Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
David Hilburn Jun 2023
The sweetness of dismal forth?
Space and a tapping heavy will of the wish
Greeting the dread, a host of silence, music for worth...
Naked real enough, naked felt to mention

Raises an eyebrow, raises a hunger
To the table of vestige, the tone of mystique
For a doting hope, dancing in the arms of thunder
Reach and purpose, in the shielded eyes of a lead...

Curious rhymes and times with a patronage's bag
Hurt feelings for a lore, in the needs of more
Had like a thought, in toil we save the cursory to add...
A callous few, the society of timid eyes, knows you somehow stranger

Lights that remind, you...
Three pigs and a wolf to tell the time
Have a mirror in mind, one for alienation
Two for a side of salt, and three wishes that should, a crying...

And a wolf in the first place...
Space for happening homes, the tale of synergy in grasp
That has the continue if not the view, of when a soon is sate
Is a requite of voice and its taste in joy, a new past to ask?

Exorcism of a priest, and a tale of youths?
Without the kindness of privilege, or the epistolary of count
The wailing and the stolen tryst, of powers that be our couth's?
In the dim and violent, misery we will note, is but a secret's pout

Passionate days, with a reason to be here
Aching eyes on the verge of unity, if not use for a cross
That has said, in a treatise of vice and quiet offering, of fear...
The none, the fulfilled song, and ourselves in an eye to toss...
Old as the hills and with a bitter lip of understanding, does God remember you before himself?
Anais Vionet May 2023
Grandmère = Grandmother

Peter and I are in Paris, we arrived this morning. We’re staying at my Grandmère’s Champs de Mars residence - near the Eiffel Tower.

One of my Grandmère’s oldest and dearest friends is a Catholic Bishop. When I was little, he was ‘Monsignor Jean-Marc’ but now he’s ‘Bishop Jean-Marc.’ He’s been around so much of my life, he’s almost part of the family. I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that he has his own apartment somewhere in each of her houses.

Jean-Marc is old. I think that’s fair to say. He’s white haired and the kind of short that comes on slowly, with age. He’s a disciplined kind of thin and his deep wrinkles are tanned from years of gardening. His teeth, always visible in his salesmen’s smile, are as white as altar candles.

When I first glimpsed Jean-Marc from the hallway, he was sitting on a cream satin settee, in conversation with my Grandmère. I knew something was up because he was wearing his red trimmed cassock and red sash, instead of his usual black suit.

What I couldn’t see from the hall, was that the room was packed with matronly ladies, dressed in matronly dresses of glittering white, glittering beige, glittering yellow and glittering gold. Argh! I was wearing a white Polo tennis dress, Keds mini canvas sneakers and my hair was ponytailed. I wasn’t dressed for a social. I swiveled to give my Grandmère a sharp look, but she took that moment to be interested in the drapes.

As I’d come into the room, Jean-Marc stood and greeted me cordially saying, “AnnAAAas!” raising both hands up over his head as if he were channeling the pope. Ok, I thought to myself, this is happening. I offered my most innocent smile. “Bishop Jean-Marc,” I said, while performing an involuntary curtsy, conjured from somewhere deep in childhood reflex-memory.

I don’t like priests. Slam me, sue me, **** me. When I’m around a priest, I’m reminded that I’m a sinner and I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. It’s the worst kind of guilt for a Catholic, because we don’t earn any credit for it.

Opp! I just thought of Peter, so there’s lust, right on queue - that’s a sin. Unfortunately, Peter’s not here. He and Charles went on a chauffeured driving tour of Paris. Envy - there, another sin, I’m on the road to hell but I can’t seem to stop, one thought just follows the next. Where’s a priest when I need one? (to confess) Just kidding, there’s one right in front of me.

The bishop began asking me a string of unimaginative questions, like an old friend catching up. “How’ve you been? How's university? As he grilled me, slowly, like a steak in a smoker, the herd of matrons ambled slowly our way, closing in to listen in. It was a scene straight out of the walking dead. I wanted to escape but my Grandmère held me in place, with the full wattage of her proud smile.

Ordinary boredom is an un-experience and all you need to free yourself is a phone. High society boredom is one of Dante’s circles of hell, because you have to interact with strangers when you could be doing something fun instead. The gathering finally broke up about 7pm and I was free to go. I was starving, my throat hurt from talking (about myself) and I hadn’t heard from Peter. When I checked “find my,” it showed him there, somewhere. So I went in search.

Peter was in his (our) room, on his back near the edge of the bed, one shoe off and one shoe on. He was as still as a corpse but a soft snoring suggested he wasn’t dead. I leaned over him, his black hair was somehow more disheveled than usual and his lips, moist and slightly parted, looked invitingly ready to kiss. I didn’t do it though, that would have been asking for trouble. Instead, I smelled his breath, slowly and deeply. Cognac. Charles had gotten him drunk. How helpful.

Once I tucked Peter in, I went looking for Charles, only to find him shooting billiards with Jean-Marc. He looked none the worse for wear and the gleam in his eyes told me he knew what he was doing - avoiding me with the bishop.

As I prowled the room, trying to decide what to do, while picking up objects and weighing them as objects to be thrown, a server brought in a tray with three bowls of cassoulet,* which smelled incredible, my stomach growled, and I remembered I was starving.

Charles, sensing a shift in the mood, said, “He (Peter) needed to reset his body clock. He’s young, he’ll be as good as new in the morning.” I just laughed. Charles knew I’d come looking for him and he’d ordered me dinner. I can’t stay mad at Charles; he knows me too well.

The cassoulet was to die for.
We’ll start our vacation, for reals, in the morning.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Cordial: “in a politely pleasant and friendly way.”

Champs de Mars = “The field if Mars” It’s the name of the Park (the ‘Central Park’ of Paris) where the Eiffel Tower is (my grandmothers house is across from it).

*cassoulet = a gumbo made of white beans, pork, bacon, duck, goose and toulouse sausage in a tomato stock of garlic, onions, herbs, and goose fat. A dreamy French comfort food I haven’t had since last summer.
Alex Jul 2020
Fascism sings with sweet lies as
The chorus wails. We sit weeping,
Our history bastardised and
The body of our nation growing cold

Console us not you priests!
We need more than your words
Dinesh Padisetti Jun 2020
On dark & destructive days
I lay there in despair
I'm such a ******* fool
Nothing but a Narcissist's tool

I suffered like a chic in an egg
Couldn't survive & had to beg
I had no shame
I have nothing to blame

Everyone begs one day or the other
Kings beg, Gods beg, Priests & Politicians beg.
We've all begged for something or someone at one time or the other
Sara Kellie Oct 2018
Religion is Recruiting for
Customer Complaints.
Where is my God, the disciples
and all the absent saints?
The time I have invested
sitting in your church.
This wasn't in your advert
you've left me in the lurch.
I'm asking for a refund,
you've years to reimburse
and then there is the funeral,
the flowers and the hearse.

I've sat on your pew,
spent time praying to you
and now that I'm dead,
I'm unsure what to do.
I should have known better,
you never replied.
Yet I kept the faith
until the day that I died.

Now I queue to complain,
I must be ******' insane!
you don't even exist!

Poetry by Kaydee.
On the first day, man created God.
Lawrence Hall Oct 2018
Father Why’s Glob

              And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel here
                    Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere
                    And eek as loude as dooth the chapel belle


A famous priest takes pictures of his meals
Writes detailed notes on how they were prepared
As he airplanes around the world attending meetings
To talk about people he doesn’t like

A famous priest takes pictures of more meals
Almost cellular closeups of bits of meat
While he is flying holy in first class
And praising his cabernet sauvignon

A famous priest promises prayers (and cookery tips)
If you will send him money for his many trips
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Katie K Sep 2018
Music fades away when you arrive
Spreading the doom with every stride
The stare of hatred locked in your eyes
Sinister cravings behind sacred lies

You want me to beg
You want me to look
You want me to bend
And follow your rules

Judging from throne made out of gold
Taken from people that you control
Deep in your cave, the smell of decay
Surrounded by slaves, you ***** on their brain

You want me to pray
You want me to lay
Down on the floor
While you’re taking my pay

Kingdom of blind, darkness inside
The bread and the wine, poisonous bite
Be sure that someday the people will rise
You will back down when they finally realize

You want them to beg
You want them to cry
You feed on their weakness
That’s how you survive

The blindfold developed some holes by the time
Now we can see what’s on the other side
You made yourself bed with flameable lies
With spark it will turn into ocean of fire

You want me to beg
You want me to pray
You want me to dive
And make me obey

You are destroying the lives with your madness
Leaving them cold, fearful and helpless
You spit out your words, shooting out aimless
I stand up to you now, ready and shameless.
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
Inside the Catholic Church
the shepherd does lurch.
With a flock of sheep
for him to keep,
Using their belief,
he'll use them all for his relief
and he knows they won't tell,
for he'll send them to Hell.
To see the bad guy
who punishes the bad.
Yeah I know, and people believe this.
How sad!

It just makes me wonder
how much wealth they will plunder.
Defending the beasts,
sorry I do mean priests.
and if church walls could speak,
how much blackmail they'd seek
to keep the shepherd,
from the mild and the meek.

Poetry by Kaydee.
The Catholic Church not only attracts abusers of children, It protects them.
ShowYouLove Apr 2018
Lord, on this holy day in which we celebrate Good Shepherd Sunday, we reflect on your love and guidance for your people as the Good Shepherd. You call us each by name and your sheep know your voice and follow you. There is so much noise in this world that distracts us and pulls our attention away from you and your loving word. Lead and guide us and keep us safe from harm. When we are lost and we stray, you bring us back to be with you again. We are a community; a living body united by you. There is strength and safety in numbers. On Good Shepherd Sunday, we pray for our clergy and especially our priests that they would be good leaders, protectors, and providers for their flocks. We pray that you give them strength, courage, and wisdom to do what is necessary. We pray for their safety and peace for, without their good guidance and council, we would be lost. Thank you Lord for giving us our Shepherds and I pray that we thank and recognize them for their leadership. Help each of us look to you, Lord Jesus, as the model and example as we try to follow what it means to be Good Shepherds for those around us. In this regard, we pray also for those in positions of authority and power that you would put good influences in their lives to help them choose the best good. Jesus, you are the Shepherd of our minds, hearts, souls and lives. Thank you!

Next page