"catechism" poems
abolitionism
absenteeism
absolutism
abstractionism
absurdism
academicism
academism
achromatism
acrotism
actinism
activism
adoptianism
adoptionism
adventurism
aeroembolism
aestheticism
ageism
agism
agnosticism
agrarianism
alarmism
albinism
alcoholism
aldosteronism
algorism
alienism
allelism
allelomorphism
allomorphism
alpinism
altruism
amateurism
amoralism
anabaptism
anabolism
anachronism
analphabetism
anarchism
anecdotalism
aneurism
anglicism
animalism
animism
anisotropism
antagonism
anthropocentrism
anthropomorphism
anthropopathism
antialcoholism
antiauthoritarianism
antiblackism
anticapitalism
anticlericalism
anticolonialism
anticommercialism
anticommunism
antielitism
antievolutionism
antifascism
antifeminism
antiferromagnetism
antihumanism
antiliberalism
antimaterialism
antimilitarism
antinepotism
antinomianism
antiquarianism
antiracism
antiradicalism
antirationalism
antirealism
antireductionism
antiritualism
antiromanticism
antiterrorism
aphorism
apocalypticism
apocalyptism
archaism
asceticism
assimilationism
associationism
asterism
astigmatism
asynchronism
atavism
atheism
athleticism
atomism
atonalism
atropism
atticism
autecism
authoritarianism
autism
autoecism
autoeroticism
autoerotism
automatism
automorphism
baalism
baptism
barbarianism
barbarism
behaviorism
biblicism
bibliophilism
bicameralism
biculturalism
bidialectalism
bilateralism
bilingualism
bimetallism
biologism
bioregionalism
bipartisanism
bipedalism
biracialism
blackguardism
bogyism
bohemianism
bolshevism
boosterism
bossism
botulism
bourbonism
boyarism
bromism
brutism
bruxism
bureaucratism
cabalism
caciquism
cambism
cannibalism
capitalism
careerism
casteism
catabolism
catastrophism
catechism
cavalierism
centralism
centrism
ceremonialism
charism
charlatanism
chauvinism
chemism
chemotropism
chimaerism
chimerism
chrism
chromaticism
cicisbeism
cinchonism
civicism
civism
classicism
classism
clericalism
clonism
cockneyism
collaborationism
collectivism
colloquialism
colonialism
colorism
commensalism
commercialism
communalism
communism
communitarianism
conceptualism
concretism
confessionalism
conformism
congregationalism
connubialism
conservatism
constitutionalism
constructivism
consumerism
controversialism
conventionalism
corporatism
corporativism
cosmism
cosmopolitanism
cosmopolitism
countercriticism
counterculturalism
counterterrorism
creationism
credentialism
cretinism
criticism
cronyism
cryptorchidism
cryptorchism
cubism
cultism
cynicism
czarism
dadaism
dandyism
defeatism
deism
demonism
denominationalism
despotism
determinism
deviationism
diabolism
diamagnetism
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
did you know
that the
self effulgent light
of God it self
is **** shaped
as above so below
the inner revelation
******* above...light woven
*** hole below ...flesh woven
does this not infer
a magical operation
perhaps a hermetic
ritual of adoration
perhaps a puja
to the ****
with ornate
kaleidoscopic mandalas
replete with wrinkles
and folds
emerald toilet bowls
silk *** wipe
with full color florals
to be ingratiated
by **** art prints
and to be fussed over
and judged
by certified *******
clergy
then to cleanse
with fragrant ointments
that it may remain
unsullied by its
birthing labors
voluptuous
smoldering
fecundations
for purities sake
as god remains
free of limitation
it too
must remain
free of its forgetful
tarnished children
i build temple of ****
high above the people
the little *****
do they
even know
where they come from
how they may
devote themselves
to the grandeur
of the solar ****
and its bestowals
of clumpy torpedoes
the catechism
of the solar ****
to know
to adore
to prostrate
to proselytize
the glory of ****
to the
for corners
of the earth
to be faithful
unto it
to be obedient
and present
your *******
for ritual manicures
by the true initiates
the fussy
******* faeries
those who have
the secret knowledge
and remain true
to the lore
and precepts
set forth
of divine correspondences
to fully appreciate
its eminence
its glory
and have no
God before it
that mercy
will follow them
all the days
of there lives*
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
It was not, by any means, a loss of faith;
Indeed, her devotion was a boundless, unfettered thing
Beyond proscription, beyond rote chant and catechism,
And what she found as a novitiate
Were shuttered gates and gossipy confessionals,
Standoffish priests, pig-eyed and pinch-lipped
Sisters who thought life’s commerce
No more than mechanical prayer and spotless linens,
The whole enterprise
Smacking of the exclusion of Heaven’s bounty.
So she demurred when the time came to take her orders,
And she returned to the world of pavements and lesser pieties,
Free to seek God on park swings and barstools,
In pleasures of the pastoral and the profane,
Though her faith is no Dionysian walkabout,
As she is passionate to the cusp of maniacal
When it comes to the Book of James’ admonition upon works;
She is often found among the sisters she once tiptoed alongside
At food pantries and clothing drives
(She is scrupulous about ministering to only secular needs,
As the Bishop is not happily disposed towards those
Who choose not to take the veil,
And the specter of excommunication is a prospect
Too awful to contemplate)
Afterwards clambering onto some vaguely roadworthy MTA bus
Back to her studio apartment in Green Island,
Where she often walks down to the Erie Canal lock nearby,
Praying for those who have travelled near and upon the water,
Convenience store clerks and ragged Irishmen fleeing famine,
Feral kittens and insufficiently mourned mules.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
Rather I did, once. No longer.
We were magnetic, tectonic.
Constantly and consistently converging.
Unfolding.
Seamlessly (it would seem) arranged on
Memory's golden stage.
But today, tomorrow,
Where moves are flimsy and unsure
Lines drop from lips in silence,
Unraveling like gauze,
As we both wait for alarums that cannot sound.
I feel anesthetized, don't I? I—
And the curtain will be merciful.
A breath of disdain perhaps, disastrous.
Your touch is autumn.
I eclipse the sun, suffocate you from it.
Take your warmth.
Leave you colder than Ophelia
And bloodier than Brutus.
My inadequacy was once your balm,
A catechism to ensure another world
That we both know isn't sound.
The very least you can do is become like Icarus
Who was beautiful in his fall
And silent at his end.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 6:21 PM UTC
Betty Coutu drives a mean Rambler
takes us public school, heathens
to catechism on Saturday morn
Smokes a cigarette like a prima-ballerina
Shifts three on the wheel
drives that clutch to the floor
with her thick leg
Makes the engine roar
a little
“to warm it up”
Turns with the grace of swan
Pavlova or belladonna
Something of beauty
just to watch her
three-finger the wheel through a turn around
all while taking a drag
exhales to ceiling
to music on the radio
Elvis? Roy O, Patsy Cline
circa 1959
Betty's hair is short, uncombed
but she's not without lipstick
lights her smoke with amazing matchbook skills
Calm
like a woman who does it often
takes on wear
with I'm in love, and I don't give a care
She shifts and turns
cigarette balanced like gossip on lips
or between
those first two fingertips
Smoke swirling
amid kids squabbling and whining
in the back seat
No belts back then
till Dad got home
to keep them in line
But, I bet on Betty every time
to get us there
I want to drive like her, so badly!
I sit beside her-- ossified
watching
her smoke and handle
like a total expert
I am distracted
and will surely fumble
my catechism answers
for the nuns
cataclysmically
She drops us off by an icy foot slide
I swear to God to stop back later when we're done
...with prayer and penance
recitation... and resolvings
to sin no more
Once we're out the door--
back to that forbidden foot-slide
Always had a plan for fun
So did Betty's son
the hemophiliac
Bless myself like an Olympian
and pray for Johnny
before he joins me for a run
hemophilia:
a medical condition in which the ability of the blood to clot is severely reduced, causing the sufferer to bleed severely from even a slight injury. The condition is typically caused by a hereditary lack of a coagulation factor, most often factor VIII.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
How do I go
When my absence melts you
How do I turn away
When I am immersed in you
What else can I see
If you are all my vision
What can draw my mind
If you are each thought
Are you truly alone
While you are surrounded by fears
Are you left without voice
While you scream in silence
Is there a limit to my rekindlings
As I extinguish with each last look
Is it possible to breathe
As lungs fill with endless calls to you
At what point could there be too much us
Though there is never enough
At what point is pain exhausted
Though the void of apart is limitless
Where is the end of empty
Can it be found when we are cleft
Where do we cease to touch
Can we be disjoined at any point
Why do we bleed with stilled hearts
Must away be bottomless
Will actuality ever come right
Do we survive, or die trying
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
she sits - eyes darting side to side,
eating the atmosphere, chewing carefully,
rosebud mouth moist, lips open a space,
hands fidgeting in her shallow concaved lap ..
woman leans forward to stroke wayward
tendril from wide forehead - a sign of excellence
to some just that, to others smart phrenology;
tendril defies maternal meaning to spring
like a diver from top board thrill
to fall once more upon laughing brow,
how young child loves the tickling touch
she never receives from mother -
she who urges piano practice, eight to ten,
dancing lessons, eleven to one,
geography, history and Latin tutelage
with woman ancient her and morbid more,
afternoon alternate curriculum and oboe,
catechism, times-tables, spellings parroted..
when night calls child to sleep,
she curls her softness into a knot, tight
and unforgiving, ******** tears from
sea blue eyes so they weep 'pon Egyptian
cotton sheets to dilute the ***** drips of
progidy’s day by day nightmare..
child needs, child yearns for what she
does not know, kettle drum heart throbbing..
longs to run in meadows mossy bright,
longs to see dirt under sweetheart nails;
in dreams she rides ponies ********
and soars sky, dances clouds, kisses moon..
but then, morning vivid with sane insanity
she wakes in an open cage, in a different room..
rebelled, she did, small fragile six year old;
today, today, today her mind is empty,
hands fluttering butterflies, eyes bright, innocence
faded, but laughing..laughing..laughing, free.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
This peace you offer
Pinioned prayers and platitudes
Scry in the mercury shattered
Your brittle whispers snap in the rarified air
This madness is thunder at the back of my throat
Ragged and storm weary
I tread water in your wake
Spin my tahrihim and trim the fringe
I am the terminus of fragile breath
Falling away from you
Benedicimus Deum meum adventum et egrediente
There is solace in the blind blue moments
Let me surrender
To the baptism of despair
The upwelling catechism of deliquescence
Souls fall clutching the flesh
Gasping for one more shredding dream
Fill the spinnaker and set sail
I am no longer a seaworthy vessel
This tethered hope you offer
Stinging nettles in my mouth
On flitting wings
Is the drone of hornets in my hair
I crave
Oblivion
And you are bound to your promise
It is my free will
To let go...
06/12/12
TL Boehm
God bless my coming and my going out
melt away/decay
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
holy graffito of a swan
gorgeous, decapitated
limp bricks sag
behind it, hysterical hegira
plummeting in sync with the self
towards the elusive, dry glory of
death or forgiveness
this is the catechism of disbelief
Agnostic by default
sleeping on the side
being wrong is not a problem
it is an answer unto itself
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 8:16 PM UTC
Blazing bold bravery,
********* catechism;
A girl stands strongly alone;
Her life, society’s atavism.
Quick quiet quelling,
Demonic agapism;
A girl and her sword stay unknown;
Her dreams are those of meliorism.
All acts agathusia,
Concomitant heroism;
A girl who will **** to atone;
Her objectives and body in schism.
Hard headed heartfelt,
Quick with an aphorism;
A woman searching for home;
Her true enemy nihilism.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
Old crippled man, charcoal burnt and ashen,
a thousand days debauchery molded you in this fashion.
Haggard and stiff, you can barely walk across the stage--
no one ever thought that you would make it to this age.
Your girth has expanded (although it’s covered well),
but still your piercing voice summons demons up from hell.
Not as strong as it was once, but eerie just the same,
calling those who’ve followed you, who now chant your name,
to assemble in our legions, gathered in this shrine,
where we repeat the catechism, in throbbing metered rhymes.
Are you a madman? Or just a troubadour
who lends melodic shimmer to verses dark and dour.
Whose singing slides and skims along the edge of sanity,
but who never surrendered to the true evil of vanity.
Recovered from drunken, dissolute despair,
to call the faithful masses back, never mind the wear and tear--
to plod the journey of your craft, to sing before the crowd
whose loyalty, to your band, forever is avowed.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
I’ve learned to love modern socialism
As taught it in catholic catechism
Not from K. Marx or even V. Lenin
It was Jesus that taught me and let me in
Feeding multitudes with bread and fish
Being fed is everyone’s basic wish
"God’s gift to mankind" said Ecclesiastes
“Everyone should eat and drink” their need
Christ told us of the samaritan good
Taking care of everyone in the hood
The sick, the poor, the ones you shun
Social Jesus said, “love everyone”
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 11:55 AM UTC
I don’t mean to be insulting
To all you devout Blisstians
But I am not, and won’t be
Any kind of American Christian.
I have studied long and hard
Over a half century of years
And thus, I shall leave you all
To your hopes and your fears.
I find your religion
A strange philosophy.
It doesn’t quite work,
Or so seems to me.
Your god will have
An End Of Days mess
You do what you want
And then you confess.
You can be a right *****
Until you are ninety three
And then confess to Jesus
And you’re home free.
So, tell me again, please
How does this thing go
That there are things that your
Omnipotent god doesn’t know?
It doesn’t seem to be
Well thought out to me.
After thousands of years
Of sainted holy history.
It sounds more like it’s
A money-making scheme;
A deferred payment plan,
A fun-house ride of screams.
Looking back on the stories,
Two thousand years of war;
Of persecution and burning
And horrendously much more.
And who wrote what and when,
And more importantly why,
This mythological poem here
Could make a grown scholar cry.
So, I shall reserve my judgment
About your Judgment Day
I’ll go on and live my life
In a kind and considerate way.
I won’t put on your robes
And make your sacrifices.
I will thank you all to leave me
To my own Un-Christian devices.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
I sit and think about life.
Misunderstood, confused and full of strife. Only if my mind I could interpret, but only a universe of phenomena is found. Trying to comprehend existence and its lust to destruct, caused by greed and control, its life is bound. Morals oblivious, Care obselete. To change for advandcement an obvious feat. But I am just a single man with a heart, lacking wealth so power as well. No skill in skills, no influence to help me seek an answer, this place just a speck from hell. I ponder why I exist and survive... and a meaning to explain the nefarious nature a race portrays. Once I understand the catechism of life It shall be way beyond my day. Fully decomposed six feet under. A peaceful world is only a wonder.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
off with the mask of religion
an atavistic projection
in a sleeping catacomb
Gods
desire lives in the human heart
we are as he and she
unholy until fused in ecstasy
God and Goddess
in a state of perpetual expanding ******
his mouth upon her sumptuous *****
she upon his pedestal of rainbows
her loving slave
her feet sweeten the earth
her ******* mouth and haunches
consumed
oh she a writhing moon
her throat and womb engorged with his pulsing shaft
giving praise
aqueous diamonds spilling
glitter and cream
manna from heaven
she undulates and coos
a glistened drool
pleading take all
her vaginal cauldron eternal darkness
red tulips blazing
a burning bush
the place of creation
he,
a point of light
everywhere with in her
inseparable
a fire of adoration burning them alive
their love a fever so hot
that even hell cant stand the heat
exit door
no way out
life a glaring dream work
without the abolition of time
having no more victims to devour
we must devour ourselves
towards an original form of lived existence
beyond this tragic universe
ill love you like a god
and **** you like the devil
so bend down low sweet girl
your beautiful ***
my altar of devotion
I give thanks to your curving form
you are my lord's prayer
my catechism
like father
like son
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
Every once in a while, especially on holidays, I find myself wandering through my memory museum - rattling doors and fishing through those virtual hallways. That’s where I found ‘Father Lucas,’ last night, back from when I was eight or so, at (private catholic) school.
Each week, before we received that week's ‘catechism lesson,’ (religious education) from the nuns, we’d get to hear what Father Lucas had to say about the Kafkaesque mysteries of the universe. He looked very old, wise and wrinkled, like a skinny Santa Claus.
Outside of those brief lessons he was always shrouded in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Even at our age, we knew cigarettes were bad for you - but what did ‘Father Lucas’ have to fear from death? On him, the surrounding smoke seemed right and fitting, as if he were the human personification of the burning bush.
My father had just died (we were in a car crash). Before that, the biggest drama in my young life was putting one foot in front of the other, and suddenly, I had a lot - lot, lot of questions that I absolutely, positively and under no circumstances what-so-ever wanted to discuss with anyone.
Imagine, if you will, the gravitas that Rod Serling brought to the introduction of each Twilight Zone episode, and you have Father Lucas’ introducing the lesson. I felt an anticipation of answers independent of my individual situation.
Father Lucas provided context and meaning to the unknown, he dabbled in surrealism, spun out paradox and it seemed that he stood on the very edge of that dark room at the end of the maze. He was transmitting at my frequency, and I could have listened forever. Bless the man.
Ultimately, of course, there were no ‘answers’ - but that’s ok - no answers are an answer.
Dec 23, 2023
Dec 23, 2023 at 2:54 PM UTC
forgive me for the three times I denied you
forgive my tears for their taste of salt
from the nights I looked back
forgive me for taking your hands
and turning them into bread
you are not to be devoured
your body never was mine
consecrated to be broken
and even if it was
what disciple am i
to be worthy of you
my love is not strong enough
to hold another lover to that cross
my soul too undeserving
but i need you to know
like you know the cracks in your ceiling
from staying up at nights
i need you to know
i will lay these palms down
lining your path
anywhere you choose to go
even if you find someone
who would rip apart the seams of heaven
to hear your prayers
even if she carries your cross
even if she washes your feet
i would part seas for you
i would spill this wine of my blood
to make you smile
i would write a new covenant
to every morning you awoke
i would give to you all the pearls
in heaven's gates
because you are my patron saint
you can sharpen me with your iron
you can refine me in the fire
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
So, it was a dark and stormy night and
Father Larry O’Flannigan
Was feeling excited as he
Maneuvered the rainy streets with
Five extra-large cheese pizzas
Elated and happy because
Teenage catechism class
Had gone so swimmingly well
He wanted to reward them
Hence the crusty comestibles
Crossing 10th and Vine
Rain pelting cars and pedestrians
He slipped and tripped
Pandemonium of pizza boxes
Pell-mell into puddles
The chagrined good father
In an unsettled state
Hurt, wet, disheveled,
Exclaims:
“Jesus Christ! God Almighty!"
A pious passerby exclaims
(An older lady dressed for rain)
“Father! Please! Language!”
The sheepish priest sputters:
“Em, cheese and crust got all muddy…?”
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 11:48 PM UTC
I stepped outside for a moment, simply to catch a breath on my porch,
and I saw that slivered Moon scooting behind those shivery clouds.
In a brief half-second I felt Her eons,
Her aged gravitational tumble,
Her pained and painted-on pagan sins of yore,
Her holy rejoinder of light against the darkness,
Her catechism of magic,
and the cold
empty doctrine
of Her orbital destiny.
I closed my eyes for a moment, to shut out Her history...
to try and catch that breath...
But She would not relent.
She was insistent, pulling my eyes open and up
and She offered me her memories
and begged in Her dry eternal voice
to allow me Her touch.
I accepted. Felt Her fear as our rockets bruised Her dusty flesh
upon their uninvited landings
and scarred her with their burning departures.
When I had taken it all in, She disappeared behind one of those
shivery clouds
and I was able to
catch that breath
I had almost forgotten
I had meant to take.
I watch for Her nightly now.
Even when She is obscured by clouds
or maybe just on the other side of this earth-she-cannot-touch,
Her eternal dance partner.
I open my eyes and gaze up.
With awe and wonder and respect
to let Her know that in my small gravitational way
that there is at least
One son here who thinks of her
and who understands and appreciates her tidal Motherhood
who smiles beneath Her transient reflection,
holding that light dear,
and who, in turn,
reflects some of that light
back to Her,
with promised eye.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 6:40 PM UTC
Hypocritical catastrophe,
Irreverent duplicity,
Luminarial ludiocrity,
Nonsensical impetuosity.
Flippy floppy, slippy sloppy,
Blamey gamey, shame, shame, shame.
Constitutional incongruity,
Jesuitical dictatoriality,
Oxymoronic partiality,
Nepotistic surreality.
Materialistic abnormality,
Monetaristic conviviality ,
Ritualistic mediocrity,
Histrionic philanthropy.
Gotten rotten, misbegotten
Seldom truthful, lie, lie, lie.
Misdirection genuflection,
Malefaction justification,
Incarceration implication,
Resignation profliferation.
Prevarication reiteration,
Damnation indication,
Malefaction direction
Undetected discretion.
Flippy floppy, slippy sloppy,
Blamey gamey, shame, shame, shame.
Gotten rotten, misbegotten
Seldom truthful, lie, lie, lie.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
Baruch took the bus
to Kennington park
he wanted to see
a different place
away from the usual
the familiar sights
and people
he had brought
Fay along
having paid
her bus fare
and saying
they’d not be late
(she worrying
about her father
getting home from work
and finding
that she'd not
completed her
school essay
on The Ten Commandments)
and also
that she was with him
(whom her father
termed the Jew boy)
and he said it was better
if she never saw him
which was impossible
as they lived
in the same
block of flats
and went by
each other
on the stairs
but her mother knew
and said
to keep it quiet
and gave Fay a 1/-
for an ice cream
and drink of cola
they walked around
the park
she gazing
at the flowers
and butterflies
and birds
and he imagining
Injuns about
to pop out
of the bushes
or over
the small mound
(he called a hill)
on their mixed
coloured horses
and firing arrows
from their bows
or shooting
from rifles
and as he walked
he patted
the 6 shooter gun
in the holster
hanging
from the belt
of his jeans
( hidden
by his grey jacket)
she talked
of the nun at school
who slammed
a wooden ruler
on the palms
of girls
who didn't know
their catechism
all through
and the girl
who had her
legs slapped
for wearing
her school dress
too short
(she'd outgrown it
and her parents
couldn't afford another)
and he talked
of the cowboy film
he'd seen the other day
where the cowboy
wore his two guns
back to front
so that he had to
cross hands
to reach them
and still out drew
the bad guys
and which he wanted
to practice until
he had it just right
she listened to him quietly
taking in
his hazel eyes
the wavy hair
and that
bright eyed stare
and he listened to her
gazing at her
as he did so
at her fair hair
held in metal hair grips
her blue eyes
her pale complexion
that nervousness
she seemed to have
as if her father
was going to leap out
at her from a bush
and the bruise
on her upper arm
he'd seen
when she removed
her cardigan
having got hot
in the midday sun
and after walking around
for a while
and then sitting
looking at some
old guy feeding birds
with broken bread
they bought two ice creams
and bottles of cola
and she said
a grace in Latin
and he mumbled
some Hebrew prayer
and they sat licking
and eating
and drinking
and once she kissed
his cheek shyly
and said they'd
best get home
before her father did
and he saw her
with him
the upstairs Jew
(as her father
termed him)
and gave her
what for
as soon
as she went
timidly
through the front door.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 3:08 AM UTC
too circumspect to genuflect
a snide rebuttal of rituals
the dope on the rope says the mob has no hope
yet he feeds on the blood of heathens
stomped to death beneath the cross
convert and confess
the templars and the saracens
and all the ****** rest...
pass the plate, write it off your taxes
don't sweat the big things
the confessional swings axes
forget your past, you are made anew
in the box with Big-daddy
the room with the puny view
oh blessed forgiveness
for a select few
*And call no man your father upon the earth,
for one is your Father, which is in heaven.
the catechism didn't catch that one
convenient truths abba
take the queers, gypsies, the disfigured and jews
for strewth! it'll help us win WW2
fewer mouths to feed, and oh so unclean
those unconverted pagans
to the concentrated ovens unseen
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
Simple enough, big print but no big words
Simple enough for me, few words in me
I love the silences, they speak to me
In the ridges and fens among my crops
Simple enough, a pipe down at the pub
Simple enough for me - Guinness or Pimms
I love a pint in the evenings with the lads
In the corner, well armed with pints and darts
Simple enough, big print but no big words
For a penny catechism kind of man
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 5:11 PM UTC
she appeared in a dream
way back in my younger years
a solemn, solitary white woman
kneeling silently at the altar rail
her long brown hair covered
beneath a long white veil
looking like Mary
she spoke not a word
her hands clasped in prayer
we all watched from the pews
mesmerized
without moving, she called my name
sounded like Mrs. Pino
my 5th grade catechism teacher
she kept calling
she wanted me to come forward
to receive recognition or an award
glued to the kneeler in the pews
I thought to myself
‘Lady, you’ve got the wrong guy’
he appeared in a dream
many, many years later
decades
he drove a red Honda
up to my back porch
in the projects
I often dream of that childhood place
as still home
he got out of the car to address me
tall with faded jeans
gray hoody and sunglasses
obscuring his face
couldn’t even see his skin tone
as if he were purposely unviewable
my unempowered eyes searching
he stood there in glory
looking like a son of man
he wanted to know if I knew him
I kept ogling to see who he was
but I couldn’t tell
he asked again
I didn’t answer
still focusing on ****** features
instead of the all of him
he turned back to the car
got in and drove away
leaving me still wondering
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
I sit and think about life.
Misunderstood, confused and full of strife. Only if my mind I could interpret, but only a universe of phenomena is found. Trying to comprehend existence and its lust to destruct, caused by greed and control, its life is bound. Morals oblivious, Care obselete. To change for advandcement an obvious feat. But I am just a single man with a heart, lacking wealth so power as well. No skill in skills, no influence to help me seek an answer, this place just a speck from hell. I ponder why I exist and survive... and a meaning to explain the nefarious nature a race portrays. Once I understand the catechism of life It shall be way beyond my day. Fully decomposed six feet under. A peaceful world is only a wonder.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC