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not rooted,
not foundational,
but transitional,
I mean - tabernacle.
Following cloud and flame,
and restless for Jordan.

not stilted
not intellectual
but relational,
more than routine ritual.
Led by spirit, filled by flame
and restless for Jordan.
Flame is a constant.  God's presence is essential.
My mother made lemon curd.
You could say it was her party trick.
Every year she’d make an enormous batch, and you’d have to grab a jar pretty quick.

The flavour, it was amazing!

Woke you up with a zap and a zing.

Not slept well or feeling a bit off? Have a spoonful of this and you’d sing.

The colour was spectacular, like pure sunshine in a jar.

And what made it all the more special was the lives it touched near and far.

You see, when people were given a jar of this, it touched a place deep inside.

Their lives went from grey and gloomy into lives filled with colour and pride.
They’d have it on toast or on porridge, far better than honey or jam.

I loved it turned into ice-cream, especially after eggs, chips and ham.

My mother had done this for a long time, left quite the legacy you see. Her first batch was made aged 11, her last at 103.

When her curd making days were over, and it was time to put her spoon away,
we gathered together to say goodbye, on a dull, grey and dismal kind of day.

The church was packed to the rafters, people remembered and laughed. Especially the vicar who adored her curd. He sometimes even ate it in the bath.

They all sang ‘Bring me sunshine’ as a tribute to my Mum and her spread. So here’s to her lemony goodness on crumpets, muffins or bread.
This was written in response to a competition where the title was the prompt was 'Bring me Sunshine' and this was the result.
Kitt 4d
Notre Dame is burning
This we all have seen
But Notre Dame’s been burning
For longer than this dream

Families and their children
Have worshiped in her halls
But families and children
Were stolen by its falls

Notre Dame was sacred
For worship and for song
But Notre Dame’s not sacred
As it had not been for long

Maybe this magestic falling
Is what the world must see
It’s this tremendous falling
That may set the children free

Worship moves with ages
No building must we *****
Elaborate walls do serve to hide
Wrongs we can never correct

So mourn her burning if you feel
But spare us the unending plea
For Notre Dame and her ***** deals
Must end before eternity.
The church was a beautiful reminder of tradition and grandeur, but the sercrets that go on within the walls of the Church are better off cremated.
there is beauty and peace in palm trees
as there is loneliness in a summer garden.
Alyssa 7d
I’m saturated in sin
Though I’ve been to the Holy Masses
Not even the Pope could save me
For the closest I’ve ever been to God
Is when I’m laying next to a woman
Tsunami Apr 10
I need someone;
Who will speak prayers between my legs
Recite “Our Father” on my skin
Whisper “Hail Mary”s along with their tongue
Let me turn water into wine
Two lovers to one.
I have always been a sinner
Miesha Apr 9
Her wrists were forever
with the stains
of narrow-minded
members of her
genia Apr 7
You’re 17.
Sunday mass at Church.
Eyes bright. Heart open.
Sign of peace.
A meeting of warm hands across the pew.
Heart aflutter, eyes lowered.
You think, God brought us together.

Sundays are quickly
becoming your favourite day of the week.
Eyes meeting, cheeks blushing
In between the homily.
Weekly meetings turn into bi-weekly dates into marriage.

You’re 24.
You say, God I can’t do this anymore.
Eyes bitter. Hearts closed.
Night-shifts. Poker weekends. Empty houses.
Wordless, soulless, meaningless co-existence.
You think, God brought us together?
No amount of hail marys
Can save us.

That Saturday
Night shift at the Hospital.
Hand sneaking under scrubs.
A breakdown of marriage
Heart pounding. Eyes open.
Your saviour.
God’s answer?
(dedicated to Steph)

I dont condone cheating, but what this poem doesnt say is that the other party cheated first. I wanted to explore the idea of God and blessings in various forms.
At lanes end
where churches sit
black and white,
In rare afternoon
stillness, trees rigid
as statues shield
St. Peter’s yard.
Nations favoured bird,
the red-breasted aggressor,
gambols gracefully
across the gentle
arcs of ageing
gifting movements,
radiating elegance,
flitting from sight
in a burst of most
powerful flight.

© Richard Duffy. All rights reserved
Brief moments shared with a robin while visiting churches in Bywell, Northumberland, on an autumn afternoon cycle.
indigochild Apr 1
let me take you to church on friday nights after gin and whiskey

roar ‘oh my god’ so she knows you like it
take communion when my thighs greet your face
- - - - taste thy gifts, which we are about to receive
knees rap the hardwood floor, make you beg for mercy
whisper sins in my ears, teeth bashed pillows no longer muffle
crying out your confessions, repent
- - - - keep it pseudo with a blindfold
dip deep, deliver baptisms when i get you wet
- - - - god is a woman in this bed, no more ****** mary’s
metamorphose **** into holy water
vocalize moans to the harmony of the gospel
precise fingers conduct the choir
- - - - adagio, andante, allegro - you designate
reach salvation when you ******
- - - - arch your back, thy will be (un)done
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