"chaplain" poems
Arrange communication, over.
Roger, Out.
Inform the Chain of Command
Contact the Chaplain
Execute a satellite uplink
Notify the next of kin
Start the phone tree
Make the arrangements
Honor the deceased
Comfort the family
Pray for the soul
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 2:00 AM UTC
The name was Antappan.
On his wedding invitation
He printed the famous words
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi -
(Today it's me, tomorrow it will be you.)
Whoever asked
“Are you nuts, Antappaaa?”
Got a voiceless laugh in reply.
In native tongue
The laughter said
No quotes are quoted
Except through one’s own life.
Though not a charming name
It ‘s true that from that day
Antappan came to be called
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Wolfed down the pork and the beef.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi CrasTibi Antappan’s wedding
Gifted pretty sums of money in envelopes.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Said nasty comments about the bride.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Asked the sound system guy to play
You are lucky I am lucky loudly.
But before that a small incident at the church. As soon as he set his eyes on Antappan who was a grave digger the Chaplain forgot the wedding and without asking who died began to set the church bell tolling in that rhythm reserved for deaths. The senior Priest who heard it came running and opening the small prayer book for the dead began to sing the song the seeds sprout in the fields when it rains. Hearing that the girls in the choir sang the rest of the song when they hear the clarion call life sprouts in the dead and went on to the prose portion I call you lord from the abysses. Seeing that the boy who helps with the communion lighted the candle and incense stick for the dead. (Meanwhile the bride’s naughty song you who is not dead yet will you not **** me tonight also rang in Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s ears.) Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan who realized that the same flowers meant to be wreaths at some house of death were now adorning his ***** as a garland laughed his famous voiceless laugh.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
Father Mychal Judge bent down
to the woman on the floor.
His right hand made the cross in sign
like oft he had before.
Above him the North Tower Burned
like South Tower just next door.
The chaplain of the firemen,
Mychal was a Catholic priest.
Born and bred in Brooklyn,
He was no stranger to these streets.
When he heard word about the planes,
his safety he ignored..
He had to go be with his boys
His trust was in the Lord.
The people in the towers had
the choice to burn or fly.
So many that day took the plunge
preferring not to fry.
The raging fires melted steel.
South Tower started to collapse
The Bravest in her stairwells
never heard recall perhaps.
“Sweet Jesus, Make this end now! ”
Some heard Father Mychal cry.
Debris from the South Tower
Like a scythe came flying by.
It was blunt force trauma to the head
laid Father Mychal low.
His friends removed his body,
before North tower , too, would go.
Thousands passed that terrible day;
the mighty and the small.
When responders came with body bags
Mychal was first of all.
Zero Zero Zero One
A strange number for a Priest,
who rushed in where many others fled,
May now he rest in Peace.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
The last time I saw you
We were trying to blend orange into green
In a huge painting for a fund raising auction.
Surprisingly, I see you again in yet another colorful adventure,
In a dark room with bright blinking lights where
We gave 80's dance moves to pop rock songs.
Then we plunged into the night and let
Our laughter and high pitched voices pierce the chilly air.
We balanced our books as we hurriedly jaywalked
Through the 10 pm traffic jam.
Though the ads in the mall were right at our faces,
You pulled me to a big blue aquarium
To marvel at the goldfish and guppies
Staring at our shiny eyes the same way.
We tried to understand the math
On how our corals cost 3 times more than the States
Even if we have 20 times more species than them.
We couldn't, but we swore to each other we'd stop it.
And as we shared a glass
Of too much ice and no more tea
We fought back passion filled tears
When we told each other story after story
Of our government's inadequacies.
We argued, but finally agreed that
It's not over population, it's urban planning;
It's not poverty, it's inequality;
They're not imbeciles, just ignorant;
And our nation maybe unfortunate,
But our trust is not in fortune, but in grace.
Then as we bid each other goodbye,
Unsure of when will we even meet again,
I prayed to God that
If our school chaplain becomes the president
I'd like him to appoint you and me as the
environment and finance secretaries.
I thanked Him too because
Now for the first time in my life,
I'm not ashamed, I'm not embarrassed but
I'm happy
To be a geek
Because you are with me.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
Wrong
Wrung
Ring
Ring my doorbell,
Wring my neck,
Rid me of this mortal wretch.
*****
Wrench
Can you fix it?
Get your toolbox
You're ill-equipped
I don't qualify
Quality
Quantity
I am not enough
For this.
Too tough
To kiss.
Rough life I've lived.
Live
Life
Lie
Lay back.
Just take it.
Let it happen.
Swallow
Swallow me up.
Swallow me whole.
Throw me down into a hole.
Wholly
Holy
Even God forgot me.
Oh his drones did try.
Saxophone & sweat
Promised hell when I die.
Choir girls & Inquisition
Tore my words, tried to burn me alive.
Then the good chaplain,
Samaritan?
Charlatan.
Daddy out of the way,
Me on the streets,
Mommy where he wants her
Worship at his feet.
Fret
Bet.
I am not afraid.
My debt is paid.
In blood, in tears.
Lost dreams, lost years.
Country roads, cold beers.
Bare
Bear
Burdens
I am brave.
Strength
Truth
Power
You'll have to cut them from my flesh.
Fresh
Blood
Brooding o'er my funeral,
Don't worry about my death.
I still feel pain,
I still draw breath.
My hearts not cold,
My soul is still old.
I haven't set a thing in stone.
******
Skipping rocks.
Flying planes,
Sail away from the docks.
Shoot me into outer space,
If this is Hell,
Heaven can wait.
I'm dancing with the Devil
& God is always fashionably late.
Create.
Tell
Tales
Tails
I'm not done yet.
Evolving
Incomplete
Completely me.
Pecan pie & sweet tea.
Nature
Treks
Blessed Be.
Naked
Exposed
Second for the money,
First for the show.
This is a test,
No time to be gauche.
Gross
Shocking grace.
There's still sand in my grave.
This cannibal inside
Still has a taste.
Human body beneath my tongue,
It's essence still fills my lungs.
Chest
Heart
Beats against this cage.
I'm too young to feel this age,
So don't you dare save the date.
Once the wolf works with the mirror
It's finally free.
Then I promise,
You'll be seeing me.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
Once, a young fresher was reading the rules, and was more than perplexed at the place where they state
"All undergraduates, if they are Anglicans, must be in chapel each Sunday at eight."
Wracking his brains, he began a small rumour that spread through the town on the weekdays that followed; he
was not an Anglican, nor Nonconformist; his faith and religion was mere Heliolatry.
Saturday evening, our hero retired with a smile on his face and his bin at his door,
only to wake to a thunderous hammering, made by the porter, next morning at four.
Ah, how a little lie, told with great frequency, gains repercussions that no-one expects!
"Dawn's almost here, sir, the Chaplain expects you; go down to Main Court and you'll pay your respects."
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 9:24 AM UTC
A different kind of cold settled
in them as they poured through the door
into the bleak grandiosity of the lobby.
A group of grievers:
Her ashen husband and their two daughters, 12 and 20,
Her two sisters dressed in black fleece
and Her mother with freshly bruised knees.
The night was agonizingly short once they arrived.
Prayer and hope for rehabilitation
between questions about resuscitation.
Her mother clung to the cruel Almighty
While Her husband clenched his fists at the chaplain.
A Stroke of an instant induced a transformation of lives
as Hers ended beneath the blinding fluorescence.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 4:03 AM UTC
I saw you withering
before me, like I felt the air in my diaphragm build up slow
then fall out shakily.
I saw my grandmother wince
put her hand to her mouth,
side-ways gripping this tiny Chaplain
who’s name I’d forgotten, the moment I heard it.
I saw my cousin staring deep into empty space, his nervousness illuminated
under harsh hospital light. My uncle’s red tie screaming in this room of too tired eyes,
wearing reddened faces from crying.
The fear of this reality bit at our ankles. We shifted in place, we talked about the Sox game. We dared each other to keep on pretending to carry on.
Through this blur,
I saw you underneath piles of tubes.
Lain upon the bed a shattered man
shoulder blades peeking upward and out in what was poised to be
an eternal shrug
head hung, eyes fluttering, only held up in increments of straining. Straining to be part of this conversation about nothing.
About your impending death.
Rounds of tears and silence
rounds of nurses coming
and going,
rounds of knowing
then suddenly,
not knowing.
Propped up by a tank of air, a bag of liquid, a ton of pillows and the slow-burning will to live.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 9:10 PM UTC
silence
sadness
regret
remorse
fortitude
and defiance
permeate
the
bricks
made
by
convicts
for this
old church
so far far
away
from
english
shores
and on
the pews
so narrowly
wrought
they
listened
to the
chaplain
say
heaven
was the
place to
seek
repentence
was the
key....
and on
the cobbled
floor
they
scratched
their marks
before
they
made
their way
back to
the convict
barracks
the hell
of each
and every
day....
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
I am not the one..who chambered the final round.
Not the Pathfinder, in the smoke who called the choppers
that lifted the dead and wounded off the ground.
I am not the Chaplain who holds the hand of a dying young man,
struggling hard with his belief.
Not the nurse with ****** hands,
eighteen hours with no relief.
I am not the young widow, now with two children ,
feeling left behind,
not the biker who stands guard in a patriotic flag line.
Not the Sargeant, who with respect, present the final flag,
not the Officer, with wet eyes, collecting the causality dog tags.......
But I could be!
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
Therein lies the fur, filled with running wind,
Milkweed in the scruff, the scent of wild-wood,
Some mystery-hearted forest where pulse begins.
Therein lies the Centaur, satyr, and god-disguised swan,
Ageless wonders prowled upon by an age-old Parthenon.
You broke your wolf’s tooth through those haunches of lore.
Therein lies the fur, filled with barking dust and dandelion war,
With a spine that stretched back to the she-wolf and city-birth,
The peeled nerve of a howl once tremored your Aurelian lips.
Therein lies the serf, hunter, fairer hand, and lord,
From wattles and daub, the wandering-sands of Saracen, or Crusader’s moor.
You kept the path beside to remind that instinct shines as the holiest earth.
Therein lies the fur, the warm, ungovernable peasant of sleep,
Ever prophetic in your skies by eyeshut-trace of the hunting moon,
Twitching at the day’s thousand faces, all asleep in themselves.
Therein lies the soldier, nurse, chaplain, and fell-prayer,
Mange-like war is the whimpering season with its flea-bitten welts of stars.
You struck blind but true at the throat of gas-hissing war.
Therein lies the fur, outracing the rain and the spout,
Nested with more birds and Autumn song than rain,
Your sleeping ear pooled like cool eaves of the barn.
I sing once more like a boy into your unfolded ear.
Listen always for my ancient, choral voice and your chores of play,
And race earback to the sun in the belly-grass of your free-eyed fields.
Leave your last paw mark, torn on the red clay of my hand.
You are forever wrapped in human touch, ageless and aged,
And if ever the dark in madder darkness encroaches,
Leave black eternity to my faithful eyes.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 1:23 PM UTC
.
Father Mychal Judge bent down
to the woman on the floor.
His right hand made the cross in sign
like oft he had before.
Above him the North Tower Burned
like South Tower just next door.
The chaplain of the firemen,
Mychal was a Catholic priest.
Born and bred in Brooklyn,
He was no stranger to these streets.
When he heard word about the planes,
his safety he ignored..
He had to go be with his boys
His trust was in the Lord.
The people in the towers had
the choice to burn or fly.
So many that day took the plunge
preferring not to fry.
The raging fires melted steel.
South Tower started to collapse
The Bravest in her stairwells
never heard recall perhaps.
“Sweet Jesus, Make this end now!”
Some heard Father Mychal cry.
As Debris from the South Tower
Like a scythe came flying by.
It was blunt force trauma to the head
laid Father Mychal low.
His friends removed his body
before North tower, too, would go.
Thousands passed that terrible day;
the mighty and the small.
When responders came with body bags
Mychal was first of all.
Zero Zero Zero One
A strange number for a Priest,
who rushed where Angels feared to tread,
not fearful in the least
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 8:43 PM UTC
christ was gangling,PARTICULARLY,of crucifix
drooping silverly reposed upon woodish portals
heavy oaken clasp swung adroitly to harbor
the rough shale and silk. the littlest chaplain
was swearing in there
hewassaying"shit"
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 10:41 PM UTC
*The odd thing was
she did not cry.
not once that year.
I remember the army chaplain
standing in her doorway.
Knowing at once the sad news.
Her son was on active duty
overseas with the Marines.
That summer she worked
tirelessly in her garden.
Day after day
from dawn to last light.
but not a single tear.
Transplanting pruning digging
her shears like a cicada in August..
I do not think
I have ever seen as much beauty.
Flowers everywhere
the whole garden an explosion
of the brightest colors.
but not one teardrop.
Roses hollyhocks hydrangeas
filled the air with their fragrance.
And on the fruit trees
lantern shaped blossoms hung
downwards to earth.
drifting in the breezes.
Falling like the tears
she could not cry.*
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
Grazin’ in the grass was mellow indeed
when you blew into your trumpet
blaring sounds of peace. What a trip!
Just watchin' as the world goes past,
you used to say playing notes of jazz.
Music of resistance for a tortured land
imbued in the blood of its natives bashed,
by the impudent high-handed little white man.
As your grandmother cared for you and miners
in illegal bars, piano keys enticed dreams of hope
for second class citizens silenced by oppression,
while the chaplain gave you your first instrument.
Little did you know the melodies you’d pour
on the rampant fires of blatant injustice.
Little did you know the strength you would instil
embodying possibilities, shedding light on the obscure.
Soweto blues you composed as Miriam gave
her voice to screaming mothers to cry out,
atrocities in town. Bring Him Back Home
you sang from afar until they did, and you
returned to see the prisoner walk free,
down the streets hand in hand with Winnie.
Only afterwards I heard your words and will
to show the people just how
wonderful and excellent they are.
A message I cherish and the reason why
many will remember you, your tune your smile,
as he who kept the torch of freedom alive.
A baobab tree has fallen indeed.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 5:59 AM UTC
A lovely young woman with a child at her feet
Opened her door and began to weep
The commander and the chaplain delivered the news
She was now a widow,a family of two
Twenty-one bullets explode into the sky
Fighting for freedom a soldier has died
He leaves behind his wife and his son
A soldier laid to rest at the age of twenty-one
A hero remembered as courageous and strong
Lost his life in a land that he did not belong
He served his country from an ocean away
Earning a medal of honor for his actions that day
And twenty-one bullets explode into the sky
Fighting for freedom a soldier has died
He leaves behind his wife and his son
A soldier laid to rest at the age
of twenty-one
Twenty-One
With tears in their eyes the ceremony begins
As the colors are folded by soldiers and friends
He now rests in peace in a land of his own
In a pine wooden box the young soldier came home
Now twenty-one bullets explode into the sky
Fighting for freedom a soldier has died
He leaves behind his wife and his son
A soldier laid to rest at the age
Yeah twenty-one bullets explode into the sky
Fighting for freedom a soldier has died
He leaves behind his wife and his son
A soldier laid to rest at the age
of twenty-one twenty-one
©
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
The funeral for this decorated soldier was a somber one.
A mother, dressed in all black, sat there with painful tears streaming down her reddened cheek and a father sat beside her in disbelief, his left arm laid across her shoulders, as he tried to comfort her.
A lost comrade taken by an enemy's bullet.
A lost brother taken by an enemy's bullet.
Our lost son taken by an enemy's bullet.
My heart had stopped briefly from each of the twenty one shots that rang out in the distance. Each shot danced echoes off my eardrums and the painful ache in my heart never seamed to stop.
His fellow comrades stood watch over his flag draped casket. Honoring him will a sharp, military salute just as Taps sounded from the bugler's horn.
The ripples of each note that was played sparked memories in my head of yesterday years and days gone.
The date was October 28, 1989. Our bundle of joy was born. It was 2:30 in the afternoon and the sun began to shine.
We became parents.
Time would never stop though. Growing faster than the weeds in our own front yard. We learned to cherish each passing second and moment.
Through the terrible twos to the teenage years and finally out of the house... wow what happened?
We became older parents.
Then it changed. A proud moment. But a changing moment none the less.
Our son raised his right hand and he swore to defend the country against all enemies, foreign and domestic.
His unit got deployed to a foreign country, shortly there after and we were still extremely proud.
On one chilly October, Saturday afternoon, two weeks before his 25th birthday, our lives would be changed by one knock on our door. The dull sound of the rapping on our door is forever engraved into my head.
We knew what it meant and we both fell to our knees and wept.
The military chaplain spoke to us in a most peaceful tone, the following words, "On behalf of a grateful nation, I am sorry to inform you that your son was killed in action by an enemy's bullet"
The air became still and calm laid over us all.
At that moment his casket was lowered into the ground and a folded flag was placed in our trembling hands.
Through the grayish clouds, one steady beam of sunlight came to rest on top of that folded flag and the time read 2:30 in the afternoon.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 10:45 PM UTC
Oh Lord, you have control of my heart and soul
You let me know I am saved from horrid sin
And I have my finger on the trigger
So I can **** those heathens again and again!
I never stop singing songs to the Lord
As I know God loves a nice hymn tune
As I fire my bullets off twenty-four/seven
Under the sun and under the bright moon!
I read the Bible all night (except when I'm asleep)
And I pray with my brave chaplain twice a day
How we love to **** Satan's evil spawn
It's nearly as nice as having a real good pray!
Only by the force of the gun can the world be free
And I am happy to slaughter the wicked foe
Filling their sinful carcasses full of US lead
Cos I'm a Christian God-fearing GI Joe!
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
Save me
Father
for I am
ashamed
of my ways
but he
laughed
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
Robert Breen
The body moves as if Jell-O in our hands.
Intense heat makes it so small.
What was once hair
shrivels tight to the skull.
The char falls, exposes
steamed white flesh and bone.
The sweet pungent odor
stings the nostrils.
You learn fast to mouth-breathe.
We place the fetal corpse
inside the red neoprene bag.
We tighten and buckle the leather straps.
The coroner places the body on the gurney.
The chaplain makes a sign
And what about the match?
The one who sets a fire.
Is commonly called the match.
At the station,
I hose down the inside of the red burse.
And watch the spirit of a mother’s child,
Hold tight to the bars of the floor.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
Hidden underneath her clothes where no one else could check,
they coursed around her body- arms stomach and neck
The bruises that adorned her were tattoos of rage and shame
Put there by a cowardly sot that barely knew his name
All she wanted was a family, her man herself and kids
to form a family unit like her mom and daddy did
She defended him at every turn, despite the things we saw
And only saw the good in him whenever things went wrong.
What little he worked he spent on *** and ***** to wash it down
soon after came the little pills, and then the party crowds
their budget tight and still he spent, taking her pay in the night
"My money is mine and your money is ours" as though that made it all alright
I wanted so badly to shake him, and perhaps as a child someone did
to get him to see his folly, but I refrained at her behest
Though it boiled my blood and seared my soul I checked myself through it all
That was, until the night we got that fateful call
Daddy please come get me, come as quick as you can
He'd put her out on the side of the road, and beat her like a man
Patches of hair were missing, blood dripping down her face
her clothes were ripped and rent, very little left in place
I gave him back what he'd given her, all four years and more
I guess it was too much to bear now my chaplain's at the cell door
My daughter's doing fine I'm told as we walk that last green mile
Was it worth it as they strap me down, I just nod my head and smile
I feel the needle ***** my arm, feel the nerves go dead
My brain the last thing to go, she's uppermost in my head
Some might see a pitiful waste, but I see perfect sense
I gave my all, the torch is yours - End Domestic Violence!!
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 6:25 AM UTC
My heart is packed so full of love for you
I dreamed I exploded, like aerosol cans sometimes do
I blew with such force that my bones became shrapnel
And leveled the town, except the small chapel
My teeth flew like bullets, I didn't know what was happening
They killed everyone in sight, except for the chaplain
And then, thanks to him, we were happily wed
Even though, at the time, I think we were both dead
May 2, 2025
May 2, 2025 at 7:17 AM UTC
the definition of legacy
I never truly knew
until one gathering
an elderly woman came up to us
and spoke out of the blue
she shook my mother's hand real tight
and spoke of my grandfather,
a former colonel and chaplain,
a present friend
to my mother she said:
"I love you because I love your dad"
and to me I knew those words
would stick till the very end
glb©2016
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 4:00 AM UTC
*The odd thing was
she did not cry.
I remember the army chaplain
standing in her doorway.
Knowing at once the sad news.
Her son was on active duty
overseas with the Marines.
That summer she worked
tirelessly in her garden.
Day after day
from dawn to last light.
Transplanting pruning digging
her shears like a cicada in August..
I do not think
I have ever seen as much beauty.
Flowers everywhere
the whole garden an explosion
of the brightest colors.
Roses hollyhocks hydrangeas
filled the air with their fragrance.
And on the fruit trees
lantern shaped blossoms hung
downwards to earth.
drifting in the breezes.
Falling like the tears
she could not cry.*
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC