"unredeemed" poems
♦ ♦ ♦
She was an earnest devotée.
Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay
were globally diverse (read: white).
A liberal bark preceded bite.
Her crystal clearer than her vision;
she provoked bemused derision
as she breathed intolerance
toward all who would not dance her dance.
She swooned for distant pagan tribes,
attuned to their exotic vibes –
rapt in multi-culti piety
strangely deaf to her own society,
judged by her as abomination;
unredeemed. The background station
always stuck on N.P.R.
(the soundtrack of her culture war,
Pacifica News and Democracy Nows,
and other progressive holy cows)
Her motherland a shameful mystery:
guilty first, and void of history –
its origins defiled, corrupted…
while she enjoyed uninterrupted
freedom to pursue her whims:
misguided one-world global hymns.
The sisterhood of hu(man) kind
was foremost in her earnest mind –
even should that same sisterhood
be sealed by her well-meaning blood.
Out on a date with global death
she hoped to unify the earth
in solidarity with causes
led by killers, warlord bosses,
thugs she never knew existed
who, if she’d met she’d have resisted.
Her theory landed far from her praxis
spun, by default, on an evil axis.
Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed
quite certain she was well-informed,
at benefits, non-profit functions
rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons;
warm with righteous spite for Israel,
aiding and abetting Ishmael
with fellow-travelers, like-minded
similarly hateful, blinded,
rattling sabers, scimitars, axes…
(lunacy never wanes, but waxes
hotter with the passing years
as activists confront their fears).
She finally shilled for the Intifada
(stopping short of reciting Shahada),
reaching out to the terrorist
with righteous raised progressive fist…
offering thus her neck to blade:
collateral to be repaid
by murderers who couldn’t care less
about her open-mindedness.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
#
*This place. I don't know.
so many people / want to block..
their words--
they climb all over me.
one's in particular:
Heart-expressed words bringing down
the healing light of relationship to the parts of me
who up until now
have known little or no relationship of its kind;
and there is conflict within me as I fight it..
years the locusts have eaten; and the opportunity of restoration;
often squandered. in vanity.
none of that mattered much;
until now--
When the unredeemed heart-parts of myself
reveal to me their dormancy: left detached
from community with one another--
an internal community necessary
to withstand the brilliant light and glory
brought down by those here who write as she does.
but she;
through her unfiltered heart-writes
brings down the very magic and beauty and fullness of the
relational dance of the godhead.
And it's raw beauty is ****** slayin me.
I so want to block her for the conflict she creates in me
.
but I will press on
and allow her supremely-smithed words--
(words not even written to me)
to have their beautiful way,
in
and through..
the help that has been all around me;
(each and every one of us)
waiting...
all along
**--as if they were cleaning my soul,
re-integrating my fragmented, heart-parts.***
#
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 8:21 PM UTC
I am made for more than drudgery of world,
Each day awake, struggle out of bed,
To one more day, a difference I try
To make.
Within myself, a struggle for the ages, as past
Mistakes remind me of a life lived in
Failures of my mind, unable to please
God or man.
So aimlessly I wander through life, within a
Mess of questions, of motives, of
A purpose divine, planted perhaps upon
My soul.
I search, a little, here and there, for purpose,
Setting my soul in a dance of ages
With One divine, to reconcile world,
Myself to Him.
All around, I move in midst of walking dead,
Enslaved to sinful selfishness, chains
Binding against the Created One that
Loves, sets free.
Eyes to the soul filled with depth of pain, masked
By a bellyful of emptiness served up
On promises of Prince of this world, the
Evil serpent.
Everywhere, voices cry out in silent terror, unheard
By owner, enemy of God, stuck in their
Own mire of hopeless despair , no reason
To live on.
Too often, I choose not to hear, not to respond to
His creation crying for redemptive love,
Too caught up in my own selfish desires,
No time to care.
My praise is empty, as thoughts of God go rushing
By, ignored by one too caught up in comfort,
Self, content to live a life, not God’s, but my
Empty own.
So, each morn, a drudgery ensues, such little joy,
Wondering why this emptiness threatens to
Fill, to overwhelm a God-sized call, a purpose
That is mine.
One more day, one more tick of eternity drawing
Near; a spiritual zombie I become, no
Breath of life, no joy, such little presence, daily,
Of the Divine.
He draws me close, in love-filled rage, hurting for my
Soul, as it wanders once again, far from His
Presence of life and joy, grace and love, He
Wishes to display.
My life, it is my own. No, it is His—He has paid the
Price, poured out His wrath upon the Son,
Covered in my sin; my life is forfeit, He has
Given me His own.
I hear now the voices—the voices of the dead, the
Unredeemed—crying out for life as Spirit
Divine begins a work from beginning of time,
To draw to Him.
I am made for more than drudgery of world,
Each day awake, to share with those
Who are dead in sin—of life, of joy—to
Share the grace that comes only from
Him.
--To come alive
--to break the chains of sin
--to live forevermore in Him.
I am made for more than drudgery of world.
I am made for Him!
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 8:24 AM UTC
#(For the one who asked if we would continue)
She does not aim to destroy him.
She does not even try to teach him.
She simply Becomes.
And her becoming—raw, radiant, terrifying in its beauty—
is what breaks him open.
The man who watches her rightly does not crave her.
He remembers himself in her Unfolding.
Not the ego-self. The soul-self—the one buried beneath performance.
She does not say: "Come fix me."
She says: "Can you stand what I’m becoming?
And that is the call.
For it is not the broken feminine that births great men.
It is the rising feminine—becoming whole before his eyes—
that forces him to face what in him remains unclaimed, untested, afraid.
But she does not rise by accident.
Her light is not a crown—it is a choice.
She has known the temptation to ****** instead of shine..
To brand her ache, to perform her pain, to curate identity instead of embody truth.
But she turns—again and again—toward the deeper yes.
The one that costs her audience, but saves her soul.
She repents. She reclaims.
She speaks, then listens.
She writes, then revises.
She does not demand to be understood—
she hungers to be made whole.
Her rising is her responsibility.
Not a show, not a vengeance, not a staged deliverance.
It is the quiet courage to be seen—by God,
even if man never looks again.
And so, she becomes the muse.
Not by force, not by flirtation,
but by standing in her own unfolding,
in her own ache made sacred.
She does not ****** him with need.
She muses him with light.
But her light is costly.
It exposes the unintegrated parts of him—
the unredeemed rooms he’s kept boarded up for years.
She does not kick down the door.
She simply opens the curtains.
And in that sudden flood of glory,
he must choose:
to run, or to remain.
If he remains—
not as savior, not as shadow,
but as witness—
he becomes new.
This is not **********
It is mutual divination.
She rises, and he roots.
He roots, and she trusts.
And they become—together—
the very echo of Eden.
Not by escaping the fire,
but by walking through it as invitation.
Not as gods.
But as those who remember who made them.
And when she falters—when the ache flares again—
it is not applause she turns to.
It is him.
The one who stood.
The one who still stands.
The one whose strength was not his own,
but who dared to offer it anyway.
His is the strength she draws from, all along—
strength born not of dominance,
***but of what she called forth in him
when she chose to rise.***
And so, they become
what neither could be alone:
the light that burns
but does not consume,
the root and the flame,
the holy loop of return.
#
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 6:44 PM UTC
I came home pointlessly
endlessly
that day
the windows didn’t confess
I didn’t recognize anything
no, no more
I nailed myself on walls
-nothing really helped-
I sat on my bedside
facing the voracious truth of flesh
while my dresses were exploding
in the wardrobe
my furious love
erasing sunrise
between me and my skin
an alarming desire
happened that day
to clear the view
the life I’d smuggled
and hid away
the sons and daughters of darkness
were calling each other
in my hips
I put some makeup on my shoes
ready to face the world like this
woman
beast
no need to panic
there’s only this desire
unredeemed
to give away
a heart full of dire
I became one
with the other
another me
while
you were
beautiful
like a free day
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
I sat there watching the people pass
As I laid lightly upon the grass
Thinking thoughts that were a struggle to contain
Swirling at lightning pace inside of my brain
And in my heart something screamed
As a blissful song went unredeemed
I looked to the sky and admired its blue hue
Company is company but none of you will do
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
From hate fanned flame by wings of shame
from boiling oil and tar
with mask of doubt and tongue torn out
and heart a mass of scar
I rose and screamed yet unredeemed
my words on deaf ears fell
a soul in plight bound fast and tight
by bonds of self made hell
My eyes burned red by words unread
by poetry made base
for all they saw was nothing more
than verse without a face
Daemons I've known too long alone
no one can set me free
So heed me well or face this hell
of self obscurity
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
There is a place, before the kings keep
Where those looks of solemn dignity
Go resignedly to weep
Between the gray trees and under gray canopy
To the place where wildflowers wilt and muses mutter
Little words, falling like white feathers in the muddy water
If one walks between the trees
There is a basin, and liquid of silvery green
Imbued with the mutterings of agony unseen
It is the words of those sorrows frail
Spoken with a breath and then a look of fright
And then a frantic run from faces clothed by night
Dissecting looks unrelenting judgments
upon the unredeemed
all who have felt the pain such as muses sing
And cried at night or betwixt the thorny leaves
have drunk of this basin green
And felt the hot swell of sorrow rising from the deep
crevices of our frail corporeal shells
And the voices of all those who filled it up
Violently swell in undulating liquid wail
From those who walk betwixt the trees
Is sounded the great collective scream.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 7:56 PM UTC
Fragments
I am zip-lined in fragments
Hallucinatory
Un-full
Quixotic
Unredeemed
I bite
My
Tongue
And my
Thoughts
E
X
P
L
O
D
E
Like fire crackers
Whacking and zipping
In that dense blue sky
Heavy with my thoughts,
Your feelings,
Heavy with the world’s conscience
But projecting out that
Blue light
Like some kind of
Innocent
Inner
Inside it
I drive a nail into my heart
Slipping
Dropping
My brains all over the place.
Soul shattering in shards across
The quiet grass.
I make noise
I’ve made noise
We’ve all made
Too much
******* noise.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
It's controversial
Making the choice
Being strong through the pain
Or giving in to the urge
Wondering the impact
Wondering the deed
For this world is the
Mother of shadows
Mother of darkness
It spawns all evil and wrong
Wrongs we commit to another
And by opposing the
Mother of warmth
Mother of light
It spawns all that is good
Good we pass to another
Shall the future differ
If my life is no more
Shall the world differ
If my life was no more
Or shall my grave be deep and black,
Haunted by my unredeemed wrongs.
Or shall be grave be a place of yellow,
Met with my successes and achievements.
A part of myself;
buried deep into my thoughts;
Wonders if i have achieved,
If I have contributed to this dark world.
I am fading; I can feel myself aging,
Beyond crevices and grey, and the
Slow breath. Pockets filled with the stones
Of my wrongs; head filled with the
Reminders of failure, inadequacy.
It never rests, the darkest death;
And draws nearer. Firm and dark claws,
Clasping my thoughts in
The untouchables. Intents bolder, intents
Becoming darker; intents clearer.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
How did you die? Were you ever alive?
Questions asked by a torpid fool
executing the sterile interrogation.
Capricious witnesses laugh in pain
as I sit, strapped by leather bands
to a frigid porcelain bench.
This is the bloodthirsty courtroom of innocence
translated into cadaverous endings.
What can a fool gain through conviction?
Perhaps the eradication of necrosis.
The fool views the substance as trivial nonsense.
His purpose is to convict me, the wraith,
the amenable child, the abject wretch.
A conviction that will never arrive,
led by a foolish prosecution that cannot rest,
as long as I, benighted and unredeemed,
lack power to loosen the fearsome leather bands.
Kerry Ann Herrmann
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
Drink in this private pardon-
a pause, just before the dawn
a stage for darkness to reach its break.
Twirling, clutching skin-
a silent command for eyes to be resting open,
shared, steady, and still-
breath briefly unredeemed.
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 10:19 AM UTC
It has been so, my fair madden,
That I must let you go.
In secret bewilderment
Say you "fare the well".
I must fight your spell.
Fallen too deep
Out of proportion,
Re-arranging my thoughts
Younder lost, unredeemed.
Outlinning the reasons to feel this way,
Unanswered, the feeling remains astray.
Bella, two faced, Madonna
Enchanting my heart so,
Agony you devised from the start.
To plunder my heart,
Robbing soft spoken words,
Irregarded my soul.
Zero to one, darling, I must withstand.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 10:34 AM UTC
A space-age fortress of glitzy build
stands empty. It had once been filled
with shining futures of tinsel, milled
of bronze for a time that all would thrill.
How empty the future past now seems
behind the glass of wasted dreams:
Once polished steel now dimly gleams
and old high tech lies there unredeemed.
Its giant clock now standing still,
the hands unmoving, like hopes that will
remain as frozen in amber that’s filled
with flies of dreams: placebo pills.
Jan 22, 2025
Jan 22, 2025 at 2:34 PM UTC
Humanity has been so much like a child
With too many rich, useful toys,
Playing with each one that's given,
And discarding it when something
Newer appears in its midst.
We have been dilettantes and amateurs
With some of our greatest notions
For human betterment.
We have been spoilt children:
We have been like tyrannical children;
Impatient and imperious, demanding
Proof when listening is required,
Tearing things down when they don't do
What we want them to do
(How much simpler to let things do only
What they can do)
Being uncreative about what seems dark
And terrifying; preferring
Only what seems easy
And effortless;
Questioning the numbers
Of a philosophy's
Followers rather than examining
The fruitfulness of its ideas;
Wandering down blind alleys of populism
That lead to concentration camps;
Refusing to admit our vast crimes and mistakes
Denying the horrors of the slave trade
Minimising the reality of the gas chambers
Tearing our hair out in futile attempts
At reconciling civilization with genocide,
When civilization (as we have come to accept it)
Never did mean the true universal goodness
Of heart, but rather meant the self-mythology
Of a people, a race.
No, neither the good in us, nor
Our capacity for evil are exhausted.
Time will show just how young
We are in our abilities,
Of genius for good and evil.
For all these strains, unexamined,
And unredeemed,
Will find their higher fruition
In the unlit centuries to come.
by Ben Okri from Mental Fight An Anthem for the Twenty-First Century
Mar 26, 2025
Mar 26, 2025 at 2:19 PM UTC