"congregants" poems
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
We've come to a point where people treat the clergy as god,
And love is less important than gold,
A mere man has total control over people so much that his orders are taken more seriously than the word,the good news,the gospel.
Making congregants do all sorts of things that could lead to hell,
Making them eat grass,eat snakes,making them conform to deception,
Thought we were supposed to be the chosen generation,a holy nation,
But it seems like that has just been taken as a simple notion.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 4:42 AM UTC
Kissed Faith good-bye,
Stepped into the night,
Met a man on his way
To the Forest.
Faith behind him,
Uncertainty before,
Wavering on his way,
Brown faltered on.
Such a cloud of witnesses
As to keep him from this path!
But then they met him,
One by one,
Catechist and Minister,
Deacon and Elder,
Murmuring and gibbering;
Wise fools wending their way
To meet him
In a clearing, deep.
Pink ribbons falling,
Snake-head pointing
Feet now stumbling,
Then running before
In a wind of curses.
Firelight red,
Congregants cowled, silent,
Save the voice of Faith,
The near-initiate.
"Faith, Faith!
Look to Heaven!"
Resist the wicked one."
Woods silent;
Devil, fiends, fire ... gone.
Only Goodman Brown
To stagger home.
Ironic morning sight:
Smiling faces of Salem town,
'Gainst downward gazing
Goodman Brown.
Jan 30, 2020
Jan 30, 2020 at 9:18 AM UTC
it is pouring. it is washing away my troubles. it is clearing my head of rubble.
brigades of lovesoldiers. revolutionaries of hearts and stars.
congregants of the sky goddesses of love freaks. sweetly sordid little creatures.
the tendency is to ignore the problem until it becomes more manageable///
how has that been going so far for you, sweet darling?
do you feel the relief you so hoped for? or are your lungs (these doors) being kicked in. leaving you exposed and unready. unkempt and unruly.
switchblade princess. magnifique. petite princesse qui veut avoir toutes choses.
mais moi, je ne sais pas qui je suis, ou je dois aller et comment je peut boire l’eau de l’amour sans devenir alcoolique.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
I don't understand much of what's happening around me,
Prophets lavitating,
Some making people do all sorts of crazy things,
Defiling congregants.
While others turn water into wine,.I don't want to be misled,
And I wouldn't say they're misleading,
I'm no judge.
And its up to me to go along or not,
But really I'm stuck in my head thinking,
So I resort to,asking for Gods guidance.
And following my instincts.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
That thing you gave me—
I have it still
all these years later.
I found it the other day,
half-hidden, like a folded sweater
in a forgotten trunk.
You were young then,
lovely, haggard
like an orchid softly wilting
in unforgiving heat.
Wasting amazon,
pain deep within your legs,
resting like a queen
on a stone sarcophagus.
When the boy read to you,
did you hear his stumbling words,
from the frayed blue book?
Or was your troubled mind
wandering elsewhere,
on some trackless, stubbled field?
He felt only the touch of your hand
on his hair, the warm pulse of your breath
on his forehead and eyelashes.
In the church balcony:
Water Music.
Fingers stretched above the keys,
pipe ***** bright and sonorous.
Down below, the congregants
gazed upon the pulpit
awaiting the benediction.
Soul souring,
heart filling.
God was great.
Shimmering like Artemis in her glade,
you stood reflected in a mirror
on the closet door,
gowned in emerald satin—
a last look at makeup
before he calls upstairs
that the car is ready.
You smiled
as you turned to go,
fabric swishing against your legs.
Uncertain memory insists you smiled,
if only momentarily to unclench
the grip upon your windpipe,
the blunt pain deep inside your femur,
the dark edge arcing at the horizon
in your dreams or waking gaze.
In that still stratum of existence,
that lilting stream of secret thought
where no son or daughter enters in,
there the soul walks with worry
day and night
lost in a whispered discourse.
We must have all bathed
in that gentle stream,
its silent water lapping at our feet.
When you looked up, distracted,
as if from reading
Donne or Herbert
your ruminations
cannot have been
unsensed.
That thing you gave me,
that dark gift,
I bear like a secret
beneath my winter coat.
I know you never meant it
to be mine.
But the glade was darkening
when you walked that field
and your gaze was fixed
worriedly
on a shimmering
in the distant woods.
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC
It’s disheartening to see
Churches that churn out a
bunch of souls… who don’t
love people. Many of them
don’t get along with other
congregants; the harmony
of Faith, is difficult to
find at times, when most
Churches tend to be more
concerned about money; if
souls are not having needs
met, then breakthroughs…
are probably not expected.
If so-called Christians are
not living victoriously, is
it realistic, that they’ll
gently nudge others… in His
direction, being unaffected
by The Word of God?
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 2:24 PM UTC
The preacher stood on Sunday morn
Downcast was he and all forlorn.
He remembered well a former day
And wondered why most had turned away.
The church long ago was normally filled
With congregants desiring what God had willed.
Now long gone and numbering few
Everywhere can be seen an empty pew.
Why does the crowd no longer inquire?
Why God’s directions do they no longer desire?
They now instead down the street congregate
Where modern practices for them await.
Gone is fidelity to God’s Word
Seldom can faithful preaching be heard.
Entertainment now is the accepted norm
Sin’s consequence is a forbidden form.
Yes, the old way is now a thing of the past
Into oblivion it now is cast.
Truth that has for years endured
Can it this day be ensured?
Old fashioned preaching they’ll no longer hear
Hell fire and brimstone they no longer fear.
As long as one leaves feeling swell
They’re happy to continue there to dwell.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 10:19 AM UTC
Back to the basics.
They will tell you about money;
All the goodies it has power over
The jets,ferraris , benz,
Holiday in Disneyland or Wonderland
Good will mistresses among others.
But they wont tell you about books
That have lifted up souls and shaped kingdoms.
They will tell you about secrets
Too sacred to mention.
The shady deals that fatten wallets
All quick-rich-scam schemes,
Even tested and proven niceties
But they wont tell you about books
Whose warmth turned swords into ploughshares
Spears into pruning hooks.
They will tell you about fashion;
Addias, Nike, Puma, converse
The exorbitant price they call for,
The prestige, pride and position
For all faithful trendsetters and keepers
But they wont tell you about books
Which ignite creativity and innovation to ***** success.
They will tell about the anointed ones
Thou shall not touch the anointed
Who preach water as they gabble wine
Their sleek livelihood
Their gullible congregants.
But they wont tell you about books
Where ignorance will slashed, packed be buried or good.
My son, many are speakers, this world carries;
Empty cans that make the loudest noise.
If you desire knowledge, then read.
Read.
Read
And READ!
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
Our Sweeney nurses his Falstaff,
Joining his hail-and-well-met fellows in mirth
This man of hearty life and laugh,
His fingernails rife with the stuff of earth and labor.
Outside, the moon’s reflection
In the sluggish and slatternly Canisteo
Is a portentous dot-and-dash thing,
Its light here-and-gone
As incongruous evening thunderheads,
Great wavy pompadours rolling off the big lake out west,
Growl sullenly as they move through;
Sweeney pays them no mind, as he has other fish to fry,
Regarding a frowzy pair from the sisterhood of round heels,
One of whom, catching his glance,
Crosses the room, mounting his lap and mussing his hair,
Purring ‘Jus wanna see how your lap feels, Hon.
At which she falls on the floor
(But softly, in the manner of an old campaigner)
Thereafter taking a moment to pull her skirt up just so
To adjust a stocking (black, with a run or two on display)
As her compatriot stands nearby,
Making calculations and considerations,
And with a barely noticeable nod to her co-conspirator
The pair head to the bar
While Sweeney, grinning the grin
Of a toreador expectant of victory and its spoils
Rises to join them and, just as suddenly, pauses,
Perhaps cognizant of the old poker saw
That if you look about the table
And can’t figure out who the mark is, it must be you,
Or perhaps it was the ringing of the bells on the hour
From Our Lady of the Valley
(Normally inaudible inside the tavern,
But the wind had made an odd swing to the southeast,
Allowing the chimes to occasionally outshine the jukebox)
Or perhaps something else intangible, inscrutable,
But in any case Sweeney bids his congregants
A hasty farewell as he saunters to the doorway,
Exiting into the humid, fecund evening,
And as he negotiates the sidewalk homeward,
He notes the odd evening singing of birds,
Their songs, even though he is part and parcel
Of this small city and its streets to his marrow,
Unfamiliar to the point of bafflement.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 1:35 PM UTC