"worshiper" poems
O Great Goddess
I
Your true worshiper
Crawl before your altar
To beseech you
Grant this poor
Suffering soul
Even a moments relief
From the crushing weight
Of this great love
Its sweet agony
The crippling despair
All melded into one great mass of feeling
O merciful Olympian
Great passionate Goddess
Provide succor
To this lost and wand'ring devotee
A glimmer of hope
To tether my soul
And keep the Furies at bay
In the same way
You granted Pygmalion's request
And brought to life
His marvelous statue Galatea
Answer my desperate supplication
Goddess of Beauty
I offer my self to you
I shall strive to restore
Your true worship
In this cursed world
That has forsaken the true gods
I shall bring whatever sacrifices you require
If only you grant me this boon
Quench a dying man's thirst
Bring me up from Pluto's realm
And lay me in the Elysian fields
Great Goddess
Hear my plea
As a follower still of your descendant
Gaius Julius
A follower during his lifetime
And a follower ever to this day
I always serve your great name
O Great Goddess
Hear my plea
Great and wonderful Goddess
Venus.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 5:39 AM UTC
Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,
And drag me at your chariot till I die,—
Oh, heavy prince! O, panderer of hearts!—
Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie
Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair,
Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr,
Who still am free, unto no querulous care
A fool, and in no temple worshiper!
I, that have bared me to your quiver’s fire,
Lifted my face into its puny rain,
Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire
As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain!
(Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave,
Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave!)
5.3k
**Yo! Yo! My Drug of Choice **** Poets)**
Yo! Yo!
Member of the troupe?
You up all nite?
You always hungry,
Making trouble, rite?
You one of those?
**** poets!
Exist on strict diet?
Pleasured-pain,
Constant-continual surges
Turn into urges,
Full-time suspense,
Juices always flowing.
**** Poets!
Yo! Yo!
You one of those?
Never knowing,
What? When?
The eyes gonna invert
Retina images into words
Brain signaling, semaphoring the fingers
Yo! Yo!
You don't get nine months,
Maybe nine seconds,
Then mother-birth another verse,
****** poets!
Yo! Yo!
Remember your first real high,
That moment
No absolution, no return.
That moment
When you admitted, confessed,
to yourself:
*I am
Forever forward,
A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet*
Yo! Yo!
So you do recall,
The exact moment,
God-spark-within, ascendancy gained
You lost control,
Wept words instead of tears!
A ****** poet ******
Yo! Yo!
Sophie's Choice.
You chose writing over breathing,
Worshiper of the purest pleaure,
******* in deep the smoke-high of
Head-nodding discontented contentment
Stealing anything you saw
For to satisfy the need, the craven
Craving.
****** poets!
Yo! Yo!
Don't you're ever sleep?
Hear that the city, the state,
Gonna methadone your kind
In a special program
Teach you only language to sign.
**** poets!
**I am a ****** poet.**
*The first step taken.
Admission.
Poetry is my default rest position,*
My drug of choice.
5:07am
June 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
As to some lovely temple, tenantless
Long since, that once was sweet with shivering brass,
Knowing well its altars ruined and the grass
Grown up between the stones, yet from excess
Of grief hard driven, or great loneliness,
The worshiper returns, and those who pass
Marvel him crying on a name that was,—
So is it now with me in my distress.
Your body was a temple to Delight;
Cold are its ashes whence the breath is fled,
Yet here one time your spirit was wont to move;
Here might I hope to find you day or night,
And here I come to look for you, my love,
Even now, foolishly, knowing you are dead.
2.6k
A song crawls out of the sludge from the bottom of the Indus River, from beneath the ruins of Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro. The burning sun tries in vain to penetrate the thick foliage of the ancient fig tree beneath which she reclines: the thousand-faced mistress of the myriad temples, the dancer, the priestess, the worshiper, the idol, the eternally pregnant singer…
She who alone knows why no human remains were ever recovered from the excavated city, Mother of a thousand abortions, she who gave birth to the beats of the rhythm—and the space between each beat, the unnameable principle of dread… the slow flow of the river at sunset obscured by smoke of human flesh from the smoldering ghats…
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
.ah here comes england with its eccentricities, ah hier kommt polen mit seine christentum: where anyone can be a messiah, as stressed by the byzantines.
my first love was the love of the english grey,
(in honesty mentioned it was
the double-decker first, since
i fancied myself the great bus-driver of
the no. 5 bus back home)
earl grey came and said: ‘i can’t look
at these skies without sunglasses!’
and so it was, mid-autumn with sunglasses
at loss the sun-worshiper
enter the moon idiot,
looking for accents, looking for anything.
in england they called him das deutsche -
for reasons believable enough;
the luftwaffe eagerly anticipating the tunnelling
centipede that is the euro-star train-tunnel:
the panzers are rolling in!
the panzers are rolling in!
strange he never minded the coal-miners as useful
as minded by edvard gierek von silesia -
to the dispute of silesians not ex-patriated to saxony
(oh wait... texan boy doesn't sound as
nationalistic as minnesota boy?).
ooh pokey poo... writing about germany
became so **** so recently, i forget that i started it:
here’s to the english language’s chirality of s and z,
actually being superimposable:
from words in the socratic sense as encoded by plato
i don't get a bunch of ideas... virtue
does not make me ponder it with meaning or definition,
i only see the kabbalistic sensibility
of anti-alphabetical sequencing as v
i r t u e...
otherwise e i u r t v;
almost sounds like s.t.d.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 6:33 AM UTC
Warning: This is not a nursery rhyme for the fainthearted.
The promise lit by life,
Was actually lit by your lies.
Owwwww!
My forehead is mine I am made to realize,
Realization comes painfully when I bang the wall.
Sssssssssss!
****** I am hurting myself but that's all,
Never stupidly brave enough to actually finish it.
FREE ME!
I request that entity to let me live my life,
Cursed wasn't how I wanted to survive.
Ouch!!
The misgivings are just that bit too much,
As though a beehive fell on my head as much.
BANG-BANG-BANG!!!
I bang my head to the tune which I play,
And I am unable to bang it on a wall.
Peace is what I get finally
Cursed is how I live my life every day,
Talking to walls like concentrated prisoners.
I dare you to swap it with me!
Yes! Swap your life with me right now,
If you can't walk with me for the mile.
Whispers
The mile I dreamt with you,
The smile you promised,
The mile of my life.
Forget about it
I'm just joking about the swap,
I'm no Devil,
You can't live how I live because,
It's my life,
And I'm happy with as much I got,
I've to breath alone,
There must be some serious curse on me,
I accept that curse.
Loving people and then losing them is a ritual,
I must live alone like a hermit.
But you can live on talking only with the darker,
Idol-worshiping him only.
Enjoy with his pictorial representations & idols,
Only one darker idol can you find.
This is why I averse myself from idol-worshiping,
Because it destroys relations.
I lost not only my telephonic-best friend,
But also my real life best friends started avoiding me.
Not an idol-worshiper is a blasphemous term,
In her religion, in Hinduism.
It destroys relations if you start loving your idols,
And if you even start living like your idols.
You never did quite understand what Ishwar/Bhagwan/Rabb/God actually meant.
All the best with your Kanhaiya,
I wish you all the happiness,
And hope that He gives you what I couldn't,
Let your imagination work wonders for you.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 2:08 AM UTC
My sweetheart my beloved my love my dear
When beauty celebrates love dominates fear
Sincerity makes every destination very clear
Your boundless beauty make my love so near
Let us be one and together to steer love ship
Open arms of green ocean to take me a dip
Let your beauty take my love in your grip
Take me in your ***** knot to talk lip to lip
My love I am your sole and only worshiper
You are my beautiful poetry and I am author
Your petals are sweet my beautiful rose flower
You are my past my present and glowing future
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:16 AM UTC
“The Mass is ended,
go in peace.”
the aged cleric said.
“Thanks be to God”
said some dozen odd
parishioners
who then fled.
The Priest dismissed
his server.
and had turned himself to
go
when he noticed still
one worshiper
kneeling in the seventh row.
She was an older woman,
her head swathed in
a blue scarf.
She was obviously in devotion
before the Sacred Heart.
He thought:
“There is no need to rush”
He shuffled towards the chair.
which is where the Bishop sits
when attending service there.
The aging cleric said a prayer
for the gracious soul’s repose
whose generosity provided
his vestments and his robes.
He next prayed for his friend,
a priest, who’d grown too fond of wine.
He’s consecrating grape juice now
the non alcoholic kind.
He thought:
“it now is getting well past time
I need to lock the doors.”
His urban church had been vandalized
a scant few months before.
He rose up on his arthritic hip
and didn’t cry in pain
He accepted this, his suffering,
in Jesus’ holy name.
As he approached the woman,
Her head bowed as before
He had a vague uneasiness
He experienced fear and awe
She looked up then and he said
“Mother!”
and fell, senseless, on the floor.
His housekeeper found his body
on the floor of fitted stone.
The police found no evidence of foul play,
The priest had died alone.
The M.E. said the heart had failed
Though not from shock or rage
The Lord had called his servant home
to grace a grander stage.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 12:02 PM UTC
the sun.
a fiery yellow goddess;
and the moon,
her fervent lover,
her devout worshiper.
the moon is a silvery mystery,
with his brooding manner.
he only shines
because the sun graces him
with some of her confidence.
he only shines
because the sun
completes him.
these two lovers,
separated by space.
they worship from afar.
and the royal goddess,
weeps heat
down to us,
her unlucky prisoners.
she pours out her tears of heat
unto the world,
engulfing us,
in her anger and sorrow.
but the moon,
the queer, shy, moon.
the moon,
her fervent lover,
her devout worshiper.
the moon hides behind dark clouds,
and only comes out to peak at the
sad,
mediocre,
and stupid
lives
we mortals live.
he peaks in wonder,
he peaks in curiosity.
but all eyes fall on him when he steps out.
he is a silver mirage of beauty.
the moon, unlike his fiery lover,
is shy.
he goes into hiding again
once all eyes fall
on him.
sometimes,
the moon
goes out of character.
he gets jealous of earth.
earth,
who takes all of the suns attention.
earth,
who's life revolves around energetic sun.
so sometimes,
the moon,
steps in front of the earth,
and receives all of the beautiful suns glory.
even if just for a moment,
the lovers are reunited.
but,
space pulls them apart.
as the sun continues to lash down
heat unto mortals.
as the moon, the brooding moon,
continues to hide behind the cloaking clouds,
unseen to the world.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 5:53 AM UTC
I am a worshiper of the moon.
A seeker of the darkness of night.
A creature that side steps light.
A keeper of the shadows .
Watcher of silver moon streaked meadows.
A subservient to the crepuscular goddess.
© Nick Strong 2014
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
I covet the hideous cult of fame. Spending my days in despondent cafés manically scribbling passionate love letters to recognition.
I'm not in love I'm insane.
Suffering from self-diagnosed misunderstood artist syndrome. My heart cries silent. I am a shadow in the distance. Warped, distorted and dark I scream alone; never to be touched.
I am a poser, a fame ****** and a hero worshiper. My vitriol view on the world hinders me. Constantly on the verge of crying in public. Staring at train tracks, they invite me away. Looking more comfortable then a bed.
I try to live in the now but the future petrifies me. I can't escape my own mind.
Y culture, My culture, Counter culture, **** culture, Love culture, Hate culture, Phonies.
I can’t see past the haze of disappointment I have designed myself. I smoke **** because it relaxes me, makes me feel like what I assume normality feels like. I drink because it makes me feel like how I assume those happy people feel. I take heroine because it makes me feel euphoric and takes me close enough to death that I want to live another day.
A brutal fear beats my anaemic mind. A peculiar fear grips my inner-self and I can’t bear to open my eyes and see that I had survived the night. I become saddened by the thought that I might also survive the day, living to see what I will be tomorrow.
Happy in the madness. Longing for that sick feeling. In love with the sadness. Searching in the dark recesses of the mind for inspiration. I can’t see past my fate, it’s too dark. I sit and source inspiration through the emotions and physical fits of ************ Self-abuse. Clawing for red gold in the catacombs that meander through my pale arms.
Beat myself out of sight beat me out of sight beat me beat me till I float. Beat me beat me till I float.
I am a poser, a fame ****** and a hero worshiper. My vitriol view on the world hinders me. Constantly on the verge of crying in public. Staring at train tracks, they invite me away. Looking more comfortable than a bed.
Relapse is fine by me. I want this. I want this. I want this. I want this. Not a tortured artist just tortured. Not a tortured soul just a cracked shell. In the name of art but in the corner of sickness.
Beat myself out of sight beat me out of sight beat me beat me till I float. Beat me beat me till I float.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
You
With your designer blinders on
Custom made
Measured
Fitted
Secured tightly in place
With diamond studded screws in each temple.
Proud of your daily ignorance.
Worshiper of indifference.
Void
Vacant
Cold to the touch
Revealing the constricted flow of life within.
How do you sleep?
While the rest of the world weeps.
