hold the eternal God,
What gods they worship could never be,
For they’re all distinctly odd.’
While down at the Lodge of the Masons
They were cool with their golden rule,
They had to believe in a god as such,
But how, it was up to you.
For some would practice the Baptist faith,
And some Presbyterian,
While some enrolled in the Primitive state
Were a type of Wesleyan.
There was only a single Catholic
And he wore a glued on rug,
He wanted to still be young at heart,
Was known as the Grand HumBug,
The Antidiluvian Mason’s Guild
Was the name he’d chosen himself,
The others differed, but he was keen,
And he was the one with wealth.
Their God was known as the Architect,
They carried the masons tools,
The set square set them apart from all
The disbelievers and fools.
They worked on their secret rituals
And kept a goat at the back,
For leading a blindfold novice in
And guarding the Lodge from attack.
The Bishop heard that a Catholic
Was leading the Masons there,
He fumed, choked on his rhetoric, but
Was heard to firmly declare,
‘I will not shelter a wayward sheep
Who has taken to ways I hate,
The only fate for a traitor here
Is to excommunicate!’
He gathered a dozen priests to march
With candles, down to the Hall,
Surrounded the base heretic’s Lodge
And named HumBug in his call,
Sprinkled his holy water ‘til
It fizzed, and gave off a smell,
Doused his candle and closed his book,
Consigning the man to Hell!
But Humbug patted his glued on rug
Went out, untethered the goat,
He let it loose on the dozen Priests,
It butted the Bishop’s coat,
They ran in confusion up the street,
To the church, set up on the hill,
While the goat was hard at the Bishop’s heels
Like a demon released from Hell.
It butted the Bishop’s altar and
It charged, knocked over the font,
Scattered the pews for the devil’s dues
In a hellfire sacrament,
While HumBug muttered he might end up
In Hell, with his Mason’s sect,
But the Bishop’s God, had failed with his rod
In a clash with his Architect!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
Lets travel to a land
where nobody knows which creed
I belong to
And which sect I possess
Where nobody knows my name
And people are less bias
Have one colour,
One faith which they cling to
Where to judge is to sin
And where nobody asks
who am I
But
what am I doing..
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
in a cozy nest
the sect of snakes
did reside
with the chief asp
holding a strong
preside
none would ever move
until he gave an okay
to defy his edicts they'd
be thrown out of the shay
an uncomfortable position
the servile vipers were in
each of them had disclosed
secrets to the overlord's ear tin
after a time the snug abode
imploded on the leader of the sect
the underlings obtained some smarts
and wouldn't willingly genuflect
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 9:28 PM UTC
Stop !
" smack "
Here comes another slap,
Suddenly the barking of dogs stop ,
I look up,
The mirror holding a my unknown pop.
The room is looked,
Yes , i am alone ,
Hands still trembling, stuck in invisible strom.
I hate the girl standing in front of me ,
Still lost , drizzling and comparing both the " we " .
The wall behind still dancing with my old part ,
Smiling , thriving , Carefree , shining,
With innocent and open heart .
She is light and the only remain ,
Dancing,
she paused and looked up,
Back in the mirror ,
Same eyes , same face ,
But all left is unspoken pain.
the devil drifted in ,
' you both can't be the same ',
Another " smack " .
But This time my heart burned ,
I hate this , every part of it,
I shut my eyes,
Breath shuffled.
On the verge of accompanying the last peice of darkness ,
A shadow stop me ,
Smiling , thriving still the same beautiful mess.
She came close,
eyes met,
For first time she spoke but a torn set.
" we are indeed not the same ,
The war is different but not the blame.
We can nver be alike,
We are rides of same bike,
These scares are no less precious than my smile,
You are the most important part of this pile.
Your struggle is real ,
And worthy as well ,
I hold the heaven, coz you took the hell .
You don't need to be anymore prefect,
No need to stand beside another's sect.
All you need to do is hold on,
stay and led the strom. "
This time the darkness cried in pain ,
with a flicker , i was back ,
The sound of a forgotten laughter echoing in room,
Everything is gone or so i thought ,
The one in mirror still Clutching the gloom.
But the eyes were different,
The smile was still missing ,
But life wasn't,
The scares were there,
But no longer burned.
I finally opened the door,
The strom inside still roars.
I walked out,
But now embracing the gloom,
The sound of a forgotten laughter still echoing in room.
Divyanshi solanki
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 1:23 PM UTC