do you remember?
your bleeding fingernails
screeching their way
across a blackboard that
perched itself folornly
beneath an emerald tree
where smiling children ran
in ones, twos and threes
seeking special guidance from
a one-armed teacher who
waved a cane of sugarcoated
lies and words that dripped
poisoned honey as he plotted
and smiled with sickly sweetness
upon the children of his tomorrow
the playthings that the spoiled brat
in him could destroy and toss broken
beside the unfenced playing fields
and the sandpits of yesterday's
awakening to the fear of first blood
knowledge rushed from words choked
dry in the throat of callow youth and
applied to places worn red raw from
friction and the fiction of feeling
that soon led to fury and distrust
the mind picture of overlapping dreams
of candy-men who parade in stripes
and predate too in places of worship
slips uncalled for in between the cries
of pain and the begging for forgivness
for thine is the power?
no!
it is not thine - it will be mine
as payment for the long years trapped
in the catacombs of a walled-off mind
when will the last true believer
burn the image of the last godman?
time to cut out the middleman
and seek the source of the river
the spring from which we sprang
naked and vacant-minded into the
bright light of a promised blessedness
finding instead a fleshy hell peopled
by those who considered themselves
the lesser angels of a greater god
Author notes
Arafura
A contest entry
- with the abstract in mind.. by The-Phoenix.
900 points, ended January 10, 25 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 12 of 12
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A powerful and thought provoking piece of poetry dearest poet. A million moonbeams away from Tuesdays with Morrie, teachers and preachers are powerful but the lines may become blurred when they assume the mantle of a higher power by supposed precedent. I attended several schools and encountered some wonderful teachers who taught us children as if we were equals and taught us to appreciate all others as equals. One teacher, a bombastic irishman by the name of Mr Boyle, was an aggressive, overbearing brutish, huge bear-type guy. He was supposed to teach us french but spent most of the lesson telling us what he despised about the English, should any lad even shift in his seat this monstrous man would thump him. One day I had grown weary of his tirade, part way through one of his abusive monologues and after he had thumped yet another boy for no goddamn reason I raised my hand and said excuse me sir , you are employed to teach us french, not to humilate, terrorize or indoctrinate us, under the curriculum we are not even allowed to study our own land's politics at the age of eleven ( which i was when this occured) nor are meant to be subjected to bullying as mentioned under subsection c of the education act. It was amazing how he went from pale disbelief to traffic light red then purple before launching himself at me and literally throttling me in front of my classmates. Someone ran to fetch the Headmaster and even though the Headmaster witnessed this abuse of power it was I that was reprimanded. I was a prefect and rather than make it personal between him and I I asked the Headmaster to please provide the previous 5 years reports regarding french passes and assaults, of course I was not given those stats but in-house we all knew that Boyle got away with not teaching any of his classes to pass level and had assaulted many children. I smiled ever so sweetly that christmas when I presented him with a gift wrapped black balaclava to remind him of home written in my best script. And when he went purple again I innocently said oh I do declare I have commited a faux pas sir, it was remiss of me to forget your colour is purple. Respect cannot be demanded, it is earned and commanded. Lesser angel indeed, if ever there was a man spouting about his religion, his power and his kingdom, it was Boyle, and he crucified many children.
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A kick ass write
So many questions arise from your strong (bitter?) words. Can children be nurtured without the lies? Can adults maintain their sanity without the lies? If I can keep myself from manic rage and weeping at the circumstances of my own existence, is that in itself a lie? I wish you were more specific in letting me know exactly what lies this one-armed bandit was spreading. Good write.
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This poem reeks of power and a certain amount of bitterness and disappointment. A moving and thoughtful poem.
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Such power and passion here - bitter and truthful, containing some in-your-face imagery with a call to 'cut out the middleman
and seek the source of the river'
and, at this time of the year, this line resonated strongly for me. Well written, this poems jumps off the page.
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Beliefs are a very personal thing but this very interesting write allows us to possibly view things from a different perspective than our own. There are some great lines in this which really bring the images to life. Something you are very good at
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amazing imagery, and its all really fresh, which makes it even better. very amazing poem! and it is so very true
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'time to cut out the middleman and seek the source of the river'
wonderful lines, and so true. when will we realize we don't need help talking to God.
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I was drawn in entirely by the lovely title.The last two lines are really quite something.
Keep it coming.
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John
I remember that book/movie Children of a Lesser God.
Great story there, great poem here.
"I would be less afraid of God and hell, were it not for the fact that there is so much room to make such a thing."
Attributed to John F Johnson
AP's Adios Muchachos
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Wow!!!
All I can say is, this poem is magnificent!!! 
A true work of art: for all those left behind, suffering; and those for whom the healing begins. Wishing you all the best, always...
& 
xx Cyn xx
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"applied to places worn red raw from
friction"
this one stings.
just as it should.
you made a complex blend of dignity and rage.
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“your bleeding fingernails
screeching their way
across a blackboard”
Love that imagery.
“applied to places worn red raw from
friction and the fiction of feeling”
“of candy-men who parade in stripes
and predate too in places of worship”
“as payment for the long years trapped
in the catacombs of a walled-off mind
when will the last true believer
burn the image of the last godman?”
Love those metaphors and what they insinuate.
I’d really love it if you’d put your name in you author’s notes so that I can find you and read more of your stuff. Now normally, I don’t like poems that deal with religious themes, but how could I not love this?
Your piece was so well written; it flowed and your word choice and metaphor were superb. The ending was perfect and the subject matter was profound.
Absolutely wonderful.
Thank you for entering.
~Phoenix
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