There’s a monk by the name of St. Francis
Who strolls in the forest and prances
       While whispering words
       To the mammals and birds
Who religiously fall into trances

by s.mckeown

Above her soars the limestone web,
spun by Mason's sweat and blood.
the lattice weave, the hem of God,
a sacred knit of glass and lead.

Across the floor, the bin wheels squeak,
She genuflects with brush in hand.
Her callous knees in service bent,
she scrubs across the hallowed span.

Below her brush the nobles lay,
Asleep beneath the sword and mail.
They’re whispered query “What’s thy name?”
Her answer: “Your lady with a mop and pail”.

They feel her hands across their names,
Her brush across their titled crest.
Again the martyrs side by side,
are soothed again to calm and rest.

God might judge their bloodied past,
Or wake them to the wrath to come.
Until that time she’ll tend their sleep
Beneath the Abbey’s sky of stone.

Saint Patrick died on March 17th.
So we celebrate the day with green and drink.

Patrick, was kidnapped to Ireland as a slave,
a condition he never fully forgot or forgave.

Patty (as he was known by his friends)  
was a sober, relentless, devout Christian.

As a missionary, he gallivanted methodically, converting heathens
and if he failed to convert you, you weren’t left breathin’.
He could burn you at the steak for ignoring ‘reason’.

To show Christ’s power, he ‘banished’ the snakes,
It’s amazing, the difference a miracle can make.

The year 461 pre-dated laptops and even the Internet,
so, I think it’s time we finally forgive and even forget
the sad, sordid history of Catholic conversion “therapies”
because today we need a reason to drink until we’re green.

Who of the great saints

has lived up to all of them:


the Ten Commandments?

Tows of since
Synchronicity is to be married
Working heed, and the beauty in silence
As a reward once lent, is twice carried...?

Tallys and totals
The future has us to fare a new question
That calmly collected, is a sanity we hold...
With a callous before careful hand, we should a blessing...

Marvels in love...
State and sake affluency, the fickle lives
That make you and me, the score of does
A changing season protecting order of or what denies?

Patiently, the run of a lifetime
Spoil in thorough stead, despair to care once more?
For anything more, moving faster than a harmony's light
The tale of destiny, with lips to prove strangers know the words...

Half a mind to open a vanity...
With another's neglect, the truth be golden adage
To a liming hope, the act of redoubt, in all sanity...
With a holy mercy, for anyone who would learn it, a world's rage?

Epitaph to a wishing wind, alive in the senses
We adjust to humanity, with tears come the spite of terror...
Sincerity to follow and act, upon a world of wisdom's ends
That were, the stone of seclusion in a lover's midst, a gain of heirs?

Forgiveness comes in easy steps when all your life was beautiful;
It's easy to forgive someone for wrong doing to others.
In easy ways you seem to care for nobody just like they cared,
It's easy.
Forgiveness comes in various ways, just keep noticing troubles.

Upset, the saints still think of days they know as right for human kind,
Enlightened, saved, after the fight for justice they find peace.
What kind of a saint you are?
I ask, what kind of a human?
Animal?
Complete, all saints know what is right or wrong for everybody.

It's easy to surrender to easy ways and easy times,
It's nonsense to fight for your reasons.
When dreams all collide forming a star,
The one I was forced to understand as once human
Becomes happier.

Forgiveness, coming in ways sometimes mysterious,
it's not the whole world knowing that I have to die
For you to be merrier.

Forgiveness: It's easy to forgive when you don't have to go back to your torments!

The week has to have a weekend
Days have to have a tomorrow
And goodbye to yesterday’s/
In turns will bring the months to an end/

What do we have to face
moving forward setbacks and  more
worried looks in the bystanders eyes..
When all is set and done, we have to say grace
We have to look up every morning and whisper to the skies.

The news broadcaster’s never speak of genuine love,
They only wishes to be littered,
While, begging folks to do their part
The cooing of the dark lonely dove
a symbol that there’s is no more  love in ones heart
during the these stressful day/

Ten o’clock curfew at night,\/
Essentials workers must only be seen at dawn/
No more than ten to twelve people on sight/
And large outstanding gathering must be gone/

Black Friday’s deals, window shopping strolls
Everything seem on hold, the biggest black hole of 2020/
And nothing spoke to me: not even a 60 inch flatscreen TV/

Let’s take a page from the Jewish customs
Bury the dead in the next seventy two hours/
All November traditions is limit/
Thanksgiving Day a Tic, tok

All Saints Day, All Souls Day, Mischief Night, Bonfire Night
Once you take down the statues, of useless figures
Would History of the injustices will be erase/