"worshipers" poems
Teresa climbs on the bus
before the sun, if she has
the fare
to get there, where she
makes the bread; she's been at this
two of her nineteen years
yet she has fears, they will
come for her--green card or not;
though they like her rolls
she kneads the big ***** pulls,
pinches, a sculpting of dough, a laying
of trays, one after another
then, from the Iglesias,
they come, decked in their finery
though she does not see
she only hears the litany
of language she can't comprehend,
a clanging of trays, laughter
the urging of the jefe to work
faster, bake the bread; the communion
wafers did not fill them
now they are here, breaking fast,
forgetting the words they just heard
the songs they sang
Teresa does not complain; she
is glad to feed the worshipers, though
they will never know her name
nor will they stop for
her in the pouring rain,
the blistering sun
Teresa never wavers
next Sabbath will be the same:
dawn, the dough, the oven
it is the work--her hands
which make the bread others break,
the grace granted to serve
holy, holy, holy...
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 8:49 PM UTC
Wait before you start thinking,
You should wait and complete this reading,
Can it not be a tool for worshiping?
Inspiring idols of deities like Durgā,
You feel so cared for by their motherliness,
Can you otherwise visualise an imaginary God?
Teachings from the idols of Saraswati,
You get connected to a Goddess's wisdom,
Where else you'd rather gain blessings from?
Wealth from the idols of Lakshmi,
You gain financial security & confidence,
Or is imagining a formless promoter God easy?
Cutest idols of deities like Gaņeshã,
You will love a naughty deity Bãl Krshņã,
Why should you not use idols for worshiping?
Mature idols of deities like Šiva,
You would feel them bestowing their calm,
Should it not be fun visualising them?
Statues are made with dedicated love,
They all invite such respectful admiration,
How would you ever feel the hatred?
I am aware that none of these idols is God,
Neither stones nor pictures can be Gods.
But what bad is a peaceful polytheism?
Do not please be jealous of their art,
And do not hate idol worshipers.
Feel confident and so peaceful,
Try worshiping stone idols.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 1:48 PM UTC
Why Men Like to Load the Dishwasher
We are the artists of shape and configuration,
puzzle masters solving riddles of physics,
worshipers at the altar of labor saving devices,
this is a love poem of sorts, a Bazinga salutation,
to men and their undying love
for **** machines.
were it in my power
all cups would be handle-less,
the dishwasher time-space continuum
would be non-interrupted by black holes
where handles pointlessly protrude,
requiring endless rearrangement,
a soul destroying exercise.
bowls of any sort should have bottoms that retract.
indeed, the capacity increase, a visible fact,
is so enviro-friendly, eminently sensible,
that the loading for mechanical scrubbing
is deserved of a wing in the Smithsonian.
perhaps the budgeteers of Congress
should be tutored in this artistry,
how to make any limited resource,
better used.
the rub, as the bard would have writ,
is that this roaring tempest-tost,
our love for hard labor lost,
secret sacrificed behind a locked door,
of a Sanctum ********
is entirely due, all glory to,
the secret society of fairies who
hide-reside inside,
freeing us to write more poetry.
in so many ways that I cannot reveal,
less the other gender members squeal,
men live to love to load the dishwasher,
for the ingenuity challenge, and of course,
the side benefit of the excusing coverup,
"I helped clean up," a relationship saver,
proof positively that the dishwasher inventor,
was surely a brilliant woman
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
Night is but a word for the darkness that roams with men and the lands.
The song of the winds sparkling with a woman's tears unshed.
His blanket drapes her in the pitch of night.
A cure basks within the lady's eye.
Salt water.
The tears, made salty by the churning sea.
Cry the river dry.
Bewail until all is nigh.
The night is coming.
The darkness foretold.
Beware the madness
with a daggers fine edge.
Night may be just a word.
But the wickedness is true within man's might.
The sun will rise to cleanse the lands.
Daylight breaks and the word changes.
The faith of the worshipers dancing amongst the shining vivid rays.
The danger has passed.
Be still her fleeting heart.
But be wary,
dear maiden of mine.
For the darkness of the night will soon befall again.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
Mirrorball - “the fabrication of our performance”
a life long struggle to accept who I am,
of course, lose, and lose again, and
the fabrication of our performance now
inherent in every excuse and mirrorball
revolving asking, no, laughing, at our
vanity, as we endeavor, enabled by the
paucity of ego, the neediness of weakness’s
to catch, keep, hold each single flickering
light spot in our open, slick palms forever
we fabricate our performance of daily living,
modifying our measurements to match output,
only a human cannot wake only to fall within
each daily tabulation without thinking, once:
*I am a hero, worthy of acknowledgement, just
look at my hands! see how many spots of
light I can claim as mine! the mirrorball turns
and turns paying no mind to the worshipers
below, until some sorrowful fool confesses,
fools fail, fools fail, turning the dervish off,
the white flag of ego darkened, once more...*
we are all false poets, false prophets, occasionally confessing
7:34 AM
Sat Jul 18
The Year of the Virus, Corona
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 8:03 AM UTC
An elliptical scent sways and swoons the chamber's floor
As goddesses feathering their summer clothes galore
Without mourning hot concreted toes anymore
As a cool spell sighs upon their necks
Each idle with radiance worthy of praise and sects
Worshipers of the nigh
Like neph
Tribute with sighs
Ridged, hypnotized by mere thighs
And ***
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Traditionalism is what they follow,
Prehistoric is how they live,
Caring none about real human beings!
They depend on human protection,
Yet they pray the lifeless idols & establishments,
Statues & religion they call them and waste money on them.
They would do their own important work,
Tell me to better stop writing these blasphemous poems,
Praying, remembering the lord & idol-worshiping is all they care about.
People like them won't donate directly to the poor,
They say that they put some money in the places of worship,
Idols - their idols is who they live for and survive by.
My telling this to my countrymen or anybody in the world is vain,
They would still go to on or more places of worships,
Think that it is not idol worshiping and again not serve the needy directly.
They can only criticize me for writing blasphemous words of pain,
They would even fight with or **** me if they got hold of me,
But they won't stop idol-worshiping and start serving the poor directly themselves.
A Messiah calls the idol-worshipers,
To avoid going to places of worship,
To come and serve the real world,
To realize that what you are losing,
To help you realize the value of humanity,
To make you realize the value of the real world.
If you're not scared of change then join me in this new religion,
Here we don't worry about God/Ishwar/Bhagwan/Rabb,
But we do things that make The Power Happy,
Do social service and cleaning their houses,
Help the needy monetarily/practically,
Instead of just donating somewhere,
Shun donations to the places of worship,
Go to the needy personally or parcel them happiness,
Make sure that the courier service/other establishment you use is 100% genuine.
Avoid those agencies who are supposedly in one of the common names of The Power,
Hire a company/firm to actually make your donations reach the needy,
It'll be very helpful for the humanity which is prime & real,
Try this by whatever methods you find genuine,
You'll feel yourself elated & calm,
Take my word,
Seriously.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
(Mount Pinatubo and the Aetas)
the mountain god that has slept
for so long
has decided, it is time to rise
and as it opened its eyes
and stretched its invisible limbs
it unlocked a deep fury of destruction
kept inside for years and years
of restraint
not wanting to disturb the people
lying at its feet
worshipers and true believers they are
the few good people left
in this wretched earth
and yet the mountain god
would not keep them safe from
enormous grief and physical pain
they too must suffer
but they are flexible children
they never really complain
ashes flying while lava flows
one by one properties and creatures
were struck down like pins in a bowling alley
it was so fast and so vast
they never really knew what hit them
until it was all over
there are only shadows now
plus sporadic eruptions
the mountain god had made its
presence felt
and as it resumes its former
pose of quiet repose
i see the little black people
huddling together
and coming around
back to sleep at the feet of
the mountain god
as of the start
they said
this is where they were born
and whatever may happen
this is where they will die
so as they reach their
prized destination
i hear a song coming
from their lips
they are dwarfs in stature
but giants in character
i reached out to touch
my little black brothers
with pride
for i love them true.......
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
If it gets you through the night,
you could sit there on the couch and pretend that I’m not listening.
We’ve been over this time and again, yet here you are flipped
from side B to side A. I hope your tape breaks and this message
is flipping in the wind on a tab with a marker
marked red. I hope you understand.
My life feels like vacation but my… well everybody
will promise you violence over practically nothing
and I think I deserve a better planet. Instead I’m here.
It’s marginally all my ego, but mostly I just want to disappear.
I swear; If I break a heart I’ll fix it, but I’m a disease and a symptom,
and I stick like bad religion. Worshipers take shelter from this cult.
I’d even stab you if I had proper motivation,
and I didn’t treat myself like my own martyr for nothing.
The “real” me may only be what you make of me anyways.
My image of myself only exists within my head,
and in that image I am rotten with perfection.
My only corduroy is torn and smells of bleach,
but I’m too sleepy to change into my skin.
I swear I’m more than just an ordinary sin,
just because I’m also my own martyr.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
the boy enters when he knows
others will not be there
in prayer--their silent entreaties
to a god he is not sure
listens or cares
morning after mass is best;
the bouquets are fresh
he can smell them once
the scent of the early
worshipers fades:
the pipe smoke from the old man's
coat
the widow's perfume which lingers longer than the ammonia stench
of the holy homeless who is there
every day
Christ watches over this:
a white marble man bolted
to a cross, witnessing
this spectacle for millennia
long before this cold statue
was placed in this cathedral,
he was there, the slaughtered lamb
cursed to die again and again
that is how the boy sees it;
not a promised life eternal,
but the same death anon,
anon
the pounding of the stakes,
the blood offering: the old man, the woman, the mendicant
all crucifying him again with
each plaintive prayer
once their odors fade,
the funeral sprays, the bouquets
remain--cut, dying flowers,
a fragrant impermanence
with no expectation for life
beyond their time in the
vase--no imploring a godhead
for forgiveness
no demand for blood
and perpetual death
only a little water for their brief journey
in fragile glass
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
.
The Ancient of the Days,
can you see what he is wearing,
Cardinal shoes made of children’s skin
wrung out from the veins
Last drop of blood that remains
overflowing tankers
Come through the secret bunkers
Descend to the underground
To the cities of gold
The gardens in diamonds adorned
Hotels palatial
Death camps infernal
Where thousands of children abducted
Cry in the clutches of the devil
They will invite you to dine
Pour adrenalin into your wine
Baby roast on the menu
Bones burning in the fireplace just for you
They will forever be returning
Rejuvenated with blood, rejoicing
to walk among men in shoes of cardinal skin
Stepping over dead bees just the same
Compassion they’ll say is their name
Whilst from those cities underground
From their laboratories
Millions of bacteria and viruses
Are killing your world mercilessly
The poles and icebergs they are melting away
Torrents will bring you to dismay
Tsunami will crumble the cities to ruins
Earthquake will shatter graves and dreams
Everything you have they will turn to dust
Drought will ablaze crops to crust
Of hunger millions will die
Poisons are raining from the sky
To the bones of children cast thy eye
to the bottom of the sea where they lie
look inside the savage eyes,
yearning for demise
gleaming with innocence
of the fallen victims’ cries
The Ancient of the Days can you see
The Heavens are yearning for equity
Without the soul void is poetry
Let the world,
That endures the humiliation silently
Frightened of camps and lethality
- be free.
Saša Milivojev
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
www.sasamilivojev.com
Jun 25, 2022
Jun 25, 2022 at 7:21 AM UTC
She wore a silk yellow chiffon Cancan flare dress
With yellow ribbons in her hair
From the look of her brittle fingernails
And the way she held the hem of her mother’s skirt
I knew that she was a nervous one; with her watery eyes
Her mother kept up that old familiar fake smile
The nervous one keep repeating
“There a big fly under my dress;
I often wonder why the visitors
Never attends our churches
But would come calling on the neighbors in the afternoon
A stack of leaflets in one hand and a black sachet case in the other
I always thought of them as a demanding group of worshipers
My grandparents seem discontent
With their teaching; so to ease the charade
It came off like Bible bashing
My nana would offer them a glass of lemonade
While my grandfather debate the lectures
They call themselves Jehovah Witness
"Hogwash said Grandpa"
A Jehovah's Witness must walk the walk,
not just talk the talk.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
cancel your plans, darling -
we're feignin' tonight.
i ain't tasted your fancy brow
since i last ran up trees.
i know you miss
the way my tossing hair
always filled the air with
moonlit berries and
wild
wild
grapes,
so thick
your mouth
gave way to
tsunamis.
i've got cold noodles sittin'
in my bowl somewhere
because i forgot to remind myself that
that ain't food that's
fillin' my belly -
channelin' me your orange hues
dipped in frustrations so subtle,
but
not
subtle
enough.
your frisky hot hemp dance
is flingin' itself
all over my inside stuff -
curbin' my appetite
for just about
anything else.
i'll climb your tree anyday
sweet baby,
kissin' greens
in your sleeves
on that minxy leaf trip.
carry me to your sneaky cove
and share your spices
and wanton skin graces.
i'll trade you my
fingertips
and diamond
extravaganzas,
then we can take turns
dippin' our tongues
into the blend.
'cause
i've blotted out my agenda
to savour the splendour
so i can remember to
spit it back into
the faces of
the dark
cloaked ones.
this is my defiant-nosed
iron song,
in my steel-toed boots.
see, i'm feelin' mahself
and the randy white cub
ticklin' my sides
in our crazy cahoots,
with our incense and spirits
from the worshipers of
sane things -
who fill our airs
with a long overdue
white haze.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 12:04 PM UTC
Honey lets drink the nectar of downtrodden ancient gods
until your limbs fall to ruble
like the temple of their lost worshipers.
Hold loosely to my numb hand as we loose our minds
in the fog rolling through our heads.
Let's escape.
All the legions marching through our veins,
doomed to death and resurrection,
oh how familiar we will be with that destiny
having practiced so many times.
When that fate reaches our time,
and we melt once more,
busts of ink onto the page in blissful atrophy.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
Spread the word , the Machine is coming. A circus of steel springs and combustion all grinding to the drums. Watch them waiting, every color, every clan; all wanting to be part of the system as it begins with a roar like a turbo charged engine they rush the door.
Inside, heads swim in a new found sea, unconscious are the dancing sparks and gay revelers in their glitter coated world. Limbs pumping, pounding pistons running full blast through the night. Up creaking stairs into the radiator, cooling chamber, thick green haze passes over innumerable points of light; oxygen restriction. Drums persist pouring down white rain on melting minds. Thrilling, rushing euphoric rhythms flow like wine from fine crystal. Speak and you will not be heard, listen and you will hear no voice, for the machine stops for no one until morn.
Wasting away in the exhaust of a comatose state are some, eyes open seeing new worlds in clarity are others, while a select few crawl through Hell blinded by visions of terror. Still the electric pulses have yet to slow, numb to the deafening watts as they are now winding their way to the surface of a sleeping city. Whimsical youths will lay until afternoon, their internal timing chains hours slow, yet only eight rounds of the gauge have passed. The beating motion is still lingering as weary heads fall upon waiting pillows, headlight eyes switch off near six am. The last sounds fade for these who now dream anew, yet still worshipers of the dance rage against the coming of the light, would they be consumed in the warehouse flames before they saw the dawn?
Spread the word the machine was here and they called it the Rave.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
For here we have no continuing city-
Here the falcons and the herons
Clash overhead, and the dead fall to ground
Like so many feckless soldiers.
For here we have no continuing city-
Wolves and foxes bear young in the caves
And they track the moon till dawn
Like the last worshipers of a lunar deity.
For here we have no continuing city-
When you reach out to touch my hand
Wild goats stumble high up in the cliffs
And the rabbit escapes the trap narrowly.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
7 Score and 12 Years ago we fought in a war that tore this nation apart
Now we are being torn apart at the seams once again.
Not by violence but a nation divided.
50 percent of us defending the gates and 50 percent of us tearing them down.
Only a few of us choose to defy god
but 50 percent of us are accused “devil worshipers.”
Only a few of us carry weapons of destruction
But 50 percent of us are alleged murderers.
Only a few of us want to see this country die
but 100 percent of us are working towards its downfall.
When we all stand up for our own beliefs,
We all head towards our own demise.
When we all stand up for each other,
We all rise.
We live in a world where we'd rather argue one's right to love,
then suffocate the hate we harbor so close to our hearts.
We live in a world where we'd rather argue the supernatural,
then deal with this “second rate” reality.
We live in a world where we'd rather speak over those less fortunate,
then listen to them weep.
It only takes a few of us,
To motivate all of us,
To play our part.
To move us forward.
When 100 percent of us were taught to never back down,
None of us learned the importance of compromise.
When 100 percent of us were taught the past,
None of us learned to look forward.
When 100 percent of us were taught wrong,
None of us learned what is right.
When 100 percent of us are included,
But only 50 percent move us forward,
50 percent of us are left behind.
50 percent of you is left behind.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
We'd grown accustomed to the rain. The incessant rain.
The waterlogged ground, the standing water all around.
Long weary months, no sight of sun, underfoot the soil is mud.
The seasons change from Winter into Spring; But still the rain,
still the lashing days, the night's when lulled to sleep by natures tattoo upon the roof.
Birds, rain soaked, dishevelled, find little shelter amidst the rain soaked leafless trees.
The industrious ducks, madly dibbling, turn the soaking ground to pools, their ever probing beaks sifting mud.
The despair of weather's dreary cycle, month after month. And then, the sun! at last the sun!
How we rejoice; the rain has ceased at last.
Now the sun is here to warm the earth,
Trees and grass grow green again, embracing the warm, life giving rays. The countryside is growing beautiful again.
Now the lakeside is thronged with downy ducklings, brown and yellow ***** of energy, darting at the rising Mayflies.
The Geese also have their young and parade in line astern, a guardian in front and one behind.
The lonely Swan has made friends with a white Duck, and the Carp, great and small, are basking at the surface, warming their backs in the welcome rays. The soggy earth is turning hard, and new cracks appear daily.
No rain now, only the blazing Sun.
People lately clad in raincoats and boots, now roam about in lighter garb, bare backed, bare legged, turning redder with each day.
The lonely country walks are now awash with sturdy hikers and the parks are thronged with Sun worshipers, stretched out to brown, like drying fish.
By the Hall, the lake shimmers like a mirror, and from my window I see the Swallows swooping low, dipping their beaks to the water for sedges and and mayflies. The first Bats, from the culvert spread their wings and join the evening Swallows in their search for food.
Sun wind and water are in harmony.
How glorious the Earth with teeming life! How wonderful her colours and her creatures; I cannot truly comprehend so great a beauty.
All life is miraculous! the elements surely blessed.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
Once upon a time, a long time ago, there were people who believed in laughter, joy and love. They believed in many deities, but the most important to them was their Great Mother Goddess. They believed in and lived with the powers of Nature. They reveled in the Wind, the Rain, the Snow and the Sunlight. They marveled at and revered the changing of the seasons and saw therein great excitement and wisdom to be gained. They knew that if they
tended, cared for and loved the Earth, in return She would provide for, care for and love them. They saw that all around them the world was filled with Life, much as their own but in many different and wonderful forms. They felt the life of the flowers, plants and trees and respected them for that life essence. They looked about and observed all the many types of animals and saw that they were kindred to them and loved them. They felt and observed the great Love of the Goddess all about them and knew kinship with the Moon. They were practioners of
The Old Religion, worshipers of The Great Mother!
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
A myth of spirits
Of flesh and belief
A world of great pain
And those who beg for relief
The naked the starving
Began to praise the sun
They feared it and loved it
They proclaimed it to be the one
This formula was genetic
Imprinted on the brain of every man
A timeless devotion
A naïve emotion as old as sand
Disputes, disagreements
Blind pledged allegiance and war
The body counts rise
As the worshipers die and what for?
So self-righteous believers
Can say they did right
Counterproductive destruction
And senseless fights
So let’s stop this nonsense now
At once
And believe in ourselves
And just be thankful for the sun
Do not depend you need not defend
Its exuberant light is fastened so tight in eternity and shall not come undone
It will not do for you
It can only provide you light
It allows you to look clearly
And decipher wrong from right
Although it’s subjective
And moral objectives are rarely the same
Let us rejoice and throw up our voice
For ourselves without remorse or shame
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
He’s an angel, like me, like his other siblings.
He’s a brother, little brother.
He’s blood, my blood.
He is the youngest,
the weakest, and
the lowest of the combined four.
His flights are lower to Earth,
farther from Heaven.
closer to Hell,
Humans adore him,
his parents spoil him;
Satan sways him.
He turns his back on his worshipers,
backstabs them,
and leaves them to die.
Humans fear they have done something wrong,
they showers him in gifts
they plea for their lives.
I cry as he watches them burn.
I reach out to them,
I am ignored.
More offerings.
More gifts.
More pleas.
I plea,
I kneel,
I kiss their feet, but
our parents are lost in my brother’s spell,
my brother’s trick,
my brother’s façade.
I go to his worshipers,
I warn them of his treachery, and
I am branded as a demon for turning on my blood,
I’m gagged and
I’m silenced,
I’m forced to watch.
His wings are tainted black,
his skin is pulled tight around the bones and from
his joints, spikes emerged.
Small streams of blood fall from his hands
It falls to his people.
It’s treated like rains as they dance in it.
He commands his parents and
He influences his humans.
He is whispered to by Satan.
He flies farther from Heaven,
He grazes the ground of Earth,
He flies in the skies of Hell.
I’m raising an army,
a small rebellion of lost angels and
a band of rebellious humans.
We will take down this demon.
This fallen angel,
This brother.
I will be banished or destroyed.
I will leave with an open mind, a higher flight,
I will know they are safe from him.
My siblings do not abandon me
My humans rally behind me, but
My parents will try to suppress me.
The three of us will be his doom,
his Apocalypse,
his inevitable downfall.
Just as he shows no mercy;
no mercy for his humans,
no mercy shall be given to him.
He is my blood
He is my little brother,
He is my family.
But he is also my greatest enemy
my wisest foe and
my demon.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC