"sectarian" poems
Jesus runs in Everglades, Mohammed climbs the roof
The Angels stamp in anger as the Devil stands aloof,
A wandering Pope in la-la land while Jewish hands do writhe
Those apoplectic Muslims glare while Catholics pay the tithe.
Religion, girls, has hit the skids…the game is up on God
With rosaries rotating hard, theologians do nod,
While Mormons rant moronically with frankincense and myrrh
The irreligious bark and howl in Rastafarian fur.
Sectarian’s recant Sanctum’s Shrine the rite of soul is lost
As neophytes are dancing… the High Priest counts the cost,
Theocracy unbalances as Voodoo’s stamp the floor
And the Prophets throw their hands up, fast retreating for the door.
It’s transcendental disbelief that’s nailed it to the Cross
With the Priesthood chasing little boys all credence here is lost.
With sanctity’s monastic plunge the pagans roar and shout
As Shamans scream their incantations…God declares a route!
There is silence in the Temple now, stillness in the pews
As dust lies thick on altars, a nervous clergy holds reviews,
What, once, was good and vibrant here, is now as dead as dust
As the Blood Red Wine evaporates and Holy Bread…to crust.
Marshalg
Feeding the pigeons by the dusty, open door of the very, empty Chapel.
30 November 2013
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
wandering
across
the splinters of
squandered
seasons
the Hajj
of the
lost ones
completes
a broken
circle
returning
with hope to
burrow back
into the safety
of desecrated
graveyards
welcomed
home to the
embrace of a
cadaverous cloak
and the kiss
of carrion
smudged lips,
Hajji's eye
the decrepit
visage of
criminal
depravity
germination
of this
Arab Spring
mocks us
aromas
of jasmine
elude us
emulsified
concrete
clogs our
nostrils
burning eyes
filled with
asbestos dust
form
grateful
blinders
to the
ruination
of reason
betrayed
arcane
remnants
of our life
lay inert
in the open
****** of
fractured
habitations
amidst
jumbled rubble
the decaying
carcasses of
razed buildings
boast grotesque
sculptures of
twisted rebar
cradling artifacts
of a past life
pink
hair curlers
splashed
with sickly
blood grown
mold
scavenged
bicycles
limp on
banished
parts
smashed
skulls of
dolls weep,
her
dismembered
limb reaches
for a lost child’s
nursing
hand
the charred
remains of a
Persian rug
maps the
scale
of a city’s
deconstruction
and a frayed
regions
disconsolation
electric luxury
flowing water
the friendly bustle
of the street
bespeak
expired memories
foretelling an
unimaginal future
sectarian strife
enforces a communal
solitary confinement
in cold blood
we willingly
murdered
compassion
we
butchered
trust
we
euthanized
our
common
humanity
constructing
buildings is
easy
rebuilding
ourselves
impossible
Music Selection:
Segovia, Capricho Arabe
Oakland
5/13/14
jbm
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
with all the religious fighting
it's easy to lose one's head
so much sectarian discord
people bring armageddon onto themselves
attracting negative energies
pulling meteors to earth
dip in your toes in the sand
and read magnitude in the sky
let the lapping sea be your preacher
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
Ours was less an Arab Spring
and more a half-hearted coup d'état.
There was no immolation,
no burning desire on your part;
no passion in the streets of you.
You stole in at night
through a window I'd left open,
a crack in my need
for something more than mere
existence. From me there was
no resistance.
I let you lead, and followed blindly;
my voice I raised on your behalf
against all that I had known before.
Your words, your whispers
alone could incite me to storm
against the strongest walls.
Now, as summer comes
and this sectarian affair,
this spring uprising
that we called us has ended,
I sweep the streets of our debris
and wander down
the empty avenues
of you, half-hearted.
r ~ 6/5/14
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Balochistan
Tattered and torn
Brother
Forgotten and forlorn
Belief
Cracked like the arid land
Bridge
A hopeless demand
Bomb
Ticks at the rate of your heartbeat
Breath
Becomes heavier and incomplete
Blood
Ironclad? Iron. Ironic.
Body
Broken and bruised, it’s chronic.
Bury
Under the infected earth
Birth
What is its worth?
A note on the sectarian violence spreading across the nation of Pakistan.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
Religious zeal and explosive prowess make incendiary bedfellows
searing calculating moralism where all fall short and deserve to suffer
self righteous corrupted calumny put forth in a sally of sectarian selectivity
your ilk is heading for Hell and I'm (already there) not
fanatical zealots marginalize intellectuals with their mythical mire of mucked up claptrap and copious lack of a priori specificity
a glorified preposterous plethora of pompous pontificating platitudes
the sins of others they deplore but of themselves they don't keep score
Sunday's best is Sunday's worst
you sanctimonious ******** just can't leave people alone
who elected you to point fingers anyway
Jesus was born in a barn to an unmarried woman
And your mommy got shtuped when you were conceived too
you don't walk on water you insolent impertinent fool
the brain police can't wait for Sunday's
oh the satisfaction of a mutual admiration society
knee-jerk hackneyed pavlovian dog speak
Is anything anymore real if you jump around and shout about it
recipients of adulates get accustomed to sycophants
fawning complacent obsequious kiss ***** and Sunday suck-ups
pass the plate
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
Above our heads and below our feet
electricity surges through.
Power lines linked like huge arteries
giving life to a rising public.
Increasing demand for easy existence
could end with persistence.
Man never stable nor servile creatures
always wanting dominate.
All other species living on our planet
like gods in his approach.
Not respecting earth his only base
as more dangers we face!
Continues conflicts and power struggles
divided between rich and poor.
Tribal and sectarian violence and greed
as the power starts to falter.
Resources are dwindling as the need rises
a future filled with bad surprises!
The Foureyed Poet.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
The enemy of my enemy
Is not, necessarily, a friend to me.
Sectarian based enmity
In Syria abounds.
Cruise missile strikes certainly
Will be followed by the I.E.D.’s
As surely as boots on the ground
Will result in stone topped
Grassy mounds.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
I am one of the best poets on the site
On any subject I can write.
I may lack Neva Flores poetic grace
Or Rue’s literary or linguistic ace
I may lack Denis Barter’s classical touch
I am as useful as telephone hutch
My poetry is as simple as a common man’s speech
It is within every reader’s easy reach
In the literary circle I have considerable space
In my friends’ heart some cordial place
I don’t know much about meter
But I can write a poem on electrical heater
Some poets think My poetry sounds Victorian
I am undoubtedly not a sectarian
Some critics may feel my poetry is out dated
I think it might have been over rated
I am an instinctive and innovative poet
I am at the threshold of becoming great
If you think I am right bless me
If you think I am boasting curse me
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 6:14 AM UTC
The Sunni minority were marginalized
Sectarian killings were commonplace
In 2012 alone,
There were more than 1,600 deaths
The interviewer talked to a motorcycle gang
They said they wanted freedom
But some said they missed the way things were
Under Saddam Hussein
Some would trade the freedom they had
For the stability of Hussein's regime
The Shiah cleric
Says there is an assault on Iraq
Exemplified by the copying of corrupt Western culture.
The cleric wanted to eliminate American influence
Of any kind
Checkpoints make getting
Around the city a hassle
Subcultures in Iraq are under attack
Rap, metal, emo, and classical
All are looked down on
Gays are persecuted
The military uses a faulty device
That is supposed to detect bombs
But has been proven not at all effective
The city exists between extremes
There is the religious extreme
And people who want to be westernized
Without understanding what that is
The infrastructure was ruined by the war
Hopefully life will get better
As they continue to rebuild the infrastructuree
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
The Gregorian calendar has evolved from insular Celtic languages, whilst the epitome of death is witnessed by desolate tree-tops of silent and haunted hills.
As we bask in the radiance of harsh winter precipitations, I acknowledge his birthplace in Ayrshire. We are asked to give credence to the important lyrics: Haste Ye Back.
The national party has pronounced Brosnachadh Bhruis, whilst partaking of the offal pudding at the address of the laird.
Our sectarian intercourses are ceremonial ejaculations in the bedlam of staunch affiliation.
I can feel the spirit of damp historical ancestry on this Presbyterian eloquence which surpasses Hogmanay by a mere 25 days.
One more thing: Don’t be a stranger.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
Who are they? Who are they?
Why all these fights, why this fray?
Why innocents are killed, why they are displaced?
Why minorities are ill treated, why they are chased?
Who are they? who are they?
Are they pawns of puppets, who is funding? , who pays?
Do they want to stop revolutions, are they against democracy.
Is it true that puppet dictators are behind the conspiracy?
Who are they? Who are they?
Freedom fighters at times, At times criminal they portray.
Why this sectarian violence, why policy of 'divide and rule'?
Are they collaborators of oil thieves, are they their tool?
Who are they? Who are they?
God knows best but they don't follow prophet's way.
Their actions are criminal and this is the fact.
I just don't like them, I condemn their act.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
Serpents writhe across sand dunes where Glaswegian slaughter pronounces her vivid descriptions which are not dissociated from sensuality.
There is a certain rhythm to Marrakech vibrancy, and it comes at the price of percussion awareness.
It is cold on this night of sombre reflection, where the North Line Express cascades across sectarian boundaries.
Please offer me a solid definition of socialism, because my loyalty is laid bare before the perimeters of hatred.
Have you ever driven along Bisland Drive?
My alcoholic escapades have firmly embedded in the annals of street history.
Do you offer your consent?
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
I'll tell you a story of a stony Island which had a beautiful beach.
In search of a touchstone, this secluded place some determined men used to reach.
This touchstone used to turn ordinary metal into Gold
Men came to search this stone to increase their wealth manifold.
Touchstone was there hidden within pebbles and stones and its colour was shiny blue.
Its greed used to effect adventurous souls like some dangerous and contagious flu.
A man with great difficulty reached this promised land
Next moment he was on beach searching stones and sand.
stones which were not blue were straightaway thrown into the sea.
He developed this habit of throwing and was never seen free.
He continued with this habit without any complain or fear
This went on till days became month and months became year.
One day after throwing a stone he stood stunned as if he was struck by thunder.
Because of his habit he threw touchstone whose colour was blue, what a blunder!
Now replace 'sectarian fights' with 'habit of throwing' and 'sects' with 'pebbles' and 'Islam' with 'touchstone'
All you wise men and women do I need to clarify any further, hold on to Islam your blue stone.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC
The droning above was so familiar
all the bombings not resolved.
There was nothing they could do
civilians targeted below!
Families lost with no mercy killed
deep hatred was instilled.
This was the only life they knew
childhoods never known.
Playing not with toys but with guns
not good for photo albums.
Living in ruins without basic needs
sectarian divides where it leads.
In many cultures it's passed down
can hardened attitudes change?
Is peace the outcome they really want
as elders remain entrenched.
What chance of future generations to seek
with strong unity that is meek!
Will we ever see unilateral peace?
The Foureyed Poet.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 6:01 AM UTC
One too many days without freedom
One too many mornings full of outrage
As the sand pulled away from his feet
He would read then rip out every page
The words from heaven were for all men
But the boat wasn’t big enough; only for the few
A difficult man, he argued inside his own dreams
He neither sleeps or awakens until he knows what is true
Some people have to die before they know what’s true
But it’s not God who decides to tell them
Angels that foretold of his troubles in the night
Are the ones who must remind him
It is by the experience of man that he frames his picture
The color he chose is the sectarian assumption of superiority
How can anyone prove anything in the absence of truth?
