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Terry Collett Oct 2019
l'uomo non può salvarsi
the Italian monk said
-man cannot
save himself-
we were in
the monastery garden
digging potatoes
for midday lunch,

seul Dieu peut
nous sauver
Dom Blaise uttered
-only God can save us-
and I listened to him
taking in his greying
tonsure and beard,

I opened the book
heavy and aged
smelling of time
and Christ on His cross
-Christi in crucem eius-
fingered and page worn
worn by fingers and eyes,

absque omni
condicione electionis
Calvin said
-unconditional election-
He does not elect us
because of our merits
but by His sovereign choice,

but Dom Joseph said
that is not Church teaching
we are saved by our freedom
to choose and accept
God's grace
and we sat by
the monastery beach
face to face.
OpenWorldView Aug 2019
novice
learn learning
learn teaching
teach learning
teach teaching
master
Terry Collett Jun 2019
The French
peasant monk
shows me
how to cut
the tall grass;
he holds a scythe
like a warrior
his broad sword;
and I watch,
uncertain.

Spit on your palms,
he says in French,
gazing at me
with his deep set eyes.

I spit on my palms,
and taking my scythe,
I follow him
to one side,
avoiding his blade
as he scythes down
the tall grass.

Unable to match
his swift movement,
his casual attention,
as if it was all part
of his prayer,
and I, scything,
sweating,
giving him,
a wondering stare.
Feathers stream down my cheek
Coming forth like red rover
I feel the cessation, when sadness takes over
I mourn the end of each day
Patiently waiting for my last
And suddenly life seems pointless now, looking at the past
The end
I don’t think you understand
It feels too natural, me and death go hand in hand
Ask me something please
Your tongue has been bitten off by my hearty smile
It’s hard to talk about, acting angst is not my style
I love you, help me
I’ll be here until you leave
It was our future I planned, and now my death I will conceive.
Mason Stewart Sep 2017
Be careful, on the ground; there is a little hole.
That's where I'll cause you a flesh wound;
I am going to cook you and eat you with the mole,
For all behold the lower bound.

For all seek the pain,
For all seek the gain,
A scythe of blood,
A pile of food.

It is your choice,
Either be brave or greedy,
In a world of voice,
In the world of needy;

Ready you must be.
For the battle that approaches,
Mount on the bee,
Call the cockroaches.

The clash is almost at the end,
For shall we win,
In a world of fiend,
A hero's legend shall begin.

We won, you say.
The world is now in peace,
As the world pays,
Everyone wants a piece.

In the discord of the world,
In the hell of the oceans,
There is a Netherworld.
As order approaches; arises the emotions,

The men become weaker,
The fields dry;
As the man eats his *******,
Everyone becomes shy.

At the horizon, a ship comes;
Marked on it is a cross,
As it comes, hit the drums,
In a sea of disorder, full of moss.

The men leave their boat,
And greet us with great hope.
As the hope arises, there is a bloat.
It is a frog; with little less rope.

We have finished, the mayor said.
A republic is set, our home, our land.
He called his maid;
We were all wrong, we were misled.

As the republic falls, the men watch.
On their eagle eyes,
The city is on the notch,
As the revolution approaches, they said yes.

After plenty of years, a decision came.
As we left the island;
They said: Let's make it the same.
Everyone came back, except for the land.

The land was no longer ours,
It was a memory of who we were.
As the juice pours,
Something did occur.
My first poem; translated it to Latin as well.
Terry Collett Jun 2017
The Italian monk
eyed me
in the refectory.

I watched him
I had no choice
he was opposite me.

He ate slow
his jaw moving
to a slow rhythm.

God centered
he said later
in the scullery
as we washed
the dishes
after lunch
that is what we are
God centered he said.

Sunlight filtered
through the coloured glass
of the refectory
on to the polished
wooden floor
I gazed at it
while the monk read
from some book
on Oliver Cromwell
in a mono-toned voice.

We sat in her lounge
she kissed me
whispered
suggestive things
in my ear
in her warm
**** voice
and we did.

George tolled the bell
for the office of Vespers
I lined up behind
the tall dark
tonsured monk
who smelt
of baked bread.

The afternoon light
was bright
and shone
through the branches
of the one tree
in the cloister garth.

Focus on God
the French monk
said to me
in French
Gareth
translated for me
I said I would
or did
or some
such answer
in my poor French.

Whatever you do
do with all your heart
Dom Joseph said
quoting St Paul
as we sat
on the private beach
of the abbey
the other novices
tossed stones along
the incoming tide.

She shut her mutt
in the kitchen
where it whined
we went
to her bedroom
and had ***.

She not thinking
of her husband
coming home
from his job
but I thinking
of just that
imagining him
standing by
the bedroom door
with a displeased face.

The bell
for Compline rang
the monks stood
in the choir stalls
in their black robes.

I stood
in the semi dark
mouthing
the Latin chant
of the office
the others
were professional
I was just a novice.
A YOUTH IN AN ABBEY HAUNTED BY A WOMAN IN 1971
STLR Nov 2016
This is for you lame poets

for those who think they can write

but aren't trying and they know it

Maybe if they used a pen right

The ink, would, in turn, show it

Scribble lines were written for pure hype

The Opposite of blurred is focused

The passion unveiled by this action is real

Massive of accents appeal, drastic yet passively chill

Why is your wackness alive and steadily actively well?

Are your points derived from a skill?

You're as dull as the night without lights or some thrill

Pick up a quill then ignite likes its hell

Shuffle your words, in return make a deal

Lies from the truth, I can easily tell

I sit in a booth, then I write what I feel

That feeling of feeling that moment of falling, emotions are heavy and heavy is frolicking

That was a lie....I hope you are following

There's a doubt in my mind, you aren't reading this properly

Do not get board...then just GO like monopoly

Maybe if I put a few words down, you will rate it

There are poets who show it...yet are still underrated

A sea full of story's that have been negated

I write what I feel and I will not be waiting

These words of chemistry clutch captivation

Winds of auroras spark smart illustrations

Verbal wasteland I recycle the sanitation

My heart pumps to fuel the blood of imagination

Devour all who find word-puzzles an aggravation

I take inspiration from various locations,then stitch words to combine these places

Now look what has happened

An arsenal of words to engage in action

Here's a hint of wordplay with a dash of passion

lyrical disaster for the eyes of the masses

Simply dedicated to the three-lined poet has bins
I DO NOT MEAN TO OFFEND ANYONE WITH THIS POEM, ITS ALL ART PEOPLE.
the
cauldron's
strong potion
was manifest
in a dire toxin
simmering to the ***'s rim
this was a stupid portent
doom would be destine to prevail
the elements mixed in error
which ensured a disaster's outcome
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
bad omens were foretold by the recipe
the black sorcerer no smart blender
to late to change the concoction
it boiled over then blew
he'd not been very careful
in how magic works
such a novice
with dark spells
oh so
silly
Rah-Rah Nov 2015
I pick up a pen.
                           ...or is it a gun?
and write about zen.
The world is all but one.

I pick up my pen.
                               ...or is it my gun?
I will find it soon then,
the war is all but won.

I pick up a pen.
                           ...or is it a gun?
I write about Jen and,
how war may lack fun.

Jen pick up her gun.
                                    ... it is surely not a pen.
my pen loses rhythm and so has the war
and the people who still fight all lose.
                                                                  In the end we will all lose...
This is some what how my brain has been processing all of the awful attacks that have been happening. Just that there are no "winners" or "losers" and the fighting just continues. at the end I made the flow end to show that it was just an ending for the rest of the story of the speaker and Jen.
Haley Cann Sep 2015
I am holding a million and one words each tightly packed into my mouth yet
many small words are escaping, pouring from the sides of my lips, drenching the lower half of my face entirely.
I will wipe away the slipping residue and begin with calm,
only opening the entrance of description as to unclench my lips.
Jared, male, twenty-two.

These minimal words of black and white reach the ear plainly,
without impact.
Residue slips further,
more words of lesser color,
lesser impact, yet
the slightly slightly slightly more more more more invigorating colors release themselves in these bright forms of words,
descriptions,
explanations,
emotions.

He has ambition.
Ambition that can only be compared to the greats of history,
the psychotic,
the brave,
the colorful.
A juicy pink now fills my lips.
Jared has a heart that beats with caution, yet
when held close, fits into your hands like a newborn animal,
precious.
I tear up at every encounter with this one
this one psychotic,
brave,
colorful boy.
This one careful,
darling individual who yet could,
without flinching could extract apart every ****** limb of any breathing thing.

He stands,
a military posture, gazing.
He does not look away.
With shuffling your feet and nerves jumping because
you have only experienced this once by your least favored teacher,
the opposing end of a power dynamic too intimating to overcome,
who was evaluating the proper level of punishment.
Punishment?

He already knows who you are yet you batter and batter and batter into your head what this boy is.
Some seconds pass by and yet
the same three words;
Jared, male, twenty-two,
patter like a ****** advertisement through your mind
until he is telling you a story;
his venture on the mountain of Mount Fuji and amid a monsoon in which he would have,
should have,
died.

And you listen,
attentively.
And he does not stop talking
and you do not stop listening
and you have hiked nine miles
and you realize the sun has set
and you are not where you started
and those three words have been forgotten
and you are walking in 11pm darkness.
Attentitive, at his side.
September 2015

This is about description of a loved one. I find it difficult to describe those close to me and this is an attempt at that.
Oh, and you don't have to "get it."
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