#priests
Every good thing, Lord, comes
Every good thing comes from you
Every day is showered in blessings
Every morning your graces are new
Every night you watch over us
Lord, keep us safe from harm
Every thing I have is from you
Every thing I am is who you are
Every beat of my heart beats for you
Without your love I fall apart
So when life is only clouds and rain
And all I can feel is sorrow and pain
Give me the eyes to see your rainbow
Give me hope and help me to grow
For, in the ultimate act of derision
Came a far more perfect vision
You took the cross designed for shame
And made a bridge out of the same
In death you destroyed sin and death
And in the span of the very next breath
You restored us to life and made all things new
For, every good thing Lord, comes from you
Dec 16, 2024
Dec 16, 2024 at 10:18 PM UTC
A quiet question...
To a dependency's need
Simple advantage; sincerity's blessing
Has a liberty in notion, for a world's steed?
A race to heaven; common love
Sorrow and persuasion, to king's found
The dote of mercy, a clash of us...
With quarter, a lover imparts a rise of allow
No hatred, for a common fate?
So sweet, the kindred of youth's vice
Strength, do we complete a fulfilled sate?
Such in love, such in might; only mercy has life
The sigh of conscience...
Sad beginnings of loves lot, wealth?
Has it's own, for a shadow's prescience
Serious as this seems, do children bespeak health?
The soul of unique harmony
So made, a promise of a loving vision
Set to rights, for a quieter answer, in all intimacy...
A challenging stir of when a voices care, is your wishes...
Jul 10, 2024
Jul 10, 2024 at 4:56 PM UTC
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...
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 12:15 AM UTC
*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.
May 17, 2023
May 17, 2023 at 3:17 PM UTC
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
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 6:45 PM UTC
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.
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 1:14 PM UTC
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 fuckin' insane!
because,
well,
you don't even exist!
Poetry by Kaydee.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
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*
-Chaucer
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
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
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.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 5:18 PM UTC
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.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 12:06 AM UTC
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!
Amen
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 5:55 PM UTC
My friend's Father,
Who's just that,
Has a Papa Francis.
And her entire congregated family
Won't acknowledge her
Very existence.
How can she communicate.
There's a crack in the crucifix,
And it's splitting, running up the wood,
Past the cruciform,
To the Head.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
The clergy men often say
"Devout and holy we gather"
"Sit down for only we"
"Interpret god"
Did you remember the day?
When all the priests that stood
Gazing from under their hood
Lied plain for you
All promising that your pay
"Would go to our most pure father"
"His heavenly host cures"
"And leads us home"
Yet, look what they did to pray
For that little girl did
Kneeling down as pearl did
For Father or for God?
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 5:46 PM UTC
Forgive me father,
for I am Sin
and I am here
to take you in.
Its been thirty years
since my last confession,
but mere moments
since your last transgression.
and though you thought
all had gone unseen,
your hands and soul
remain unclean.
You took
our Father's Sacred Trust,
and through it proclaimed
yourself as just.
And, while children,
yes, they will believe,
**the eyes of mine
you can't deceive!**
I know what you did
and you know to who,
and I'll not let you
draw the curtain through.
Your crimes,
these I will expose;
For my friend,
the victim no one knows.
No one knows him,
because he's dead.
because of you.
Because he bled.
You see,
he thought he
was just a boy.
Not some secret to destroy.
So,
it didn't make sense to him to live,
because of what you said
and what you did.
But, don't you ever believe
that Our Lord allows
men like you to break these vows,
and then disclaim
and then rebuke
a boy who dared to speak the truth.
You watched as a child sank and died
and to the Courts, how loudly you denied.
But,
don't believe that I am ever fooled,
and my vengeance will not be overruled.
For I am Sin,
and I don't care how much you cry.
My Hell awaits the day you die.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
We never really know
What happens in a person’s home.
We can’t really know
What happens when they’re alone.
It’s every block and street
Even from those we trust to lead.
Too often parents turn
And simply refuse to even heed.
Crying and waiting for the rainbow
After seasons of so much rain.
It’s a heartbreak one must suffer
Waiting the rainbow to come again.
Not one in a million
There are far too many suffering
Not one in a thousand
Even if parents don’t know a thing.
Not one in a hundred
That is only one small percent.
They are the victims
And they never gave their consent.
Crying and waiting for the rainbow
After seasons of so much rain.
It’s a heartbreak one must suffer
Waiting the rainbow to come again.
Many think it’s a seldom thing
Yet it is too large a fraction of the whole
Robbing the children of youth
And taking away the basis of their soul.
They don’t want to admit it
But if they care about them, they must
Because abusing children is
A vile way to steal from them their trust.
Crying and waiting for the rainbow
After seasons of so much rain.
It’s a heartbreak one must suffer
Waiting the rainbow to come again.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 4:28 AM UTC
Brian Patrick
Tall, knowledgeable, caring, jovial and holy
Respected by many; exalted by others
His road – the road that should be taken
Irish of course, but not of the old sod
The unattainable, becomes at once, attainable
Your reckoning lightened by his words
The Black Robe is a tale to be told by all who believe
Believers they may be, but not for ease of living
He, The Black Robe, beckons you to seek his countenance
Consolation is offered within the folds of his robes
You accept the gift without hesitation of belief
Your belief in the blood sacrifice of the unbelievable
The comfort of refuse offered by The Cassock
Truly blackens with the deceit of the unholy
All too friendly for men and boys
The betrayal all too familiar for me
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC