Flammeus Gladius

Carmina et Verba pro Discipulis Meis

Tag: heretics

Instructions from the Grand Inquisitor

Instructions from the Grand Inquisitor

Just say what
you think. A heretic’s better
than a hypocrite.

–Tom Riley

Dutch Babies

Dutch Babies

 

 

Steve King just spat on someone else’s babies.
(The congressfellow, not the horror guy.)
He is a heretic. No room for maybes.
Mark Shea has ruled – which ought to satisfy
The skeptical. All borders are a lie.
The Netherlands and these United States
Must hear the alien’s Islamic cry
And let his babies in. Embrace your fates,
O Christian cultures! At increasing rates,
Those babies, bound to grow, must be admitted.
Your subjugation certainly awaits.
For burkas must your daughters now be fitted.
Mark Shea says: “Don’t you spit on babies, fools!”
But, if those babes look edible, he drools.

 

 

–Tom Riley

(Planned Parenthood ally Mark Shea decries “heresy….”)

No Middle Flight

No Middle Flight

 

 

You wrote the finest sonnets, and the worst.
Yet in your epic you declined to rhyme.
You drew the noble sense out every time
Into eternity. They almost burst,
The lines you charged with force, and fiends accursed
Battered against the boundlessness sublime
That they mistook for limits. Set to climb
A mountain, you took wing and then rehearsed
The liberty of Heaven. I’ve been taught
To name you heretic. Such petty souls,
Daring to issue every ouch and ought
That gnaws their nerves! They dwell in self-shaped holes
And celebrate the nothing they have wrought.
They lack the scope to comprehend your goals.

 

 

–Tom Riley

Adversus Haereses

Adversus Haereses

 

 

I’m writing, sir, against your heresies–
the ones that you pass off as orthodox.
Oh, every sweet celestial saint agrees
that you’ll be groaning in infernal stocks
because of what you dare to teach! It shocks
the conscience to acknowledge you as Son
of Adam. On your inner face, a pox
makes angels draw their swords and graces run.
Your fling with falsehood might right now seem fun–
but you will cease to chuckle once you’re damned.
Life’s short, you fool: your party’s almost done!
Your soul will very soon be body-slammed,
in contrast to my own, on fiery ground!
Mine will be fine — because my teaching’s sound.

 

 

–Tom Riley

Monophysitism

Monophysitism

 

 

“There was only one nature!” they cried.
Then the battle was joined. Which side lied?
Soon the outcome decided–
and the world grew one-sided.
Judged by history, heresy died.

 

 

–Tom Riley

Heresiarch

The Heresiarch

 

 

 

(for Cate Harmon)

 

 

 

“I shall be an heresiarch someday!”

He made the resolution really young—

And tried to filter deep black from the gray

Of everyday existence.  Long unsung,

He crafted hymns so fit for throat and tongue

That only the elect held back from singing.

Experts admired the subtleties he’d wrung

From errors dull.  His rhetoric was stinging.

Angels, however, were forever winging

Through the air that he strove to dominate.

Up though his damned complexities were springing,

Angels revealed that all his love was hate.

His punishment on this world made him sick:

He ended up a common heretic.

 

 

 

 

-Tom Riley