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Kristin Oct 2020
This is the cup of the new and everlasting covenant
Shed for you and for all, so that our sins may be forgiven...

Do this in memory of Me.

In memory of the spooky parochial school halls
In memory of the wizened nuns, quietly obedient
In memory of the over-simplicity of rules
In memory of false piety laced with hypocrisy
In memory of crushing inadequacy

Do this, in memory of me, the child.

In memory of the child whose uniform never quite fit
Whose body developed too early
Who had trouble making friends
Who didn't have enough discipline

Do this, do that, don't do this, don't do that
So many tiny rules and expectations
to love, serve and obey
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Come!
by Michael R. Burch

Will you come to visit my grave, I wonder,
in the season of lightning, the season of thunder,
when I have lain so long in the indifferent earth
that I have no girth?

When my womb has conformed to the chastity
your anemic Messiah envisioned for me,
will you finally be pleased that my *** was thus rendered
unpalatable, disengendered?

And when those strange loathsome organs that troubled you so
have been eaten by worms, will the heavens still glow
with the approval of God that I ended a maid―
thanks to a *****?

And will you come to visit my grave, I wonder,
in the season of lightning, the season of thunder?

Keywords/Tags: sonnet, god, religion, Christianity, puritanism, chastity, ******, virginity, nun, ***, lust, desire, death, grave, passion, lightning, thunder, earth, womb, tomb, worms, organs, maid, maidenhead, *****
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Nun Fun Undone!
by Michael R. Burch

after Richard Moore

Abbesses’
recesses
are not for excesses!

Published by Brief Poems. Keywords/Tags: epigram, humor, light verse, doggerel, nun, fun, undone, abbesses, recesses, excesses
Vespa Woman Feb 2020
A nun rests her head against the broken headstone, wishing to transfer all cracks in this headstone to her own small heaven clad head.
She prays "darling I wish you could belong in this world of glass water and walk among the land that looks of spilled grains, I wish I could have prayed away your pain, but alas your golden lights gone and it's all in pure vain, the gold frames kept me in the stone house as you roamed the glass cave just out of my silver gaze, Now you swim in butter lakes and live among the crimson dolls" The nun pulled out of what was left in her small pocket, an item of love and fear "I had to borrow this, my dear. I apologize" the nun said with a voice made from an ugly green As the nun walked from the broken headstone, tearing up a porclin doll. She kissed goodbye to the no longer beating heart of her colbat blue daughter and never looked back.
My first story poem, high key tho I mentioned like all the colors in this poem lol, sorry abt that
Shadow Dragon Oct 2018
Hands leaving passionate marks
for a crying nun
that has sinned her life away.
Let her pray instead of running away.
Let her cry warm wasteful tears.
***** fingernails explore
the filthy nuns surface.
Tracing bruises
and spreading pain
from the spanking received
for being too needy.
Forming nuances of red
on the prime target.
Sweet syrup fingers
dripping down the arms
of a freshly dead man.
Defeat for the nun
who now is done.
Shadow Dragon Oct 2018
I'll cry you a river,
so I can bath in salty,
bright and perfect pain.
Let me shiver from
the words you tell me.
Let me drown
in emotional aching.
Let me summon
tenderness in my bones.
Make me cry I said,
and so the monster did.
Breathing like a beast
so much that only a priest
would be able to save
a nun like me.
For I go to church
and cry for my God
every Sunday
to Monday.
What God didn't know
was that crying means more
than sadness to me.
It means pleasure in ways
that are rotten and spoiled.
It means the Devils hands touch me
without God's permission.
Oh God, secrets are fun
and thrills run
up and down
so much that I end with a crown.
And I don't need your approval
for I've done it already
and I dare do it again
and again and again.
Till I'll make you cry and you'll
be just like me.
Even if you don't agree.
Terry Collett Sep 2018
The nun, plump, robed in a black
and white habit, walked across
the front of the class of girls.

Fay sat half way down on the left
next to the girl Millicent Sullivan
(whose aunt was a nun in Ireland).

"Immaculate Conception," the nun
said," what does it mean and to
whom does it refer?" The girls

stared at the nun whose two chins
wobbled as she spoke. Millicent
didn't raise her hand even though

she knew the answers, but put on
her innocent gaze. "Some of you
girls must know the answers,"

the nun said moodily. Fay raised
her hand and heads turned to look
at her. "Well, Fay?" She felt herself

blush and lowered her hand from
view. "It means one conceived
without blemish or sin," she said

in a soft voice. The nun stood up
to her full five foot frame. "And
what does conceived mean in this

context?" A few girls sniggered,
others gazed at Fay. The classroom
seemed to shrink to a white glow

containing just her and the nun.
"Not sure, Sister Luke," she said.
The nun gazed around the room.

"I am sure one of you girls know
the answer to this," Sister Luke said.
The girls just stared at the nun.

Millicent raised her hand and said:
"It means when the man's stuff
meets the woman's egg." Some

girls blushed, others looked puzzled.
"You have the idea. Now to whom
was it applied?" Sister Luke asked

staring at other girls. "The ****** Mary?"
A thin girl at the back of class replied doubtfully. Fay knew it was, but said

nothing more. The nun went on to
elaborate details. Fay was puzzled
by the man's stuff and egg. She

wondered if Benny knew. She would
ask him after school when she met
him on the way home. He knew

about things like battles and wars
and once kept a goldfish in a glass
bowl until he lost it down the sink.

He might know, she mused, she
didn't know otherwise what to think.
Terry Collett Sep 2018
The Grand Silence, had over
the years, made conversation
difficult for Sister Scholastica,

and she wondered if other nuns
had found that the case in their
lives. The Grand Silence which

took place after the office of
Compline until Mass the following
day, was not an easy thing to

keep in mind when she first
became a novice nun many
years before, but now it was

a matter of fact in her life, and
after Mass she found it difficult
to learn to converse, especially

if she was the Guest Mistress
and had to converse with female
guests who stayed, young girls

who thought they had a vocation
to be a nun, and she knew the first
thing they must learn, is to not talk

as much, not to need to converse,
but to gain that inner silence which
is necessary for a contemplative

nun. Now it was part of her armour,
part of who she was, and words were
used sparingly like coins from a

miser's purse, and she knew some
sisters found it harder than others,
and when she first came she realized

just how hard it was to not talk when
another person came in the room
before Mass, or on the way to the

wash room for water and to see
another sister and not say good
morning or how did you sleep?

She waited in the cloister with the
other nuns, waiting for the bell to
toll for Mass to begin, and they

would enter the church chanting
the Latin entrance melody, the first
chance to use the voice since before

Compline the night before, and she
gazed into the cloister garth at the early
morning mist and birdsong, and knew

the time of silence would not be long.
Terry Collett Mar 2018
This is the body
Of Christ, said Sister
James; I hold it now
Between fingers like

A sacred gem. My
Mother doubted the
Essence, said it was
Just bread, that any

More was just notions
In my childish head.
I feel the crispness,
See the whiteness, sense

The hidden Christ with
In the host. Father
Would hold his before
His eyes, then kiss it

Softly before he
Placed it in his mouth
And closing his eyes.
Mother said it was

All a magic trick
And a cartful of
Lies. I place the Christ
Upon my tongue, let

His presence be felt,
Sensing through the nerves
Of my being, His
Sacrifice, His pain

And hurt, His cruel
Crucifixion and
High resurrection
(Mother said it was

All fancy fiction)
Coming together
On my fleshy tongue,
Dissolving there, then

Gone, entering me,
Fulfilling, being
There, lifting me up,
To be, to love, to

Share. Mother would say,
Doubt it if you dare,
It’s just a sham, just
A con. When she was

Dying, ridden with
Cancer, I saw Christ
By her bedside sit,
Looking sadly on.
2010 poem
more often than not, a knightly surge
     combs a pawn me,
     especially after the stroke of midnight, when
hermetically sealed in my rookery,

     where bats in the belfry
     flap their wings at the speed
     of sound times ten
thence, this king heads to his counting house

     (which doubles asthma
     Perkiomen Valley bishopric)
     to economize on space,
     especially during tax time

     (as April fifteenth slowly approaches,
     me heartbeat doth) quicken
though becalmed, when imbibing
     idyllic, fantastic, and bucolic kingdom

     Americana paintings courtesy, sans nomen
Percevel Rockwell, thus jitteriness pacified,
     particularly speaking
     on the telly phone with Ken
Burns, whose trademark documentaries,

     particularly War between the States,
     where even roosting hen
got into the frayed scrimmage vis a vis, even
chilly being egged on to surrender as Ben

a fit to this American
     Civil War Yankee incarnate,    
whose doodling word
     ya probably don't give a hoot -Amen!
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