Lost Paradise - Lyndon Queripel

The vandal of the scandal
The villain of the piece
Flying off the handle
With friends and enemies
From pillar to post
And light to shade
The ghost that hurts most
Is the one that’s betrayed
By a kiss, a broken promise
Denied, tried and finally died
Like a lamb, a sacrifice
The price of lost paradise.

Lyndon Queripel

Image : Pixabay - 4222320

O Shining One - Ian Duquemin

How you have fallen, O shining one
When once like a star you so beautifully shone
Son of the morning, from heaven you fell
To dwell in the darkness, and fires of hell
Lucifer, you were the bringer of light
Angelical Venus that burned in the night
Rebellious angel, who tried to save Man
And alter the wrath of a heavenly plan

Ian Duquemin

Image : An engraving by Gustave Dore from Milton's 'Paradise Lost'. (Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

Trinity - Ian Duquemin

Of God. The Son. Or the Holy Ghost.
I've wondered in which I would trust the most…
The God. The designer. The Creator of all
If he listened, then God never answered my call
As I've prayed for peace… But the wars go on
"Protect the sick" but they too have gone
If killing is something God loves to do
I'm sorry… But I could not follow you

The Son. A man who once walked this earth
Who was crowned a king at his time of birth
Who grew to preach, and to raise the dead
To feed five thousand on fish and bread
Whose blood was wine… Who could walk on sea
This couldn't be real... It's fantasy
Should I believe in a man who lied?
Whose father just watched him be crucified?

The Holy Ghost… Of the Trinity
Where God and Son, now amount to three
The spirit of something… But I'm not sure
The death of life? That became the cure!
If death is life… Then what are you giving?
A life of struggle, not worth the living
Then show yourself, let me see the truth
Just give me an answer. Give me the proof

I'm told, I'll burn if I turn away
A sickening game that believers play
"You'll go to hell for Eternity!"
Well… Maybe hell is the place for me
As I've done my best, but that's never enough
I've fallen apart when the times got tough
Throughout my life I have felt alone
So at least I'd be able to call this home
But who is the Devil? This angel once banished
Who fell to earth and then somehow vanished
I want to believe… But what can I say?
I haven't a fiddle to play

Ian Duquemin

Friend Of Mine - Ian Duquemin

Jesus was a friend of mine
We hung out every day
He asked me why I sinned so much?
And why I never pray?
I told him that I loved him
That I do the best I can
Said "I am not a preacher
I am simply just a man"
He told me of his journey
He'd come so very far
He pointed to the heavens
Towards the brightest star
He said that's where he came from
And I stood there in his spell
I wondered how this Moon child
Could have stumbled into hell?
I watched as he was talking
To the crowds that gathered round
I saw his lips were moving
But I could not hear a sound
And when I asked him later
Of the message I'd not heard
He told me not to worry
As he hadn't said a word
The further that we travelled
He moved too far ahead
It's then that I discovered
That I had been misled
I called for him to save me
But he did not hear my call
The man that I had followed
Was not a friend at all

Ian Duquemin

Homage? - Trudie Shannon

How strange that throughout time
Man has built edifices, temples, churches
In homage to his Gods.
When surely the greatest homage must be
To protect and respect all of creation.
For nothing man creates can ever compare
To the innate beauty and absolute wonder of the earth itself.

Trudie Shannon

First Date, Last Date - Stephen A. Roberts

he's excited about tonight

an assignation in the city

there will be girls there

and boys too, he doesn't care

he stares into the mirror

smiles, neatens his hair

arranges his new stuff

it's all now ready to wear

the future's looking bright

he's dressed to kill tonight


Stephen A. Roberts

Country Church - Richard Fleming

It feels intrusive, stepping in
through the arched door uninvited.
Money in the collection tin,
a pound coin, appears to right it.
I look about. The church seems small:
not thirty feet from wall to wall.

No stained glass here, no bleeding Christ,
just hymn books, hassocks, modest pews.
In this place, such things must suffice
to promulgate the Gospel news.
The congregation, I suppose,
shrinks week by week and never grows.

Preponderance of tweedy suits,
of wives in self-effacing hats,
an absence, here, of fresh recruits,
of newcomers to swell the stats.
A failure somehow to connect,
is what the vicar must expect.

The stone floor makes my footsteps seem
funereal, my presence wrong
and out of place. No godly theme
runs through my life, I drift along
as most do, unreflectingly,
a spiritual amputee.

Outside, old gravestones vie with flowers
for my attention as I leave.
I came here to avoid Spring showers,
where others come to pray or grieve.
The dead are lost to us, I fear,
while daffodils return each year.

Richard Fleming

Deity Doll - Lester Queripel

Gods and Goddesses.
Forever immortal.
The perfect angel.
Statue memorial.
Purity and perfection.
Collective resurrection.
Hail Mary.
Hailstone.
Open to the elements.
Standing alone.
Seemingly untouchable.
Fragile and vulnerable.
Handle with care the Deity Doll.
If you want to save your soul.

Before your eyes.
Hypnotise.
Idolise.
Dramatise.
Magnetise.
Baptise and memorise.
Shine the light.
Rejoice and delight.
Fight the good fight.
Don't lose sight.
Or get blinded by the light.
From the cradle to the grave.
In castle and cave.
With the cross and the nail.
In search of the Holy Grail.

Lester Queripel

Exodus - Ian Duquemin

It seems a war is sure to come
The exodus of man begun
A crossing to a safer land
To those who might reach out a hand
A Trojan horse shall be let in
To wipe out any form of sin
A black flag unfurled raised up high
Where Christians fall and die
The God of hate is on his way
Advancing closer every day
His putrid breath and songs of rage
Upon the media stage
And all the fools who shed a tear
The ones who call out "Bring them here!"
Shall see the devil magnified
As man and God collide

Ian Duquemin

How’s Your Father (these days) - Vic Gamble

{ part one}

God was not such a bright spark
cajoling Noah to build an ark
and then, with celestial watery eyes
matched only by His wilted watery brain,
He drowned everything He had created
in His god-dam godly game
(except for the usual twosomes,the lions,giraffes
 and big horns of the jungle).
But what about the ones that noble Noah had forgot,
the insects and the platypus, the amoeba
and the tsetse fly, not to mention the No 7 bus?
and if Noah had a chance to veto
why didn’t he swat those two mosquito?
(oh! didn’t that heavenly Father make one hell of
a beautiful bungle!).

{ interlude }

I may not be the one to say
but is it not somewhat deranged
to destroy all you have created
and carefully arranged,
little fluffy things drowned
in wild wide eyed fear….
the one saving grace of course being
God does not actually exist,
He is not actually here.

{part two}

But his little elves don’t feel that this is so,
How’s your Father? you ask them,
still messing up the world?
Oh! yes indeed they say, He’s still all go! go! go!

It’s all a bit weird and wearisome,
with a touch of gruesome for Godly gains of glory,
this vacuous How’s your Father (these days)
this little fairy story.

Vic Gamble

Author's footnote:
Not to be confused with “How’s Your Father?”
a Victorian expression used to ascertain the whereabouts of a young lady’s Daddy, prior to any potential rutting.

Easter Tidings Rising - Vic Gamble

the catch-22 is that they issue
terrorist commands in gasping Gaelic
and religion in loose lineage of Latin,
yet not a broth of a man in the pub understands
the lilt of either language.

angry fists crush upon wooden tables
and wild shakes the froth
of Guinness
like gray tiredness of after-party jelly.

outside the spare air is groaning,
but it is only the copper of the storm,
while inside,sun ablaze, the boys are in short shape
for the shortcomings of the revolution.

The Dublin Times
runs a headline on the Pope’s latest decree
of Easter tidings;
bodies, it says,
will rise whole on the day of judiciary judgement
crushing all but daisies before them,
and though I will still have my balls,
and you the heat of your thighs, my love,
there will be no sex in heaven…..
though, he says, this Pope,
we will still be happy,
but somehow I doubt that.
But we will keep an open face
and good mind
for he is not the first Pope to be fallible…..
did not the last one die?

the catch-22 is that I am trained to shoot
who passes upon my own green land,
hidden here in the haze of moon
surviving by the rhythm of my enemies march,
knowing that when I splice his open wound
I shall retch at the sight of his cascading blood…….
perhaps the Pope has a take on that,
somehow I doubt it.

I know he is so busy assuring us
carnal knowledge is taboo in the afterlife
he has forgotten to wonder about
why we needed to die
in the first place.

Vic Gamble

Vegetable Patch - Vic Gamble

religion shits openly
on everything….but
there is always somebody
strolling behind the ass
  (dear God for thy name)
scooping up to feed
their dear little vegetable patch,
their not quite fertile
vegetable brain.

Vic Gamble