"cassock" poems
There is a vicar from Chelsea
Who alas is not very wealthy
Often he dines on communion wine
And curried bat from the belfry
He lights a lot of incense
To hide his flatulence
He gets a bit high
Perhaps that is why
His sermons never make sense
--The vicar gets his knickers in a twist--
The old church roof had seen better days
The pressing need was a serious fund-raise
So the vicar abseiled down the tower
As the village watched by the graves and flowers
With a flurry his cassock flew up in the air
Shocking pink he wore under there
Flapping around it covered his face
As he dangled there in embarrassed disgrace
Someone called the fire brigade
A turntable ladder came to his aid
When at last they got him down
Humbled and grateful he kissed the ground
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
Today I accidentally saw a preview of; The News;
a disabled sixteen-year-old girl, a victim of abuse
god
The accused is a priest. A round man in a long black cassock
And a snip view from mass of another priest plays shortly
My face turns green as my mood turns blue
He says he has a holy feeling, that the accusations aren’t true.
A cult; /kʌlt/ noun
‘a system of religious veneration and devotion directed towards a particular figure or object.’
We show our devotion, we kneel and give thanks
He applies lotion, looks at a child and wanks.
god
Everyone is entitled to their beliefs, and to the respect of those beliefs.
My belief is that no human is superior to another human.
A priest is only a man.
And this man in the long black cassock had a plan.
And this child will remain terrorized forever.
People should be held accountable for their actions.
Women’s lives are not to be of similar value to male satisfactions.
An article on ‘The year of ‘Times Up’ and ‘Me Too’ movements has been a dangerous year for men.’
Every year from the beginning of time has been a dangerous year for a woman.
Innocent men are not in danger.
I was sexualized and assaulted at the age of eleven. #MeToo
I wasn’t wearing a short skirt. I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t provocative.
I was playing chase.
For years after that game of chase
I had nightmares featuring his face
This is not your place to say this year is dangerous, for men.
Times Up
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
Hey you with the beard, are you Muslim?
Why does it matter what ever you believe?
You who wears the cross, are you a Christian?
What does it say about you?
Are you honest are you true?
Do you follow the commandments laid down by your lord?
You with turban on, are you a Sikh?
What are you hunting?
Hey you in the short skirt with makeup layered thick,
Are you ******
Tell us quick.
We need to know.
You in the chair with wheels on.
How did you get there?
Unless you choose to tell us we shouldn't care.
Need to make judgements?
You in the cassock,
Are you a bishop?
Chick in the habit, are you a nun?
Could just be fancy dress,
A hen party.
A nun on the run.
You with ebony skin...
Are you that different to me ?
I think not.
Gay guys and lesbians, transgender guys,
transgender chicks.
Think before throwing sticks and stones.
And breaking bones.
Words hurt.
Under the skin the being within...is HUMAN.
Attitudes decided by images externally.
Be who you want.
Just gotta be free.
Does it change the person inside?
Think of these questions before you decide.
(c)Livvi MMCV
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 4:37 AM UTC
Fat old priest smiling
In his old sperm-stained cassock
Leering at choirboys.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
Saintly cassock,
Glittering altar
Ornamental pulpit.
Driving the congregants
in a paroxysm of fib,
Gullibility enshrines adherents
hearts.
Do you know the Messiah more
than the apostles ?
Thou traders in the temple.
Parrotic tongues set out
commands
Loquacious sweet-coated mouths
misdirects faithfuls.
But the uncreated Creator who
creates creatures watches
Dreadful silence astonishingly
permeates the entireness
of the universe.
Do you preach love?
Do you follow peace with all?
Ye robbers in the temple.
Command darkness to produce
light.
But you turned moonlight into
tale.
Can you display Davidic dance
steps on the road?
Profanity of sanctuary with
false homiletics.
Merchants of dross in tabernacle
Speak.
Let us hear you.
Preach
To the congregants.
Righteousness afar from the
apron of faith.
Charity locked up in the
tunic of hope.
Sanctity of holiness sprinkled
into the tributary of sin.
Commanding the stars to turn
to sun,
Captains of night in light.
Ye robbers in the sanctuary.
Pastoral advertisers of chattels
in the tabernacle,
Merchandising gold dross in
sermonic hymns.
Sugar-coated doctrine wept in
the tomb of Lazarus.
Prompting Him to weep again?
Ye merchants in synagogue.
Disentangle faithfuls from the
webs of worriment.
Dislodge congregants out of the
shackles of sin.
Deliver ignoramus from the
isle of incendiary.
Let the sifter of strength
separate out afflictions from
feebleminded faithfuls.
Ye robbers in the temple
You love prayers more than God
But who answers prayers?
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 3:45 AM UTC
‘The time has come,’ he heard them say
Outside his tiny cell,
‘Go in and get the beast to pray
To save his soul from Hell.’
The Priest then walked up to the bars
And stated his intent,
‘Will you confess at last, my son?
Will you, at last, repent?’
‘The only thing that I repent,’
The prisoner said at last,
While staring at the Priestly face
At length, through double glass,
‘Is how your justice operates,
Your Judge sits on his bench,
Determines guilt before the trial
And brooks no argument.’
‘You have been tried by twelve and true
Your jurors had their say,
Condemned you as a murderer
Before they walked away.’
‘They would have found me innocent
Had he not been precise,
And sent them back to change their view,
Not only once, but twice.’
‘The law’s the law,’ the Priest replied,
‘The verdict said it’s you,
You had your day in court, and now
You’ll have to pay your due.’
‘I’m innocent,’ the prisoner said,
‘I swear it before God!’
‘Take not his name in vain, my son,
It’s time to reck his rod.’
‘Your God is just an ornament
To keep us fools in check,
If he were real, he’d swoop on down
And break the Judge’s neck.
The only God is in my heart
And he knows everything,
He welcomes us, the innocent,
Hypocrisy is sin.’
‘You risk your soul,’ the priest replied,
‘So hold your tongue in check,
For soon it will be silenced as
The rope, it breaks your neck.’
‘How many Nuns have you despoiled,
How many children died,
How many now lie buried, spread
Across the countryside?’
‘You hide behind your surplice, and
Your cassock and your gown,
You say you represent him, but
In fact, you put him down.
You tie us up with ritual
And steal our Peter’s Pence,
Then hide your sins by making all
The laity repent.’
‘I’ve had enough,’ the Priest replied,
Then turned and stepped aside,
The gaolers tied his hands and feet
And shuffled him outside,
They dragged him to the gallows and
Put on the dreaded hood,
But still he called, ‘Repent yourself,
Oh Priest! You know you should!’
It barely took a minute for
The rope and then the drop,
And then just twenty seconds for
His beating heart to stop,
The Priest’s thin hands had trembled
As he walked out in the cold,
And prayed, not for the prisoner,
But for his own poor soul.
His sins lay heavy on him as
He walked up to the nave,
Then knelt before the altar asking
God, his soul to save,
But God was strangely silent
And the Priest had felt like dross,
The morning saw him hanging
From the altar’s Holy Cross.
David Lewis Paget
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
I learned fear watching a twenty-something white man with three goody-goody sons and a wife of a teacher or maybe a teacher of a wife sermonize on hell clothed in the black cassock I imagine death decreed all pastors should wear in reverence to the end-all be-all. fear was realizing that all your friends that shared the same skin color were bound to hell by an omnipotent and benevolent and above all merciful god who couldn't tolerate any dissent. we were children, we were taught, didn't Jesus love children best of all?
I grew up, and then it wasn't just my friends who shared my skin color; no none of my friends believed in a higher power at all, and I was unsure I did.
but fear of eternity in hell kept me devout and that was when I learned that there was something worse than hell, there was heaven. how could I be happy without the people I loved? would God make me forget all about them? how could you be perfectly happy in a utopia with no problems to surmount? how could an eternal God judge mortal crimes so harshly? and then I realized that not even people who had dedicated their lives to preaching the word of god knew why God would allow it. I heard ******** arguments that hell was God's last great mercy, allowing those who did not believe in him to not have to be near him for eternity; I didn't believe them for a second. people are full of **** but only because god created us in his image.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
Romantic moonlight edges over the mighty cupola;
I stroll enchanted by the timeless beauty of St Peter's Square;
I casually enquire of a passing nun whether she would consider
Going down on me behind the marble columns.
After a brief but heated haggle over the price
(I hitherto thought nuns were generous sisters of mercy)
She gobbles me professionally but rather noisily
Causing me to leave a generous donation on her dental plate.
I hear a half-strangled cry of "Bejasus" from a passing Paddy priest
As he gives himself a quick one off the wrist
Into his already badly stained cassock
Before hurrying off to keep a hot date with a choirboy.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC
There we sped down the highway
leaving town, windows down
going north.
You drive like a bat out of hell, twenty above the speed limit
one hand sneaking up my skirt in the suicide seat.
Can’t keep your ****** hands to yourself.
My head tilted back,
Ignoring you a little bit
to watch the light from the western sun
glint off your new rosary:
semi precious stones and Jesus
dead and ****** oversized in bronze.
Oh, our resounding love
and church qualified sin.
It’s a little too much
how the juxtaposition of our separate lives
crash together in the summer,
when it’s too hot to wear your
penguin suit
little black dress
cassock.
I’m not bitter.
Jul 29, 2011
Jul 29, 2011 at 9:07 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
My original spring was wound,
Tight as a Swiss watch.
The fore-finger and thumb
Of the nun turned the crown *****
As only the Sisters could do.
Any subject could be converted
Into a lesson of the life of Jesus.
A plus sign becomes a cross.
*Even Jesus knew the angles
To be a carpenter and Savior,*
Grace and Faith kept time.
The Sacrements were frequent topics.
How many would we receive
Between Baptism and Extreme Unction?
After Confessions, I once asked,
Is it possible to sin between Penance and the curb?
All things are possible with God.
You didn't want to die with a blemished soul;
Being responsible for more thorns and nails
Pounded into the emaciated, pitiful flesh
Of the one to emulate,
With Grace and Faith.
I was fervent in prayer.
I wanted to carry the Holy Eucharist
To the housebound or hospitalized;
Through the throng of thugs
Ready to defile the wafer.
I was ready to die a martyr,
With a benevolent, sober Jesus,
Guarding from the clouds,
Right hand raised like a Judo chop,
Blessing me, preparing me,
Protecting me with a corporeal force field.
Grace and Faith kept time.
I pined to wear the Altar Boy's Cassock,
Soutane-like, long and black,
Topped with the surplice;
To ring the bell, light the incense,
Hold the Communion Plate
Under Mammy's chin
As she knelt in supplication,
Before the Madonna,
My blessed Mother.
Did she envision me as a Jesuit,
Tending to the lame lepers
In the jungles of Peru and Africa.
Me, who issued forth from her.
Faith kept time.
The dark hour was closing in.
The spring was loosening,
Unwinding as I relaxed.
Marian sat beside me,
Thinking of our orders
At the drive through.
The Nehru-collared clerk
Slid the glass window,
Listening to our wants.
I offered her a napkin
To keep the crumbs
Of her little black dress.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
i beseech thee to answer
is there still hope???
Forgetting their vows of chaste they become lecherous
fighting for power, they become ambitous.
their actions make people shock
for they forget why they put on the cassock.
respect for God, our clergies no longer have
but so greedy with the things they have.
they dont mix with the poor to help them spiritually
but go for the rich to enrich themselves.
churches are now business centers for money
clergies bless only those who make the offertory box full.
SO BROTHER, IS THERE STILL HOPE??
They stand as if pious to duty
but these our policemen are pious to money,
they check not the motor
but go for “500frs” which is their motto.
they can be seen standing with zeal
hands stretch, they stand still
first, they could be seen to stamp
after collecting bribe, they champ
SO SISTER, IS THERE STILL HOPE??
The rich live mysteriously
and enjoy themselves like angels
while the poor live in mysery
and die because of negligence
TO YOU, IS THERE STILL HOPE??
Embezzlement in Cameroon is a virtue
it is practised in all offices
thieves go in broad daylight unscathed
while the innocent ones are caught and they cant fight
My country is said to be democratic
but elections have never been smooth
for thirty one years the president has stayed in power
using deceit and the gun to rule.
IS THIS HOW IT SHOULD BE??
virgins have now liquidated themselves
they prefer being ravished
everywhere you go you stumble on prostitutes.
my black girls don’t like their colour
they prefer to strive to be whites
thus, monsters they become in a bid to peel their skin
very few believe in “black is beauty”
Brothers copulate sisters
while fathers copulate daughters.
IS THERE STILL HOPE???
Source; IS THERE STILL HOPE???|Inspirational Poems
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
School? Tsk...Tsk...Tsk. What a spectacle.
I hear the bell chiming already- ding...ding...ding
Then sick and scowled, we'd walk right to were we were meant to be. "Meant to be". Heart pounding 'cos if we were late!? Or in the wrong place or mixed up the wrong dates!? No...no...no that was trouble. "The bell is the voice of God" The priest(s) would say, each day, "and when it rings you must obey" A bell? I thought, the voice of God? I chuckled.
I remember the shadows of the seminarians watching.
The irate stare and feign smile. Weren't these men of God!? They came in new and good, but give them a day or two and...and my God!!!
There were rumors of bizarre things that happened behind closed doors, no one "saw", but walls. I know someone was there. Had to be! When the last bell rang, and the lights faded out. People became monsters. It changes people. And it would, you too because real monsters are in the light and you too are one of them.
The mass either left you hungry and empty, guilty and filthy or just feeling good about yourself for no good reason because some preacher said: "Hark, all worries will be left behind, and all disappoint too, will be gone forever..." It was the same thing, day in and day out. One man's crime was all mens'. And our tongue just clung to our mouth because who would dare raise a finger in anger to a priest? God's delegate. There were rumors.
There were rumors no one would admit they saw until dusk when the light-out hour came and we streaked together muffle and scoffled about everything. It was either that or we tried, however, we could to get food. Some even looted goods, black and white was the code and we hid it safe as gold. You won't get it. Sometimes people would go as far as...sign
Dong...dong...dong
Heavy eyed and tired. The bell snaped you from your dream back to this hellfire. And before you blinked you were in class
Then smell of dry papers and ink, sound of pens screeching and then you see.
Students hastily walking to where they are meant to be? "Meant to be!?"
Teachers, few, pretty as rose and others old and cold. All claiming they had gold to impact on us. Most times, the men, well tucked, some tall and maybe bit lanky.
The priests were like ghosts. Some went as far as saying Godly. Their bellowing white-blue cassock whipped by, and while some would sigh, others would hush and some would rush to where they were meant to be. Meant to be. Now ghost quiet, staring from somewhere was the priest ghost silent...
.
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 12:00 PM UTC
I can see hollow places in the hedgerow.
There are voids from stalk to stalk, but they shield each other from the outside world. An aegis of natural kinship forcing me out.
Safe, inaccessible, inviting, shadowed loam hints of escape.
Keeping to the public path is compulsory.
And there are parched things here maintaining their drought despite the deluge as the fountain grass keeps watch o'er the spillway below their wall. The rainwater doesn't wash out all the antiquated, little, abandoned pennies discarded there with facades slowly being worn away.
A dozen blunt faceless men stare up at the bridge with no mouths with which to share the careless, one cent wishes which flung them here to be forgotten.
I know it's wrong.
But for a second it smells like wild onions--like home. Life's intoxicating perfume floods, impairs good sense. Amidst Cassian's Choice, October Skies above, below staining a gray skyline with hidden life--
I had choices to; decisions too late to undo.
I uprooted myself from that silken touch and holy embrace. I remember the first time I felt lace. Now a cassock hangs void hinting of a bypassed path. Now I lay fallow like a spillway waiting to be stained with another year of shadowed hopes.
There are hollow places in me the rain can't touch. An aegis of broken kinship keeping the world out.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 5:13 PM UTC
When Intuition goes to battle with Reason,
these are usually quick skirmishes—
but this one has broken into war.
The campaign unfolds on the soil of abstraction,
reality, spirituality, and poetry.
Intuition begins with overwhelming superiority—
three of the four fields are hers.
But Reason is insatiable:
guarding the kingdom,
minimizing the losses,
holding the troops’ morale.
Its advisor is Faith—
the Eternal Outsider.
Usually Faith stands by Intuition,
but now he has slipped quietly
to the opposite box,
losing his own faith… one could say.
Intuition without Faith is dangerous.
Her box is always draped in dark lace curtains;
only her voice comes through—
no one has ever seen her face,
except Faith,
who would never stoop so low as to speak of it.
Some claim she is not even human,
others say faceless,
and in the inner circles it is whispered
she wears Janus’ face—
(probably only for Faith,
a mocking trick against hypocrisy).
Yet for the audience outside,
listening from afar,
plain common sense whispers only one thing:
she is a shapeshifter.
Heresy.
Maybe that’s why they are so quiet.
Why is Intuition so dangerous
without her two-faced advisor?
One might suppose the real danger
is the opposite:
that religious fervor seeps into her field
and sprouts the weeds of fanaticism.
For Faith hides not only
fat volumes of sermon under his cassock,
but the stone tablets of morality.
He has, they say,
even used them in close combat.
Effective: the laws of physics themselves
lend the swing its momentum;
at the moment of impact
it already speaks the language of Force.
A cudgel in Faith’s hand,
a drumhead tribunal—
the kind that applies laws literally.
When he sits beside Intuition,
his chair glows in full illumination,
stage-lights blazing,
the glare descending like a halo.
From that light,
behind Intuition’s baroque curtains,
she too takes on form—
not just a whisper,
but an active member of the council.
Without him,
Intuition grows overconfident.
If no one sees her,
perhaps she isn’t even there.
Her influence falters.
In her own words:
she has free rein.
In such moments,
Intuition dons the mask of the prophet—
a mask that grants
a dangerous confidence.
“The prophet does not err—
he is only insufficiently zealous.”
And at the final word, help arrives.
It is Obsession.
She lays her hand lightly
on Intuition’s shoulder
and says nothing but:
“You are right.”
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 4:09 PM UTC
Deceleration of my sigh,
In church , A priest with a cassock,
Averred his massive lesson,
"Life , a maze or meander"
Thee in life chapter,
Caged in unexpected labyrinth,
A diversion in everyone's life,
Why? "Verged on obsession"
For beloved love ,
In strength of malice,
Bah ! Stabbing thou parent's heart,
For that lowly bubble relationship.
Thy spellbound to tyrannous friendship,
Swound , with a fissure in your brain,
For that loon, For that false friend,
You keep aside the whole world.
By thou Senator,
All fair in Almighty's home,
Incident always strand your life,
Which open your blind eyes.
Quoth the Priest,
" With o'er taking wings,
Chase your dreams and humanity,
Make your Parent elated "
Live with reminiscents for smile,
"Make a go of it "
"Rise to fame and Fortune"
To touch only the pious dust of Almighty's feet.
My Allah , heal these artless creatures,
Till the doom doomsday,
Keep them out of this cruel lifely labyrinth,
Keep blessing them with your holy benediction.
💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 8:27 AM UTC
born into the confines of parochial subjugation
beneath the glare of the redundant red brick edifice
the black and white battle of black and white
watched by apple cheeked clergy and the ubiquitous cross
infants ceremoniously absolved of original sin
lovingly swaddled in ornate christening robes
immersed in the gilded roman marble font
spirits cleansed with the holy water of guilt
copious drinks imbibed in joyous celebration
by inebriated clown nosed maternal uncles
ties ajar around a stained deck of cards
avoiding the sartorially immaculate undertaker's stare
obligatory weekly contrition confirmed
knelt in the dank confines of the confessional
penitent accepting continuous emotional ****
we all become one in this unholy communion
in pristine uniform of blood and snow cassock
from ornate oak lecterns gospels eloquently narrated
by a nervous child judged by assembled bigots in congregation
and appropriate conditions of worth applied
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 5:45 AM UTC