"clerical" poems
A metal frog swimming through the icy water
Words without a story
Something lighthearted
Cliché
A comet
Frank Sinatra in the background
Metaphysical relationships
Bouncing on a comet
A kettle steaming
Sarcastic bombs and sunsets
Sneaking off to drink
Future video games and bro love
Clerical errors and burnt memories
Funny people subtract lingerie
Maybe limbo
Sometimes tragedy.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
It's in the heart of the grape
where that smile lies.
It's in the good-bye-bow in the hair
where that smile lies.
It's in the clerical collar of the dress
where that smile lies.
What smile?
The smile of my seventh year,
caught here in the painted photograph.
It's peeling now, age has got it,
a kind of cancer of the background
and also in the assorted features.
It's like a rotten flag
or a vegetable from the refrigerator,
pocked with mold.
I am aging without sound,
into darkness, darkness.
Anne,
who are you?
I open the vein
and my blood rings like roller skates.
I open the mouth
and my teeth are an angry army.
I open the eyes
and they go sick like dogs
with what they have seen.
I open the hair
and it falls apart like dust *****
I open the dress
and I see a child bent on a toilet seat.
I crouch there, sitting dumbly
pushing the enemas out like ice cream,
letting the whole brown world
turn into sweets.
Anne,
who are you?
Merely a kid keeping alive.
3.2k
I was just staring at the invitation someone gave me
Yes, that someone who played a significant role in my life
My eyes are crying, my heart's in agony
For I never thought it will bring me this strife
As tears rolled on my cheeks, I reminisced that day when we first met
That day when you gave my life a new direction
My reminiscing stopped for a knock was heard
"Twas my friend saying, "Hurry up, we're late for his ordination"
As I entered the church, I gazed at the altar
On that same altar where thirteen years ago
You held my hand, saying "I love you with all my heart
But there is someone whom I love more than the way I love you"
I see, it's God whom you really love more
I cannot blame you, for after all
You wanted to serve him for the rest of your life
All the while, you were waiting for His call
Today is the day you have been waiting for
The day where everyone will get to call you "Father"
How I wish we could have a picture together
But I am your ex-lover, It'll just make you bothered
The ceremony has ended, your mother saw me
My heart stopped, I didn't hear a noise
She muttered "Hey sweetie, long time no see!"
I was about to reply when I heard a familiar voice
As I gazed around I saw a lovely man
Yes, that same man whom I loved for thirteen years
He still looks handsome in that clerical collar
I cannot speak a word, I embraced him, wetting his shirt with tears
He embraced me back, telling me "Dear, I'm sorry
For now, I cannot grant your dream wedding
But this I promise you, on that day
I'll be at the mass, I'll be the one presiding"
I left the church with a smile
Thanking God for that closure
As I watched you from afar for a while
I told myself "Someday, I'll be happy for sure"
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear,
Who has written such volumes of stuff.
Some think him ill-tempered and queer,
But a few find him pleasant enough.
His mind is concrete and fastidious,
His nose is remarkably big;
His visage is more or less hideous,
His beard it resembles a wig.
He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers,
(Leastways if you reckon two thumbs);
He used to be one of the singers,
But now he is one of the dumbs.
He sits in a beautiful parlour,
With hundreds of books on the wall;
He drinks a great deal of marsala,
But never gets tipsy at all.
He has many friends, laymen and clerical,
Old Foss is the name of his cat;
His body is perfectly spherical,
He weareth a runcible hat.
When he walks in waterproof white,
The children run after him so!
Calling out, "He's gone out in his night-
Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!"
He weeps by the side of the ocean,
He weeps on the top of the hill;
He purchases pancakes and lotion,
And chocolate shrimps from the mill.
He reads, but he does not speak, Spanish,
He cannot abide ginger beer;
Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish,
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!
2.1k
'Why did the lady in the lift
Slap that poor parson's face?'
Said Mother, thinking as she sniffed,
Of clerical disgrace.
Said Sonny Boy: 'Alas, I know.
My conscience doth accuse me;
The lady stood upon my toe,
Yet did not say--"Excuse me!"
'She hurt--and in that crowd confined
I scarcely could endure it;
So when I pinched her fat behind
She thought--it was the Curate.'
1.6k
Their bars are bars there.
It’s just that the taps
have all run dry.
Behind a wall
computers clank, buzz,
dilapidate.
Behind thickened glass
clerical workers
patter like hail
on shingled roofs.
Beyond walls and glass,
sallow-white leaks.
I sit rough somewhere.
Cold, unfeeling stone
everywhere.
A payphone stares
jeeringly at me.
I curl up tight.
Mother and father
surely spite me now.
Brother won’t know,
no, he won’t know.
Others never will.
Don’t comfort me.
I’m in pajamas.
I’m grasping at straws.
I’m falling fast.
I’d like to know
how much is the bail.
“Sixty-thousand.”
My fingers are pressed
on a copier
like those old, dear
library books.
Copied and copied.
Next I’ll be shelved.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 7:44 PM UTC
Becoming something of a legend
cast out from far away
alone in a castle upon the darkened hill
lives the person of today.
Trapped.
Long ago you vowed
to become something grand
one day you shall release
slip out without a sound.
Cursed forever loner
you live within these walls
invisibly Confined
and break away you shall.
The corrugated gates
of your own sharp sexuality
awaiting the clerical moment
when the barren gates break open
by kiss you shall be free.
And spill forth forbidden riches
whatever they may be.
But you are a vastly legend
alone
kingdom come is your only home.
Blackened night is your frame of mind
color buried iced sublime.
A ghostly haunting
in tight black leather clasps
in cold clipped metal chains
you snip your way
you slice your path
though through the peril
grace is slain.
Past the autumn winds
winter seeks its call.
You are a complex monster
who loves it most of all.
Confined inside your castle
you might hear the call.
Collecting cobwebs
Collecting dust
Collecting heartache
Collecting rust
So the edges start to fray
and in each corner that you find
lives a hope that soon one day
you’ll have some piece of mind.
To be loved beyond what mortal words can say.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
Paradoxical Contradiction
Left-Handed Asphyxiation
Logical Degradation
Clerical Dehydration
Inundated with Unintended Information
Silently Yelling about naive importance
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
I am disappointed.
I let you go
That you may
Find yourself,
The sparkle in your eyes
That bore through me
May burn bright.
The firm round beasts
Taut with desire for a touch,
That heaved at every breath,
Every turn of my words
And glance ...and I
Withdrew from them,
And your quivering lips.
Dying each day a thousand death,
Pining eternally till yesterday,
Like the lover in the Grecian urn
To liberate you and liberate me
From the there after, routine and
Mundane. To preserve the spark,
Blow into it, create a new word
Every moment, not be a wife
Or just a husband! But creators,
Challengers to Jove's throne.
The fire once again stolen.
Ahh..But pasted on fb what do I see!
Sagging ******* dim eyes,
Dead, limp locks, stable pasted smile,
Dotting over a fat boy and a ***** palsy pet.
Pretending to be happy with them
And a glorified clerical job.
I am liberated from pain,
But this freedom gives no joy,
Ah Mephistopheles!
I scream not in agony
Having lost my soul to Helen
But in the absence of pain.
Helena has become a fat
Dull mommy cooking
Noodles for fatso
And ***** petty Paris.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
On finding a little piece of living past-a fragment of paper dating from 1836, in an 1880s edition of George Elliot's Scenes of Clerical life (published by Blackwood and Sons).
The Paper holds many stories of the past, what secrets can it tell?
A carriage rolling over gravel, pulled by black horses;
an elegant gentleman and his sweetheart,
taking long walks in the park.
Her gloved hand in his, she wears her new dress,
shimmering blue which is echoed in her eyes,
and admired by her gentleman companion.
Marriage follows, a family of six children,
the faded dress given to the maid in the kitchen,
who wears it every Sunday into holes.
The Rag man collects it at the back door,
throws it into his cart, it begins a new life-
pulped by rough, red hands in a big vat,
the dress mixes with other rags, old unwanted
garments transforming into paper.
Its new life records the publisher's expenses;
pencils, ink, pens; all neatly inked into
its surface, kept in a book in a bureau.
Years pass and the records become old;
no longer needed; the pages are torn out,
cut neatly with scissors in a steady hand,
and fitted into the spine of a new book,
which tells the fictional tale of Milby Town.
History and fiction merge into one;
young lovers, hard working servants, Rag Men
and factory workers; pages turn- they record lives;
both real and imagined and speak to the future.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
When poetry describes the historical,
One refrains from becoming hysterical.
However by use of the judicial rhetorical
A Poet makes full use of the allegorical!
So when writing poetry I remain stoical,
That though some may think me radical,
Employing words they considered lyrical,
I try never to appear, irrational or critical.
To write about the mystical and cryptical,
Using strict rhythm? Can be diabolical!
As for themes regarded purely mythical,
I shy from words too pictorial or technical.
My approach to topics humourously comical,
Is to compose lines thoughtfully satirical.
In turn this allows me to remain sceptical,
Whilst appearing not too fanatical or cynical!
So, if with words I am reckoned economical?
I hope my rational thoughts are not illogical,
But in using descriptive words, is it ethical
To ensure Poems not be too whimsical?
Now, without appearing to be pontifical,
Though I'm always careful to be veridical,
I'm allowed at times, to wax philosophical,
As I attempt to depict matters paradoxical.
Doubtless some will find my words inimical:
Fanatically methodical and chronological?
But in attempting the facetious or ironical,
I'll avoid the pitfalls of being too graphical.
Should poetry be left to the technological?
One might find it becomes too puritanical.
And suggest the Poet was unduly practical!
Such is the way of the biased hypocritical!
If my poetic lines appear to be egotistical?
Then readers must understand, that's logical.
But please I beg of you, never be heretical,
When lines concern the canonical or political.
Will a Poet's thoughts be considered farcical,
If a reader is left bemused and quizzical?
Or should he stick to the unequivocally canonical?
Personally, I'm happy if my poems are grammatical!
So I'll conclude thinking poetry may be symbolical,
And my many rhymes, in quantities numerical,
May not satisfy the purist nor the global ecumenical,
But they deal with topics that are never hypothetical!
Rhymer. July 10th, 2018.
(Your turn Jim!)
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
My perturbed being paid huge negligence to my pen and paper meant to write a sonnet
For I'm drown in my own thoughts as I watch the sunset.
Thinking, how can I bring down this Jericho wall when I can't even blow my own trumpet
From afar,a chick called for its mother
Children taking turns to skip a gutter
I shifted my gaze upward pondering on the sky and it calligraphy
But there was more on my mind other than topography
Gone where the days when all we had were prophecies and signs
Now we have the proofs- earthquake, war, diseases , high rate in crime
Human uses human for nefarious and bohemian mischief
Acquiring a high decree in insalubrious acts and call it prestige
****** masochism,incest,homosexuality,best iality,and with many severe strokes,
we've axed,hewn down and fall our hardest ethical timbered-oak
Immorality is now human right,transgender speciation is now technology.
Ostensibly, compartmentalize values and virtues are now seen as folk
Culminating this malady is 'Spurious Pentecostalism'-an acute locution for the aggrandize ecclesiastical new age religion loosely espy as ' born again ' movements
Which beget an avalanche of licentious sermons of grace extremists,
stealthily engaging in the defamatory of the Scripture.
The only exception is the law of tithing and offering.
As clerical entities,sharply dressed,suave,bogus televangelist
dispenses false miracles and prophesies of untold wealth to there flock
in return for their votive offerings
Take heed that no man deceive you (Matthew 24:4)
I Emmanuel sound it loud and clear
CHRIST JESUS IS COMING VERY SOON !
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
A shrine to
Rock and roll
I'll make the guitar shiver
In it's clerical mode,
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
I am human. A person.
That simple fact, a reason,
To be included in my inventory.
It’s a necessary part of my story.
I admit I childishly cheated as a kid
Of course, I lied about what I did.
I stole cigarettes from my aunts,
Smoked the instant I had the chance.
Naturally, there was *** to be had
And though called sinful, I was glad
To be among the very lucky few
Who didn’t wonder about it. We knew.
School over, I tried to avoid the draft
By enlisting in the air force. Daft.
That was in the days during the calm
When very few of us knew of Vietnam.
My feet were flat, somehow or another.
Asked if I'd drafted, “Maybe your mother!”
He said she would be called rather than I.
I’d never make a march fully packed, goodbye.
So, I started into living my life, aimlessly
Content to dodge the service blamelessly.
Rather than go to college, discouraged by Dad,
I made the best with the talents I already had.
I worked in clerical jobs, and organizing files
And grew bored with that after a long while.
I sang in nightclubs and in little theater
But never got my star ambitions together.
So, I learned to smoke *** and crash
In the pads of friends when out of cash.
I’d wash their dishes, and cook good food
And even sleep with them when in the mood.
I walked some picket lines and protested
And when evil laws got passed, contested.
I carried signs and worked odd jobs around;
Did casual income accrual that could be found.
I worked for years at a company for bucks,
Thinking permanent salary changes luck,
And it did because I finally bought a home
And stopped being a hippie on the roam.
I loved and lusted with the constant line
Of **** available hotties I could find
People who had time for a bit of fun.
And by then, I was the perfect one.
All this means, I had a normal acumen
For living life and being a human.
I make no apologies here, instead
Like a pony, I let myself have my head.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 8:49 PM UTC
High School.
Where everyone believes getting drunk and high's cool.
Sleep the least and work the most.
Hide their beast, only talk to boast.
Laugh but conceal, smile but never feel.
Take what's painless over what's real.
Don't open up because they don't understand.
Grown ups only give you expectations and demands.
Ask for help on something else and its out of their hands.
And they wonder why student interest is reduced to strands.
Expect them to figure out the rest of their life.
If they don't, let their failure cut them like a knife.
Overloading with choices drowns out their voices.
The next generation is drained and in pain.
Education's so clerical its a miracle they're sane.
They assume with current events that kids won't be affected.
When really all the hate and pain and hurt just gets projected
On a fragile state of mind still finding their identity.
They see kids who are unique and think punishment's the remedy.
How do kids respond when we stomp on their soul?
Searching for an out when we bury hope in a hole?
Now they can't see, because they don't have their own place
To discover who they are, they can't feel their own face.
I can't embrace a place where kids can't be who they are.
A light that can't shine, a night with no stars.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 4:13 PM UTC
Will you listen to what they are telling you?
can you listen to what they say?
'the future's not in tomorrow,the
future was yesterday'
and may god have mercy on me.
Today is blank
and who do I thank for that?
Time doth surely flee from thee,
(sod off Shakespeare this is about me)
If they are telling me this,then I know it is that
and they can wax lyrical on the world being spherical,
I point to a clerical error, a mistake in perspective
which makes what they say
(in one word)
deceptive.
And who might they be?
They be the grey men
the men who say when men,
the dead and the deadpan with looks that say,
'no man' and signs that read,
entry forbidden,
hidden from sight.
The only chance of reprieve from they who deceive is to leave and having left,there's a fork in the road,a cleft,a right way,a left,
will you listen
to what
they
are telling you?
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 5:53 AM UTC
Casually quantifying clerical errors
counting sarcasm and collecting compliments,
but casting them aside
until they're stacked higher than the
introductions that were denied.
She swallows condominiums and Ikea catalogues
and eyelash extensions.
She swallows the Kardashians
and decrepit Tinder dates.
She swallows her opinion that out-shined and outsmarted his.
She swallows the chronicles of night time strolls that turned sour.
She steps into the shower.
Her mind is full, but her belly is empty.
Although it's swollen with expectation and incessant inquiry,
her ribs protrude as if to command her attention,
And to confirm her intention to rise again.
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
The United States
we
stand tall_____*
The ring-size
The shebang seat
Hasn't been anything
but a ball just stand
Or sit in my heat
To the Senate
falling for the
Testimonies
The culture of
colliding ceremonies
coming to America*
Above the
surface
Delicious
Atmosphere blue
Nitrogenous*
The new
Bicentennial
He cannot take
his falling star eyes
off of you his love
((Like Pluto))
dimensional
Starbucks stir-spell
stars
She loves to
sit casually
Your feeling wiped out
Being flagged down_____
All stripes the
American way
Bank of America
Let's travel to
((Bombay))
No time to do
your essays
Be more sacred it pays
Super America
Stop eating the
whole cow
(U) night Ed) United
We feel entangled
What we believe
in is lost
Amazing in all sizes
From head to toe
from birth
Trembling hands
of fate
We all fall down huh?
Niagara Falls her-Ray
Tall riveting sunshine
King Charles charming
French Cafe ring
Henry the 8th carats
Striking
The finest
grains
in her
cup to his
Viking
Artsy gals of the
archway falling for your liking
Milky Way
We must not battle
Broadway
Falling out of love
But they say its
((Your Birthday))
Have a good time
On Flag day
And star bright
American to the
Mediterranean
Buffets for the Pig
and whistle beauty
met her eating beast
Pirates of the Carribean
American side dish
Bacon bits with
String beans
Clerical positions
((Compromising Liaisons))
Fort Myers Pelicans
Brooklyn Belt Parkway
My exit was
Rockaway Parkway
Take me back
Now this world
Full of chemicals
No time for even
The Protocol
Bewildered minds
bifocals to vanish
No food to love
garnish
We need to exhale
American big day
Male sale----I got my ring size seat*
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
detatch
and remove the
emotion and pathos
from the poem.
and put into logos everything
"the author wrote this because of that"
in simple cause and effect.
Detatch because apathy conveyed
comes clinical, clerical cold.
Passion conveyed comes
heated
detatch
prove the pragmatic practicals provide
as emotions can
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 12:44 AM UTC
toy soldier,
all for her
steadfast,
forever--
except for
one glaring
clerical error:
her tin heart
beats for another
toying; callous
sends him off
to slaughter; a
battler with no
shield or armour.
●○
•
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 4:15 AM UTC