There are neither good popes nor bad popes, just worse popes.
Fernando Vallejo in The Whore of Babylon (2007), translated by Dan Costinaş
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Mother is the first word that occurs to politicians and columnists and popes when they raise the question, 'Why isn't life turning out the way we want it?'
quote by Mary Kay Blakely
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Television preachers extract money from the poor to live in a style and to indulge in shameful acts which equal or outdo the worst of the Renaissance Popes.
quote by J. Irwin Miller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The funny little hats
why do popes wear funny little hats
litlle and round
not to mention funny
sure they serve a purpose
but what? ? ?
poem by Rhianon Cumner
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Heaven Is what I Can Never Teach
Heaven is all that some won't see.
People treated like disease.
Providing naught but broken wings.
Then heaven is not meant for me.
If yellow becomes one color is the sun?
When, butterflies with out wings can fly.
And popes can sing a different song.
Heaven is a dream within our reach.
poem by Is It Poetry
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On Platina Prosperus Spiriteus
The Man whose Judgement Joynd with force of Witt
The lives of Popes & lives of Heroes writt
Who sung true Pleasure showd ye Golden mean
And taught Wild Youth to shun ye Lovers pain
Who wrote all this—Who more than this designd
All fine impressions of Celestial mind
That Man that Platina so lately fled
From earth to silent Darkness is not dead
Evn Death is here restraind ye stroke he gives
has killd the man ye Writer ever lives.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Song of the Edinburgh Academician
If ony here has got an ear,
He'd better tak’ a haud o’ me,
Or I'll begin, wi’ roarin’ din,
To cheer our old Academy.
Dear old Academy,
Queer old Academy,
A merry lot we were, I wot,
When at the old Academy.
There's some may think me crouse wi’ drink,
And some may think it mad o’ me,
But ither some will gladly come
And cheer our old Academy.
Some set their hopes on Kings and Popes,
But, o’ the sons of Adam, he
Was first, without the smallest doubt,
That built the first Academy.
Let Pedants seek for scraps of Greek,
Their lingo to Macadamize;
Gie me the sense, without pretence,
That comes o’ Scots Academies.
Let scholars all, both grit and small,
Of Learning mourn the sad demise;
That's as they think, but we will drink
Good luck to Scots Academies.
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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A Protest against Religious Intolerance (for Kurt Westergaard and Lars Vilks)
Beheading cartoonists? Give me a break!
Remember when witches were burnt at the stake?
In primitive ages when ignorance ruled
The Popes and the Prophets had everyone fooled!
Of course it's a fact that everyone's scared
Of a man in the East with a very long beard
And no sense of humour but a heart full of hate
Who'd snuff out compassion 'cos Allah is great.
Now jihad and fatwa are everyday threats
And weak politicians are hedging their bets
It's no time to dither and sit on the fence,
Get rid of Religion and vote Common Sense! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Hope...
without hope
you imagine hope
you must imagine hope
there is no hope you must
invent hope
it is too tiresome
do not believe in hope because it is too hopeless
promises are not popes not pop but poo
pooh,
if there is no hope, accept, hope does not exist
what exists is you and you are not hope
you are real,
you are reality, and hope is lesser, much lesser than you
hope is a tree you are bird
hope is the pebble you are the running water
hope cannot hold you
it is not a cup of water
you are the wind and you are not suppose to stay
hope is a dead tree stuck on its rotten roots
fly away, so, do not just stay there and stare at anything
open your wings, spread and be gone for good
hope is a dead grandmother
and you are the inevitable grandson
least limitable, ongoing movie
swinging tarzan, hot popcorn
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cats Eye Resurrection
Cats ~ cats ~ cats
Eye
Cats ~ cats ~ cats
Splashing on my walls ~ my walls
In the field the bodies are tied
To the their crosses hair hanging down
The blood is rolling down their
Arms to the waiting dogs
Bad ~ bad ~ bad
Doctors
Bad ~ bad ~ bad
Counting the meat on the tables
In the field the bodies are tied to the
Altar the popes mule sings a song of
Freedom from his majesty-the pope
Nazi ~ nazi ~ nazi
Butchers
Nazi ~ nazi ~ nazi
Waving their tongues in the air
Cats-cats-cats-bad-bad-bad-cats eye
Resurrection
song performed by by Rob Zombie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Reverend Paisley
The Reverend Paisley
The reverend Paisley is on the way out
Up to heaven and not to hell
Long chats with dead popes no doubt
The pope's will chat; but he will yell
The pope's will work on him: a religious turn
Then he will change his name from Paisley
Home's in Northern Ireland will burn
When he becomes the reverend Papistley
Perhaps before he goes, he will see the light
Become Northern Ireland's brand new daddy
To London's parliament, he will take our fight
Yelling; give Ireland back to paddy
Michael Micmac Mccrory
poem by Michael Micmac Mccrory
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A Perfect Sonnet
Oh, for a perfect sonnet of all time!
Wild music, heralding immortal hopes,
Strikes the bold prelude. To it from each clime,
Like tropic birds on some green island slopes,
Thoughts answering come, high metaphors, brave tropes,
In ordered measure and majestic rhyme.
And, presently, all hearts, kings', poets', popes',
Throb to the truth of this new theme sublime.
Anon 'tis reason speaks. A note of death
Strengthens the symphony yet fraught with pain,
And men seek meanings with abated breath,
Vexing their souls,--till lo, once more, the strain
Breaks through triumphant, and Love's master voice
Thrills the last phrase and bids all joy rejoice.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Women Were Once Popes
Three times a Pope was a woman.
Instead of a man.
Believe this if you can.
These women were cross dressers looking like men.
YES, three women were the leaders living ruling the Vatican.
Of course, each had a special plan.
To get elected to the Highest position of man.
In the Vatican all women were banned.
Crafty women used ways to infiltrate the Vatican's secrete clan.
In religion, women had taken all they could stand.
From men that don't understand women.
Back then, could you imagine being a lowly woman.
And having a High Class man, manually using a fan
With his hand
To cool here off after she ran.
The powerful State the Vatican.
Woman Popes were the most powerful humans of all lands
During their tenure, lacking the correct sex glands.
Arts not kidding about women leading the Vatican.
They, wishing he would shut up of a woman Pope faked as man.
poem by Arthur Knackmus
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Lies
Lies
Are more popular than flies.
Lies are everywhere.
Lies can turn into cancer
After a while.
The world is infested by these vile
Creatures, which are constantly
Changing. Lies run freely,
Because they rule,
They kill, and they fool
Kings, queens, and dictators;
Popes, pastors and doctors.
The blind can see the lies.
The deaf can hear the lies.
The dead can feel them,
But they will say nothing.
The Poets cannot fathom,
Why everyone is afraid to ring
The bells, to denounce this phenomenon.
The mirror does not lie,
This is a sine qua non.
Remove the pie,
Get rid of the disguise,
To come out clean
Of the lice and the lies,
Which are more popular than the flies.
Look around and listen.
We are inundated,
We are surrounded
By a slew of lies,
Which hurt more than the truths.
Lies are fabricated proofs,
Which behave like viruses,
That are slowly devouring
The fibers, the heart, and the calluses
Of the inebriated King.
Lies are everywhere,
Inside and outside of the mirror.
poem by Hebert Logerie (March 2012)
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Romulus and Remus
Canadian
Oh, little did the Wolf-Child care--
When first he planned his home,
What City should arise and bear
The weight and state of Rome.
A shiftless, westward-wandering tramp,
Checked by the Tiber flood,
He reared a wall around his camp
Of uninspired mud.
But when his brother leaped the Wall
And mocked its height and make,
He guessed the future of it all
And slew him for its sake.
Swift was the blow--swift as the thought
Which showed him in that hour
How unbelief may bring to naught
The early steps of Power.
Foreseeing Time's imperilled hopes
Of Glory, Grace, and Love--
All singers, Caesars, artists, Popes--
Would fail if Remus throve,
He sent his brother to the Gods,
And, when the fit was o'er,
Went on collecting turves and clods
To build the Wall once more!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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A Journey Towards The Self
you may have gone to Rome
and had the shower of the holy water
to the churches of France
to the hamlets of Galilee
to the holy places of Iran
and Israel
kiss the imprint of the foot of
Abraham
taste the dried blood of Jesus
along the streets
to the mountain of the skulls
these are the last places
of your absolution
as you ask forgiveness for all your sins
but there is this journey
that you have to finally take
inward to yourself
no popes, no cardinals,
no holy water, no incense,
no alms, no offerings
no prayers no incantations
the longest journey
on that feetless world
you leap the chasm of darkness
and with closed eyes
you take the chronicles of faith
ask for undeserved mercy
and arrive at myriad doubts
and feel the perfect void
of your innate nothingness
your worthlessness
hope you will find
yourself
nearer to God's embrace
in the silent waters
of your soul
the sacred law says
you must die to yourself
for you to be alive
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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AWarning To Ladies
A Warning To Ladies
Ladies - a warning about men.
Only the nunnery is safe
From their plots against you.
You are always in danger.
Men lay traps for ladies.
All men should be locked up.
Young mne. Men in the middle
And especially old men with money.
Men will say: 'You are a goddess.'
They will worship you.
The Pope worships Marys,
Popes and Bishops wear dresses.
They pretend to be friends of ladies.
'The swine! ' you cry
Clebrated celibate-
'A pig in a Pope' hogging power,
Power over ladies.
The Pope says 'Ladies must have babies,
And stay at home, please men.
Men will lie on you.
Men will le to you.
'You are the only one! '
Just for now, that is.
Men are unjust bad boys
Escaped from Never Never Land.
Men never grow up. They like toys.
Men play with balls.
Men want to play games with you
Even if you have a headache.
But some men are alright.
Ladies can trust men who are dead.
Deadmen can be trusted. They are quiet.
Quiet as the grave.
They live in graveyards.
Dead men are grave and silent.
Yes, these men can be trusted by ladies.
These are saints. Saints are all dead men
All the live men are sinners.
You have been warned.
Peter Godfrey
poem by Peter Godfrey
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Robinson At Home
Curtains drawn back, the door ajar.
All winter long, it seemed, a darkening
Began. But now the moonlight and the odors of the street
Conspire and combine toward one community.
These are the rooms of Robinson.
Bleached, wan, and colorless this light, as though
All the blurred daybreaks of the spring
Found an asylum here, perhaps for Robinson alone,
Who sleeps. Were there more music sifted through the floors
And moonlight of a different kind,
He might awake to hear the news at ten,
Which will be shocking, moderately.
This sleep is from exhaustion, but his old desire
To die like this has known a lessening.
Now there is only this coldness that he has to wear.
But not in sleep.—Observant scholar, traveller,
Or uncouth bearded figure squatting in a cave,
A keen-eyed sniper on the barricades,
A heretic in catacombs, a famed roué,
A beggar on the streets, the confidant of Popes—
All these are Robinson in sleep, who mumbles as he turns,
“There is something in this madhouse that I symbolize—
This city—nightmare—black—”
He wakes in sweat
To the terrible moonlight and what might be
Silence. It drones like wires far beyond the roofs,
And the long curtains blow into the room.
poem by Weldon Kees
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My Discovery
Now I've left this earthly shell, I find no heaven and no hell,
My spirit soars above the waves, now free of fire and earth bound graves.
I leave behind the pains of life, discard the lies and leave the strife,
My lack of understanding shed, my freedom rests among the dead.
No Philosophers, no stones, no rotting flesh, or crumbling bones,
No Preachers with their jaundiced views, no promises to keep, or lose.
No Teachers with their bogus facts, no Lawmakers misguided acts,
No false Prophets and no Popes, No Pessimists or Misanthropes.
I find at last no judgement day, no Golden Gates to bar my way,
My soul floats free among the clouds, released at last from earthly shrouds.
I leave behind the standards set, by others who I never met,
My obligations I rescind, and set my course upon the wind.
No Bureaucrats, no pointless rules, no Visionaries or other fools,
No Businessmen, no bloodied knives, no Politicians, or their wives,
No privilege, no bended knee, no Hangers-On, or Monarchy,
No love to lose, or Heart to break, and no apologies to make.
So as your years their zenith reach, do not be tempted to beseech
Your God to bring you to his side, so you in splendor can reside.
All that's you you cannot keep, as you begin this final sleep
No dreams or nightmares you'll recall, just perfect peace........
And that is all.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
poem by Owain Glyn
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Like the Japanese
Make for me inside an insouciance with your wonder,
And I will build for you with my muscles,
And these things I say which are steam engines,
And organic turbines; Do not let your eyes become instead
The blunders of the richly accessorized middle-classes,
Do not say those things which are readily understood and
Manageable, but instead ride with me to Mars,
This sort of amusement park made out of fire-axes and
Other pigments given to indigenous holidays. That is what I
Said: Make this life into an aqueduct, a prevalence of my
Scars hung with tinsel, your lips blowing the sawdust of such
Carpentry, your nails newly painted black and draped against
My cheek like the human brand of peacock; Or come with
Me to my grandmother’s grave and let us worship there like
The Japanese, let us spread origami like our bodies, into new
Shapes for Christmas, and let us not mind the way the snowflakes
Drift indefinably unique like little Chalets floating through a
Francophone space, or let us ride away from this back through
The vanished sea the mountains attend, as carefully as explorers
Approaching the epileptic fissures through the persimmon trees.
They grow wild here where there are just words blown like
Ashes out amidst the bicycles of each of their careworn students,
And the ladies who exercise readily dreaming of their inevitable
Motherhood and what fine kitchens, like bosomy Popes
In a suburban Rome, they should first graduate and then soon attend.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Islamofascists and Christofascists (and Israelofascists too?)
Well, you’d expect them to hate each other,
since it’s the nature of the beast
and deep down they hate
all human beings, and hate themselves…
those who would impose their ‘righteousness’
upon their fellow men…
but the God who’s mercifully beyond all names
must look down in stunned incomprehension
when the faithful make division in their faith…
Catholics and Protestants, Sunnis and Shias…
for perhaps this is the greatest crime of all
against God: and if so, the Popes and Archbishops
should have said to their faithful a century ago,
love those who love Me, whatever path they take…
or My penalty shall be, that – plague on both your houses
in My house of many mansions – both your so-called ‘faiths’
which are but faith in your own human judgments rather than
your faith in Me – both shall be henceforth declared
apostate, infidel – oh ye who lack real Faith…
or if God could, would, should not interfere
as His inexorable laws work their justice out
and the ‘faithful’ slaughter one another
in a new Massacre of the Ignorants –
if not God Himself, then some latter Solomon
who might say the same; or devise
some sharper stirring of what’s left
of reason in those warring idiots –
something on an unreasonable par
with his threatened halving of that disputed babe,
such as, if you haven’t sworn brotherly love
on every holy book and holy shrine
within a month, I’ll toss this coin
with Allah’s name, or Jehovah, or Fid. Def. upon it …
and declare one party forever infidel
within my holy realm…
how obvious all this seems, to those of us
born free from ancient hates: they, bound
to man’s so foolish, idiot pride.. and the great betrayal
ever threatening, the treason of the clerics…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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