"episcopal" poems
How neatly a cat sleeps,
Sleeps with its paws and its posture,
Sleeps with its wicked claws,
And with its unfeeling blood,
Sleeps with ALL the rings a series
Of burnt circles which have formed
The odd geology of its sand-colored tail.
I should like to sleep like a cat,
With all the fur of time,
With a tongue rough as flint,
With the dry *** of fire and
After speaking to no one,
Stretch myself over the world,
Over roofs and landscapes,
With a passionate desire
To hunt the rats in my dreams.
I have seen how the cat asleep
Would undulate, how the night flowed
Through it like dark water and at times,
It was going to fall or possibly
Plunge into the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
Like a tiger's great-grandfather,
And would leap in the darkness over
Rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.
Sleep, sleep cat of the night with
Episcopal ceremony and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams
Control the obscurity
Of our slumbering prowess
With your relentless HEART
And the great ruff of your tail.
22.6k
THE BOY Alexander understands his father to be a famous lawyer.
The leather law books of Alexander's father fill a room like hay in a barn.
Alexander has asked his father to let him build a house like bricklayers build, a house with walls and roofs made of big leather law books.
The rain beats on the windows
And the raindrops run down the window glass
And the raindrops slide off the green blinds down the siding.
The boy Alexander dreams of Napoleon in John C. Abbott's history, Napoleon the grand and lonely man wronged, Napoleon in his life wronged and in his memory wronged.
The boy Alexander dreams of the cat Alice saw, the cat fading off into the dark and leaving the teeth of its Cheshire smile lighting the gloom.
Buffaloes, blizzards, way down in Texas, in the panhandle of Texas snuggling close to New Mexico,
These creep into Alexander's dreaming by the window when his father talks with strange men about land down in Deaf Smith County.
Alexander's father tells the strange men: Five years ago we ran a Ford out on the prairie and chased antelopes.
Only once or twice in a long while has Alexander heard his father say "my first wife" so-and-so and such-and-such.
A few times softly the father has told Alexander, "Your mother ... was a beautiful woman ... but we won't talk about her."
Always Alexander listens with a keen listen when he hears his father mention "my first wife" or "Alexander's mother."
Alexander's father smokes a cigar and the Episcopal rector smokes a cigar and the words come often: mystery of life, mystery of life.
These two come into Alexander's head blurry and gray while the rain beats on the windows and the raindrops run down the window glass and the raindrops slide off the green blinds and down the siding.
These and: There is a God, there must be a God, how can there be rain or sun unless there is a God?
So from the wrongs of Napoleon and the Cheshire cat smile on to the buffaloes and blizzards of Texas and on to his mother and to God, so the blurry gray rain dreams of Alexander have gone on five minutes, maybe ten, keeping slow easy time to the raindrops on the window glass and the raindrops sliding off the green blinds and down the siding.
3.9k
Mrs. Gabrielle Giovannitti comes along Peoria Street
every morning at nine o'clock
With kindling wood piled on top of her head, her eyes
looking straight ahead to find the way for her old feet.
Her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti, whose
husband was killed in a tunnel explosion through
the negligence of a fellow-servant,
Works ten hours a day, sometimes twelve, picking onions
for Jasper on the Bowmanville road.
She takes a street car at half-past five in the morning,
Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti does,
And gets back from Jasper's with cash for her day's
work, between nine and ten o'clock at night.
Last week she got eight cents a box, Mrs. Pietro
Giovannitti, picking onions for Jasper,
But this week Jasper dropped the pay to six cents a
box because so many women and girls were answering
the ads in the Daily News.
Jasper belongs to an Episcopal church in Ravenswood
and on certain Sundays
He enjoys chanting the Nicene creed with his daughters
on each side of him joining their voices with his.
If the preacher repeats old sermons of a Sunday, Jasper's
mind wanders to his 700-acre farm and how he
can make it produce more efficiently
And sometimes he speculates on whether he could word
an ad in the Daily News so it would bring more
women and girls out to his farm and reduce operating
costs.
Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti is far from desperate about life;
her joy is in a child she knows will arrive to her in
three months.
And now while these are the pictures for today there are
other pictures of the Giovannitti people I could give
you for to-morrow,
And how some of them go to the county agent on winter
mornings with their baskets for beans and cornmeal
and molasses.
I listen to fellows saying here's good stuff for a novel or
it might be worked up into a good play.
I say there's no dramatist living can put old Mrs.
Gabrielle Giovannitti into a play with that kindling
wood piled on top of her head coming along Peoria
Street nine o'clock in the morning.
2.9k
Duke said,
“People pray in many different languages
and God hears them all.”
I’m equally a Jew and Muslim,
both living in perfect peace within me.
I’m a little bit Baptist and a little bit Episcopal.
I yearn to swim in the living waters,
and hunger for the cup and bread.
I’m more of a Quaker then a Buddhist.
Only because I’m American and I can’t speak good Chinese yet.
But Buddha’s Lamp is my constant companion,
illumining my every step in this dark world.
I’m also equally composed of east and west Indies
and sometimes even druid.
The Great Spirit and Tantric arts
remain mysteries to me.
I only know them by feeling.
And yes our Afro Heritage.
The drums, the whistle, the dance,
synchronizes our heart beat
to The Beneficent One’s finger taps.
Yes we celebrate The Holy Spirit
with cymbal, voice and drum.
I am a full dues paying member
to the 2nd Hoboken Chapter
of the Unitarian Universal Catholic Church Respectively.
We meet down the block from Sinatra’s Synagogue.
We are all apostles and responsible
for our small spaces that we rent here on earth.
I know I’m 100% Zoroastrian.
I am mesmerized by the fire.
My heart aches for the light.
I tend tiny candles
and listen for the lonely fire
of Coltrane’s sax.
I’m a nun and
a Thelonious Monk.
We run an inn for weary and lost travelers.
We build hospitals to cure the infirm;
and schools to teach the golden rule of love.
We try to do things differently.
Dizzy practiced the Behai faith.
“OOM BOP SHE BAM” I pray.
Music Selection:
Dizzy Gillespie,
Swing Low Sweet Cadillac
jbm
Oakland
12/26/98
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
The little sparrows
hop ingenuously
about the pavement
quarreling
with sharp voices
over those things
that interest them.
But we who are wiser
shut ourselves in
on either hand
and no one knows
whether we think good
or evil.
Meanwhile,
the old man who goes about
gathering dog-lime
walks in the gutter
without looking up
and his tread
is more majestic than
that of the Episcopal minister
approaching the pulpit
of a Sunday.
These things
astonish me beyond words.
1.6k
Open eyes
With sun's rise
Rouge roused room
Four by six box
Satin lined
Episcopal ritual,
Bury the dead
Mother, Father
Don Apache garb
Hymnal hummed
Candle lit
How could nature see this fit
Suspended
From casket
Rise
And rise
And rise
Above autumn leaves
Struck with vigor
And love unobtained
Taunting with every flick of the wrist
Breeze blows through hair
I rise
And rise
And rise
Far above atmospheric scene
Aesthetics please
Sculpted by hands pure and clean
Mountains and sea
Gifted unto me
Love unrestrained
Rise
And rise
And rise
Celestials gleam
Forever in a day
A glimpse I've obtained
Descend
And descend
And descend
To gift bestowed
To forest spring
Nestled in
Mother's green
Descend
To casket
Forever in sleep
Forever in dreams
Open eyes
Rise
And rise
And rise
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
The little sparrows
hop ingenuously
about the pavement
quarreling
with sharp voices
over those things
that interest them.
But we who are wiser
shut ourselves in
on either hand
and no one knows
whether we think good
or evil.
Meanwhile,
the old man who goes about
gathering dog-lime
walks in the gutter
without looking up
and his tread
is more majestic than
that of the Episcopal minister
approaching the pulpit
of a Sunday.
These things
astonish me beyond words.
1.4k
a wise old sage from Louisiana, smoking cigarettes,
—which i stole one from that same pack later that day
and smoked it and almost threw up
behind the kind old episcopal woman’s house,
who the sage and i were living with in Memphis in july,
because we both were working on a stage somewhere in town
and we needed a place to stay a while, to watch summer rise from spring,
and i needed a place for you to **** me,
my phantom,
you, who, countless times, the Louisianan sage warned me about,
and the old episcopal woman hopefully knew nothing about,
who, chanting truths of freedom and songs of singularity,
white-haired, rose-gardening,
solitary and
alone and
buried alive
in the walls of her house,
surrounded by her memories,
like the coffee mugs i accidentally stole
when I left in August,
which, as it turns out, they were heirlooms of her dead mother’s—
i cracked them all, i believe—
the louisianan sage, who once tasted the sweat of New Orleans’ blues jazz soul,
now sitting across from me in the episcopal lady’s back porch,
sipping coffee from one of her mugs
that i eventually took and inevitably cracked,
this sage told me wide-eyed through cigarette smoke,
seeing visions in the june blue sky,
‘the truth hurts. but a lie hurts more.’
the smoke rose to the clouds above our heads
like a sacrifice to god, and i rose with it,
and told him about september eighteenth.
and what it felt like to die
and come here.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
XD
If you offer Moses porkchops
And Ghandi t-bone steaks
An Amish woman lightbulbs
You have what it takes!
If fish ain't on the menu
For a Catholic's Friday meal
And you fast on a Fat Wednesday
You're the real deal!
If at a Mosque you're dancing
While they're bowing to the east
If you use a salad fork
To eat the main course feast
At Episcopal church functions
Then don't give a dime
At Joel Osteen's mega-church
Man, you're right on time!
Non-religious offenders
Really should unite!
Just do what comes naturally!
Don't give up the fight!
Far from being reverent
Take it one step more!
Diss ol' jolly Santa
While looting big box stores!
But watch the gays and lesbians!
Jokes we won't allow!
Or political gurus and women
*For those are sacred cows!*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 10/9/2013
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC
We all die, but do we ever live?
We once were children,
but did we ever grow up?
When we graduated from college,
did we do what we loved,
or did we work on Wall Street
to make millions, if not billions?
When we married our spouses,
were we always faithful,
or did we sleep with others?
When we joined the country club
that never allowed Blacks and Jews,
did we ever think we were racists?
Did we love our children,
or did we prefer playing golf instead?
When we joined the Episcopal church,
did we pray to God, or was it more
important to join the socially elite?
Did we ever come to realize
we have always been fakes.
Did we finally have an epiphany,
or did we follow our hollow ways?
I fear the latter. That's why I pray
for you every night of every day.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 22, 2025
Jun 22, 2025 at 8:21 PM UTC
When I was a teen you Texas two-stepped me around the floor
When the family went to Eddie's Country Ballroom.
You insisted we learn to dance.
"Just relax. Follow me." you'd say "1-2-3, 1-2-3, see?" And I did.
When older, you walked me down the aisle of Grace Episcopal Church.
As we slowly stepped in metered step, we moved down the aisle in a kind of a dance.
"Just lean on me." you said. And I did.
Sep 27, 2023
Sep 27, 2023 at 12:47 PM UTC
There was a man from England
In truth a man of God
Wigglesworth's a funny name
And he was a little odd.
He earned his keep as plumber
Worked hard to learn the trade
But he knew a man named Jesus
So he HEALED and souls were saved!
There were even some occasions
Where he brought folks from the grave.
He was not a man of letters
Could not read till 23
But he always had a love for God
As humble as can be
He had great compassion
Would set the captives free!
Before his ministry began
He wanted to be pure
He would lock himself behind closed doors
The Lord worked out his flaws
He was of a different age
But his memory endures
Everywhere that man went
The people flocked around
The lame could walk! The blind could see!
The meetings holy ground!
He was not a Methodist
Episcopal at all
But he went to those churches
When he received a call
He believed in Pentecost
And he brought a Spirit fall
Everything he did in life
Was for his love for Christ
He gave all his money
For missions - at great price
He couldn't even spell
But no action was a waste
Powerfully written
His books sold round the earth
"EVER INCREASING FAITH"
To this day has worth
Oh! That we'd have his faith now!
Here in the U.S.
But WE worship MONEY
So we are in distress
We worship self and worldly gain
And our lives are a mess
Take me, OH! My precious Lord!
Pull me from this mire!
I want to be a Wigglesworth...
To THIS cause I ASPIRE!
Give me his compassion
The tears! In ME INSPIRE!
For years I have been waiting
You've tried me in the fire!
I want ever more of YOU!
Jesus! Take me higher!
Yes! I have the willingness
Yes! I'll build my faith
But will I stick to it?
For that is what it takes!
There was a man in England
His first name was Smith
And there's scarce a man today
Who can match his gifts.
We haven't the willingness
All WE want are perks
Scarce a "workman of today
*Who'll roll up sleeves and WORK.*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/15/2016
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 1:36 AM UTC
It is undeniable, when in the embrace of the great pipe *****
At the venerable old Episcopal church on Third Street,
Or wholly encircled by Tiffany-issue stained glass
At St. Joe’s in South Troy (ostensibly the “ironworker’s church”,
But gifted with its invaluable windows
Through a mixture of noblesse oblige, piety,
And a certain venal pride)
That there is a presence, a corporeality when the tune rises
From the pipes, be they iron or wholly human in origin,
Which is steadfast and implacable in the certitude of faith.
I’d heard the tune on another occasion,
Some half-dozen blocks north of the gaggle of churches,
Emanating from a squat, red-brick edifice
Which seemed a bit unsure of its own solidity,
As if the trust placed in mortar and block
Was somehow a bit presumptuous.
The voices were reedy, a tad threadbare and careworn,
And the accompaniment was unprepossessing
(A single guitar, perhaps, or an ancient and wobbly Casio
Rescued from the beyond by some kindhearted DPW worker)
And, though the voices were pitchy
And the harmonies a half-step or so amiss,
One hopes that it would constitute an acceptable offering,
Even not having fully shed the cloak of reticence
Which can be so difficult to unclasp on the road to devotion.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
No merecías las loas vulgares
que te han escrito los peninsulares.
Acreedora de prosas cual doblones
y del patricio verso de Lugones.
En el morado foro episcopal
eres el Árbol del bien y del mal.
Piensan las señoritas al mirarte:
con virtud no se va a ninguna parte.
Monseñor, encargado de la Mitra,
apostató con la Danza de Anitra.
Foscos mílites revolucionarios
truecan espadas por escapularios,
aletargándose en la melodía
de tu imperecedera teogonía.
Tu filarmónico Danubio baña
el colgante jardín de la patraña.
La estolidez enreda sus hablillas
cabe tus pitagóricas rodillas.
En el horror voluble del incienso
se momifica tu rostro suspenso,
mas de la momia empieza a transcender
sanguinolento aviso de mujer.
Y vives la única vida segura:
la de Eva montada en la razón pura.
Tu rotación de ménade aniquila
la zurda ciencia, que cabe en tu axila.
En la honda noche del enigma ingrato
se enciende, como un iris, tu boato.
Te riegas cálida, como los vinos,
sobre los extraviados peregrinos.
La pobre carne, frente a ti, se alza
como brincó de los dedos divinos:
religiosa, frenética y descalza.
358
Tú, Fuensanta, me libras de los lazos del mal;
queman mi boca exangüe de Isaías los carbones;
por ti me dan los cielos profundas contriciones
y el ensueño me otorga su gracia episcopal.
Para comer las viandas del convite nupcial
en que se han desposado nuestros dos corazones,
tomo el báculo y ciño mis pies y mis riñones
cual se hacía en las fiestas del Cordero Pascual.
Las llaves con que he abierto tu corazón, mis llaves
sagradas son las mismas de Pedro el Pescador;
y mis alejandrinos, por tristes y por graves,
son como los versículos proféticos de un canto,
y hasta las doce horas de mis días de amor
serán los doce frutos del Espíritu Santo.
349
The beauty of that deer
Episcopal church, no fear
Sleeping in the grass
Celtic Cross I pass
Tears to wipe away
Nothing gold can stay
My My, Hey Hey
Jun 8, 2020
Jun 8, 2020 at 10:37 PM UTC
He walks in the footsteps that few can tread.
His gentle voice is commanding--
Not in a commandeering manner,
But full of understanding,
Kindness, compassion, patience, and peace.
There's no way to measure
The love that permeates his being.
His words: a priceless treasure.
While others with judgmental views
Tear the world apart,
This man has not one speck
Of hatred in his heart.
Deep humility guides his steps
And isn't a mere abstraction.
Passion for humanity
Governs his every action.
You mean Christ, you say to me
With words one could defend.
Christ? No, I mean George,°
My school chum and my friend.
-by Bob B (6-28-17)
°The Eleventh Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of New Jersey
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 9:58 AM UTC
Each night I prepare for eternal sleep
Baby I do dream
Her father is an Episcopal priest
I miss my basketball team
I will be forgotten
But I hope remembered by God
I'm not Johnny Rotten
Just shy and geeky Todd
and a little odd
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 9:33 PM UTC