© Tina Thompson
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 1:14 PM UTC
How could I ever know the thoughts in my head,
Pursuing for the sake of sanity, Vanity's own identity.
But I've never been one for superficiality,
An Honest Abe down to the top of my hat.
I keep fighting, making friends, making fears
After all, I feel better having just one than lost
Hiding from my loneliness, from solitude and anxiety
I keep seeking, searching for the man inside of me.
Just the King of Paranoia, afraid of his throne,
And the hounds bound to the courtyard floor.
Use those diaphragmatic breaths to calm your panic,
Therapist may teach you her magic when you seek medicine.
Sleepless nights alone with those thoughts,
The person in the mirror is ambiguous,
A fanatic for The Game, a Worshiper all the same
The twilight shade comes through the window
The King's cape catches the light of the dusk
The King's crown glistens in the dark of dawn.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
Tonight, I knew I was a hypocrite.
As I stood there with my callous stare,
Mind in a world that will never exist,
The urge to turn to every worshiper around me -
Warning them that they’ll lose it all,
That happiness doesn’t exist,
That love doesn’t exist,
That peace doesn’t exist -
Overflowed inside of me.
But what did I do?
I lay idly quiet, as always.
That’s what’s expected of me, right?
Because how dare I attempt to look for the truth!
How dare I expect honesty from any of you fools!
And how dare I tell you I care.
Where are you now, God?
Where the hell are you now?
Can you hear me, or do I need to scream at the sky some more?
Hypocrite.
That’s all I am.
These ink markings are a beautiful lie,
A beautiful attempt at a reminder of who I can be.
But I can’t be.
I won’t be.
Not in a place as cavalier as here.
This world is a ruthless place.
It’s **** or be killed,
And I’ve murdered what was left inside.
Silently.
Swiftly.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 2:34 AM UTC
I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU ALL
Matloob Bokhari
After crossing a wilderness of ignorance,
I met a pure and an unimaginable beauty.
“Oh lover, where are you going?
Who are you looking for? I am here.”
Said she happily with her lovely smile.
Birds of valley sang a harmonious songs
And the sky was lit by her resplendent face.
Moon and stars joined this festival of love.
Every moment was frozen with her beauty.
I forgot all my learning, lost all my strength.
My pens and books rendered me speechless.
Words unable to capture splendour of scene.
Blessed by love; illumined by beauty, I spoke:
“You are an idol and I am your worshiper,
Ready to leave the earthly life for you.
I live for you, I love you. I love you all!”
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
Now that you're here
We'ld like you to stay
In the church of wicked
Surrender, as you may
You can't feel the bliss
If you haven't had it in grey
Can't be a content worshiper
If you haven't ever disobeyed
Offering blood and words
Blaming it all on 'fate'
We gather here every night
In our own realm, outside Heaven's gate
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
The glow of a midnight moon touches
The tears of night’s cold gaze.
The moor rolls heaven’s stars
On into the great forest.
Who will ride to the grove
During autumns chilly nights?
None other than the moon worshiper
His cloak loose and divine.
Knots of the Celts painted on his face
His eyes envy green.
To the grove he rides to meet them,
The druids of his own clan.
Their horses hushed at the grove’s edge
A circle formed with rocks.
Each flattened stone with a symbol,
Matching each of the worshiper’s cloaks.
Chanting begins slowly
Their arms raised to the sky.
To the moon they pray for life itself
Pray they never die.
The fire burns brightly
From the moon to the druid’s heart.
His soul one with the forest
With the fire he heals its pain.
The ivy begins to sprout
From the trees of the grove.
From his hand to his fingertips
The moon begins to glow.
The yellow glow swirls round,
The great plants begin to grow.
The runes pulse with ancient light
The elders raw power.
As their eyes burn bright
The trance still strong.
The worshipers chant slows slightly
His eyes still envy green.
The arms all fall.
Their heads swing low.
The runes stop their humming.
It has been done.
To his horse he walks,
On its back he mounts
From the grove he rides on autumns night,
The forest now full of life.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 1:12 PM UTC
**Yo! Yo! My Drug of Choice **** Poets)**
Yo! Yo!
Member of the troupe?
You up all nite?
You always hungry,
Making trouble, rite?
You one of those?
**** poets!
Exist on strict diet?
Pleasured-pain,
Constant-continual surges
Turn into urges,
Full-time suspense,
Juices always flowing.
**** Poets!
Yo! Yo!
You one of those?
Never knowing,
What? When?
The eyes gonna invert
Retina images into words
Brain signaling, semaphoring the fingers
Yo! Yo!
You don't get nine months,
Maybe nine seconds,
Then mother-birth another verse,
****** poets!
Yo! Yo!
Remember your first real high,
That moment
No absolution, no return.
That moment
When you admitted, confessed,
to yourself:
I am
Forever forward,
A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet
Yo! Yo!
So you do recall,
The exact moment,
God-spark-within, ascendancy gained
You lost control,
Wept words instead of tears!
A ****** poet ******
Yo! Yo!
Sophie's Choice.
You chose writing over breathing,
Worshiper of the purest pleaure,
******* in deep the smoke-high of
Head-nodding discontented contentment
Stealing anything you saw
For to satisfy the need, the craven
Craving.
****** poets!
Yo! Yo!
Don't you're ever sleep?
Hear that the city, the state,
Gonna methadone your kind
In a special program
Teach you only language to sign.
**** poets!
I am a ****** poet.
The first step taken.
Admission.
Poetry is my default rest position,
My drug of choice.
5:07am
June 12, 2013
PostScript:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
My Tango Master
His hair was deep, rich,
the black of unweathered basalt,
slick backed, like his look,
an arrogant dare to stare,
eyes directed at newcomers,
intended to make me,
a novice especially aware,
a bon voyage has begun,
now a worshiper, full of faults,
warning that I sought entry
to a temple where admission was a
sworn affidavit promising
total sacrifice of body
The flat contours of his body
disguised a airy litheness that
embraced and made me giddy,
pliant to his methodology,
mastering my psychology,
making the whole of my body breathe,
as if for the first time
No questions asked or allowed,
he bent me, taught me supple,
the surety of the pleasure of
following a leader unreservedly,
my body straight from within,
but the exterior,
a symmetry of curves,
I am,
his precision human tool
His hands grasped me
with utter certainty,
with a petal light touch
and fingertip precision,
directing me to Rio de la Plata,
where his swivel hips
lift this black robed disciple
upon a golden altar where
I have remained, entranced,
a devotee forever more,
enslaved to our one god
Demanding the perfection
that comes only from rigidity,
irony of ironies,
it was a vocabulary of
spontaneity and fluidity
step by step learned,
this contradiction, soon intuitive
With posture *****
he taught the history of seduction,
constructing the tale
each time differently,
creating within me
the ravished need for the
surprise of the unknown,
teased me into obediently
accepting the satisfaction of
joined at the hip ecstasy
With boleos that mesmerized ,
but not a one memorized,
he captivates me,
a tandem for a tanda,
until cortina-released
What is your name?
Tango
he whispers,
his name is in his eyes,
never spoke aloud,
I am your new master,
now come and master me
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
The moment I saw you I decided not to see
Whosoever and whatsoever beauty could be
I will take you along to world with me boldly
Let my beauty to take you on real love journey
My sweetheart you are in me and your in you
Decide for once you will help me thru and thru
Beauty carries excellence along and love is virtue
My beloved let us be fair in love promise to renew
Whatever I can I will do for you ever is desirable
I am fortunate that you are my fortune ,love angel
I am your appraiser and worshiper my love idol
My sweetheart you are so noble, I am your loyal
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 3:14 AM UTC
A shudder in my chest,
Violence in my hands,
Clouds past my eyes,
A pain in my brain.
A Temple ruined,
Once for sacred worship,
Now only for memberance,
And maybe a lost follower.
"God, I know what you did."
Kneeling, he keeps praying,
"I know you're not perfect,
But you're perfect for me."
Hopeless turned hopeful,
A light turned black, then back,
A God losing faith.
A worshiper who didn't.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
The first thought I
encountered was ,
this poor girl
does not eat.
As our friendship
developed into
more than
I ever imagined
it would
I discovered she
did indeed eat.
When I
say eat
I mean more like
demolished all
that
was presented
before her.
Her sometimes
sickly appearance
was caused
by the problems
she kept hidden
behind a
locked bathroom
door.
It seemed the
porcelain hollow
had an appetite
for her insides.
Like a devoted
worshiper
to its Pagan God
she gave up her
offerings after
completing
each and
every meal or
even a snack.
Her sickness
clouded
her image
of herself.
I told her
she was
beautiful.
She called me
a liar and told
me to never
come back.
So I
did'nt.
There's only so
much you can do
for the sick until
they themselves
are prepared to
fight.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC