Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Cross & Clouds

Cross & Clouds (Photo credit: John H Wright Photo)

True Easter

when pharisees and saducess
and men of might and valour
conspired with men to rob of men
of Him the glorious power

they spoke of plans
concocted schemes
and as a wolf devours
they nailed him up upon a  tree
at the third and darkened hour
they sought to block
The Rock with rock
from granite hewn a coffin womb

as sunlight turned the dark to day
some women went to mourn and pray
they went to roll the stone away
they went to sing and praise His name

and ere they neared the pitless tomb
Behold! Behold! There was no groom
in his place an angel sat
who spoke of things a simple fact

He Lives! He Lives!
The Son of God has Life!
Death He takes and Life He gives!
the end of fear and strife

For Jesus Christ has died for you
and risen three days hence
to take away your sins from you
so a new you may commence

by Sean Moore

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Incanto In Furnace by Daunting Allegory

Posted: November 11, 2012 in Poetry

Aeneas crept into the depths
of the underground, upright
he stepped
darkly
as dead roses pressed
and she wept
(Persephone)
in the pit
(indemnity)
where shadows slept
bellowing
as bellows sing
so readily
below those mourning bells that ring
burrowed
‘neath the death of Spring
borrowed
from the breath we breathe
burroughs
of departed greed
ennui ennui ennui I scream
wake up! this hell is not a dream
and all is eaten as it feeds
and everything is as it seems
and everything is vanity
as Ashteroth to Easter bleeds
calamitous insanity
the bedlam that Pandora breeds
and Neptune drowned himself in seas
abysmal king of dead seaweeds
the pit is dank and dark and deep
and filled with those of restless sleep
and as the riddle of the Sphinx
shows that time is entropy
just as chains are naught but links
our DNA, life’s tapestry
unweaves itself unto deceit
stranding us in furnace heat
like the Rich Man full of thirst
as is the last so was the first

 

by Sean Moore

eye-baggage

Posted: October 27, 2012 in Poetry

how desperate
the disparate
the they that are
separate
and hypocrite
whose bassett eyes
have weary arms
and longest hours nocturnal
are gardeners of distraction
without traction
how wary
are those weary
whose clock hands
dig and bury
with blistered palms
with seeping eyes and open arms
brandish brimstone in fistfuls
trod God and shout skyward
how sad for a mite to incite
refuse to be
might with insight
how sad to be man
with no compass

 

by sean moore

sigh

Posted: October 16, 2012 in Poetry

soliloquy of softness saddened
somber sleeping of starlight sound
song of silken sylvan sunset
psalm of satisfaction found

by Sean Moore

apathos

Posted: October 16, 2012 in Poetry

(of)
whales and windmills
i’ve chased in haste
seeking Mt. Ida
i’ve razed and raced
i’ve sought and longed
to meet Flammonde
and talk and tell duende
but dreams are dry
and often hushed
from rashes to ashes
from rust to dust

by Sean Moore

A Poem

Posted: October 14, 2012 in Bible, Christianity, Poetry, Religion
The field was plowed the soil made ready the seed of the word was sown
The Master himself the gardener had had planted the seed on his own
The night had fallen the enemy came in stealth he planted too
His seed he planted in the master’s field with the masters seed ‘he knew’
They both sprang up when the sun arose and the father of light sent the rain and warmth
Wheat and Tares must look alike for no one knew till harvest  time
What is the song the wheat would sing all praise to Jesus praise to my king
What is the song the tares then too if looking alike not sounding too
There is a gate through which all must go straight and narrow is the road
The tares the wheat the sun the rain the mystery the wonder who shall be saved
He who has an ear let him hear
Two brother there were one rich one lame the rich fared sumptuously every day
His brother laid outside the gate the dogs showed more mercy than his kin
The angels came to Lazarus to Abrahams bosom thus he flew his brother
  went to hades
The wheat the tares the world the snares the eyes the wants the lusts the fears
The taunts the riches the seed the soil the word
He who has an ear to hear will hear
So will he be heard?
If you would like to read more go to http://sharpword.wordpress.com/
Copyright Hubert Ronduea

Gods of the Copybook Headings

Posted: October 1, 2012 in Poetry

 

AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,

I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.

Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

 

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn

That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:

But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,

So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

 

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,

Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,

But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come

That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

 

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,

They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;

They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;

So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

 

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.

They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.

But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “Stick to the Devil you know.”

 

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life

(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)

Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “The Wages of Sin is Death.”

 

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,

By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;

But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “If you don’t work you die.”

 

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew

And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true

That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

 

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man

There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.

That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,

And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

 

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins

When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,

As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,

The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

 

by Rudyard Kipling

courtesy of http://www.kipling.org.uk/poems_copybook.htm