He drew inward not to reject but instead to find his own sanity
The decision was made to live only by the mind
Power crushes a man’s will and his ability to succeed
We judge the results without reason or excuse
We forget what can no longer cry or bleed
The memory of the dead drove him to madness
They became more important than the future of the living
To compromise was to mock the power of vengeance
There was nothing to govern; only the will of the forgiving
He told her he didn’t want to talk; only to love
She knew how he felt; he was an idea and not a father
He was too heavy for life but light enough to care
His ideals were like air to breathe but hate was his revolver
He would die a thousand deaths for his people to be heard
But his bitterness could not overcome those who benefit
They were too tired to fight any longer
They saw the sun and told him it was time to watch it set
He was told that his life was no longer necessary
He could not operate within the system
A revolutionary knows yesterday has been locked away
The closets are full of those who pretend to love the victim
He assumed the rich stole everything
It was the land where his ancestors once stood
He began to sag under the weight of his own anger
Because if a bullet wouldn’t do it then he knew progress would
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
Blue shirt
I can’t trust a boy like you.
Sectarian sympathiser,
driving brothers apart.
I see a glint in your eye
whenever I
lean in for the unanswered kiss
self-assuredness is your favourite
amuse bouche. Nice with a fine wine
tastes a little like shellfish.
Picpoul de Pinet
for a girl that’s hardy on the outside.
Just when I am starting to turn
purple on the lips
you breathe air into me
and hide again.
----------
Believe me,
there’s red in these veins
and flames in my lungs.
Your eyes
eye me up, river blue.
Chip fat and *** smoke
make out for a foul cloud but
girl, you’re the pearl of the night.
Your mouth is the glossy phone
I should answer,
wanting love on a tongue
like a pillow of wine.
When you grip my shirt,
expect to connect, I end up
pouring out puddles of nothing,
your lips apart like violets.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 10:41 AM UTC
god is dead
he died of a bad review in The New York Times
that accused him of being
a fascist
and a *****
he is being replaced by a new
non-sectarian trinity
of
Me Myself and I
all of whom are
free
to **** god
and say
god is dead
god dead is
dead is god
is god dead
I think I have heard somebody suggest
(and therefore I have)
that the Department of Health is soon to issue
new and improved
antiexistentialistdespairpills
free of charge
to every adult
man and woman
sitting in front
of his/her
TV/Smart Phone/Game Console/Computer
waiting for
godot
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 11:10 PM UTC
Soiled vital waters
fetid air, putrid eyes
enshrouded in their mess
pray your savior at mass.
Parched throats of children
skyscrapers of greed to worsen
Apocalyptic weathers.
Laughable leaders
********** you whole
you nodded to their role!
A nation forming fighters
Renegades! Ink traded for
a green and gregarious grenade
and in theaters, more horror and gore.
Curl up in bed with your ***** fingers
Ignore the insisting despair that lingers
Unattainable towers of desire
Sketching lines in your petty quire
Shout out to your flag carried by jocks
Olympic games of hardened idiots
Humans on paper, hideous grey flocks.
Sectarian society silenced by dollar signs
stupidly suffering the absurdity of this all
Lather your body in perfumes to find you whole
wash away the stench of your indifference
Gulping down whatever nectar of horrendous hope
Willingly treading down a meaningless lethal slope
Even our dying Earth won’t bend your deterrence!
August 29, 2018
Lyon
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
My country will have wings to fly.
As long as there are young people like Betta Edu,
She will make my country fly into the sky.
I can see Betta Edu.
A woman like many men.
She is fearless, and she is brave.
A true politician is not a snake in the grass.
Edu is a very hefty elephant.
She is a tiger that doesn't bite.
because her gentility is soft.
And she's a very charismatic lioness.
She deserved leadership.
She is originally from Cross River.
Women, there, they are not joking.
They are known to be peaceful.
They don't have any ethnic or sectarian beliefs.
Everyone is hers.
Hausa is all hers.
Yoruba is also all hers.
And also, Igbo is hers.
The south and north are all hers.
Men and women are known to everyone.
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC