#novice
The bonfire is lit warm,
It is comfortable as a quilt.
We look at the photos,
Inside of our wallets.
The parents, the wife and kids,
Probably for the last time we kiss.
Tomorrow is the final battle,
We make a treatise with death.
Either she takes the novice boys,
Or let us send them to her.
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 7:18 AM UTC
A mere three years
Have passed since I
Joined this community
And I have found
My worst critic
Is always future me
Jul 23, 2020
Jul 23, 2020 at 6:56 PM UTC
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.
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 9:05 AM UTC
novice
learn learning
learn teaching
teach learning
teach teaching
master
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 8:14 AM UTC
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.
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
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.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC
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.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 12:16 AM UTC
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.
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
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
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
the
cauldron's
strong potion
was manifest
in a dire toxin
simmering to the pot'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
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 8:10 PM UTC
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...
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
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.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
I've never quite known how to describe love.
Somewhere between an unsettling ease crashing against a deep sense of belonging.
The constant beating of the waves making me unsteady.
I don't quite know how to navigate these seas.
A masterful captain at everything else.
I find myself unable to instruct my own footsteps.
It's a feeling of suffocation mixed with rising excitement.
The thought of you sends my mind into overdrive.
I'm not safe to do nothing else, but meditate on you.
In that moment when your name crosses my mind or comes into earshot, I am ruined for any task I have busied myself with.
And when we finally meet, your face shines more radiant than anything else, throwing me completely of balance only to be caught by the nets of your touch.
I suppose the only thing I know is that I'm falling in love with you...
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
When I see you,
My heart breaks apart
Not because of your looks
but because of your dark heart
Distancing yourself,
As I approach
Those little actions
to evade me
Shunning my views
And talking over me
Going the extra mile
To help others succeed
But not me
Leaving me behind
As if mocking me
Playing down my successes
Inflating others' victory
Leaving me in the dark while you stand in publicity
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
I am 24 years old,
Call myself experienced,
Oh,
But so novice at loving.
And now I hold no wish at loving.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
The skin renews every 28 days. It’s been 16 since you last touched mine. I don’t know if I can go 12 more watching your finger prints fade.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
Like a moth
blinded by such froth
wished to touch the flame.
Wrapped with swath
Burnt wings dropped the cloth
Time to take the blame...
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
That monk in the refectory
sitting there
reminded me
of old Jack:
same look,
same eyes,
that quiet presence.
The French peasant monk,
cutting back
the hedgerow
with a scythe,
black robed,
tonsured,
humble as cheese,
nods and bows.
I picked apples wrong
in the orchard,
the monk said,
he showed how,
his fine fingers
twisted just so,
feminine,
pinkish nails,
his dark tight curls
untonsured.
For whom the bells toll
down to the sea and beach?
I tossed stones
across the incoming tide,
further
than Brother Hugh
(moaning Myrtle)
could reach.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 6:22 AM UTC