"friar" poems
In fair Verona where Will set the scene
Belle Fortune moves the markers up and down.
Two households both alike in dignity
Fiercely compete for fear of losing ground.
When Juliet saw Romeo at the dance
Events were set in motion that, perchance,
Would see fair Juliet as our Romeo’s bride
but ultimately result in her suicide.
With Tybalt and Mercutio both dead,
And Capulet and Montague estranged.
Young Paris sought fair Juliet to wed
not knowing of her loss of maiden-head.
Romeo was banished for his crime,
a sin for which a peasant would have died
Their two households, joined because they wed,
remained divided by their foolish pride.
Summer’s fierce heat shimmered in the air,
oppressive in the absence of a breeze.
With Friar Lawrence’s help, Romeo’s girl played dead,
as if struck down by some unknown disease
Romeo , in Mantua, heard that his Juliet
Lay dead amongst the sleeping Capulets.
A draught of deadly poison he obtained
So they might sleep together once again.
When Romeo met Paris at her tomb,
Words led to swordplay, leaving Paris dead.
Would not the world have been a better place
if Romeo had kept it sheathed instead?
Unshriven, Romeo drank the poison down-
the only son of Montague now dead.
Perchance just then fair Juliet revives
Bereaved, she took his Dirk to bed instead.
Authorities, arriving at the scene,
could only mourn a brace of kinsmen lost.
Capulet and Montague were reconciled
Their amity bought at a fearful cost.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
Let's look at this tale of Robin Hood,
He was far away, being way too good,
Rob the rich, give to the poor,
Maid Marian left open her door,
She was feeling way too generous,
Got it on with Little John, no fuss,
Far away was Robin Hood,
Really, he was much too good,
Then in came Friar Tuck,
In with Maid Marian he snuck,
Then they both got it on,
With hyperactive Little John,
Yes, Maid Marian was benevolent,
Indeed, they all knew what that meant,
Thus, this twisted tale of Robin Hood,
John, Tuck, no Robin Hood the good!
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 12:37 AM UTC
Seagull on rotting planks, bouy bells ding to fog and driftwood.
A culling fire exploits the docking shire.
Filled with chlorine shards, legs caught in the clap-traps.
Friar palms glisten,
Rage responds with frisson.
Clear view over water.
Feel your arms relax and slip onto your back while the culling fire attacks.
Bulbous deadening brain chimes
As the eyes slide down to your omission crimes.
Leave me alone in my despondent company.
Don't push the matter further let communication fail to nurture.
A warm breeze carries me
like a floating portrait towards unreal scented meats.
I'm here now, alone in the corner,
The greatest intimacy with the static patterns on the carpeted flooring. The king of this corner is the odor of plank seating and flowery detergent in this lonely corridor fluorescent light-bulb poles and old grain floorboards.
Now the returning shards of panic to uncelibate strangers drive me up, far, deep in my own ribcage to something wholly non-organic.
Time to clock-in, time to check out.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
Former trier turned friar
Storming rage behind fryers
World of potential in the inner mental
Work ethic impeccable
Work conditions unethical
Nine hours no lunch or break
Better pump the brakes and pull stake
Time to get a slice of thine own pie
Reach nirvana prime and let the soul fly
Soar above money traps and get the bag
Lest your future gets clicky clacked
And your happiness capped
Spinning poverty’s vicious cycle
Grinning sharks made me their disciple
Life is trifling when your blood leaves
Heat stifling as the done deed
Has you on your knees begging
Lord have mercy please
Escape away from hate
And let love into your heart
Then and only then will you start
To understand the holy ghost
That is you
And the apostles that are your friends
Ride or die to the end
This ain’t no game of let’s pretend
It’s real life
Your one shot to drip and ball
So don’t let it slip by
Or you’ll fall before you walk, y'all.
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 4:17 PM UTC
What should I be but a prophet and a liar,
Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar?
Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water,
What should I be but the fiend’s god-daughter?
And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog,
That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog?
And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar,
But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter?
You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe,
As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby,
You will find such flame at the wave’s weedy ebb
As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother’s web,
But there comes to birth no common spawn
From the love of a priest for a leprechaun,
And you never have seen and you never will see
Such things as the things that swaddled me!
After all’s said and after all’s done,
What should I be but a harlot and a nun?
In through the bushes, on any foggy day,
My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away,
With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth,
A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth.
And there sit my Ma, her knees beneath her chin,
A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in,
And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying
That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying!
He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin,
He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin,
He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil,
And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil!
Oh, the things I haven’t seen and the things I haven’t known,
What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown,
And yanked both ways by my mother and my father,
With a “Which would you better?” and a “Which would you rather?”
With him for a sire and her for a dam,
What should I be but just what I am?
1.7k
Go praise thou the Lord! It's seven o'clock!
You cannot afford to slumber ad hoc.
Five times you've hit snooze, and you've wasted an hour,
Forget your excuse, and go get in the shower.
Go praise thou the Lord! The prayerbook awaits,
its words unexplored, so get on your skates.
It stands on the shelf for the start of the day,
For Jesus himself rose up early to pray.
Go praise thou the Lord! Praise him in the morn!
You seem to be floored. You don't know you're born.
I wake you at six and you wail that you're sunk
but just try your tricks as a friar or monk!
Go praise thou the Lord! Take heed what I say:
I know you've implored today's Saturday;
No more may you lurk with alarm clock ignored;
For praising takes work, so go praise thou the Lord!
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 4:48 AM UTC
If love is tied to the stars, and to fate,
to what seems to be just a fleeting dream-
Perhaps star crossed or maybe all is lost,
Will we know before the end of the scene?
Are there hints? If so, what do they mean?
What exactly, do all of these signs foretell?
Is there a theme amongst the clues, between
Half-hearted attempts at wishing well?
But on these things, we do not dwell-
Passions play should be a victimless crime.
No heaven, nor hell, nor friar, nor spell,
Could part us before our appointed time!
Can we live, with the world as our rhyme,
And as poets, play our songs to the part?
Would you be mine if I could divine
the secret melodies that lay in your heart?
So this I swear, before God, in this state-
To love you, as if this were our final scene.
And then forevermore, our love will endure
As an endless dream within our dreams.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
daylights body wanders down the cobblestone street
and falls on the old church steps
the friar steps out of its golden doors
and tries to sweep daylight off its feet
with a ten cent broom
but he cant get a purchase
on the shadows that follow light wherever it goes
daylights groupies are naked for daylights leasure alone
so the friar retreats afraid and muttering curses
at all the power and influence the church has lost
daylights body takes a powder from that strange place
and goes down to the shore
warm up all thouse chilly babes
snowbunny's massing on the beach
pale skin honeys needing a tan
all give daylight a kiss on both cheeks
how ya been babe gimmie a call do lunch
but his is a hot phone number to have
and you gotta stand in line
to catch a breeze in that company
daylights body is dying to take a break
so he slips on down
the back road
and kissing the girls one last time
slips over the horizon
be back tomorrow
is the sticky note in the sky
snowbunnys are here and its time to fly
up to the big tree
in downtown ft lauderdale
and see what winner gets the bed in the corner
under the all night gypsy choir
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
During the fifteenth century,
in Verona, Italy...
Lays a story of the star crossed lovers,
that ends in pure tragedy.
According to the stars above
it is said that the couple,
was never meant to fall in love.
The Capulet's rue,
the Montague's.
A long lasting feud,
that ended very crude.
Already secretly wed,
by the Friar Lawrence.
Juliet is forced to Marry Paris instead.
On the day she is to wed she drinks a potion,
to fake herself dead...
When Romeo hears about his wife's death...
It is at that moment,
he is ready to take his very last breath.
Their love was marked ill-fated.
All because one family was very well hated.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
In a Green Friar car park
a professor turns the key -
his engine shudders - falls mute.
Leaning classword into the wind,
his footfalls cover the echoes
of the lethal chaos beneath his feet -
masking the curses of proud Richard
struggling to keep his saddle.
Then, in a whirlwind of swords,
the final Rose of Lancaster
falls in slow motion
to the Leichester earth -
merging with the primal dust.
The professor's archaeologists
have arrived for the dig
and Richard's bones begin to stir.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
Some call me a prophet
Others see me as a derelict
These stories I’ve stored in my head
Can easily be twisted to fantasy
Am I reliable?
You have no choice
But to take what I say and believe
At least for a little while
I believe the listener
Is as naïve as I seem
Sitting on every detail
Every word
While visiting Southwark
I met a variety of characters
From different means of life
With different perspectives on the world
Looking innocent has its advantages
It gives me a leeway
To invade other’s privacy
And extend the truth to the edge of fabrication
Have you ever questioned a storyteller?
We all seem friendly
We talk highly of everyone we meet
Until we dive deeper into their secrets
The Squire
Composing music is his forte
I say it sounds beautiful
And he seems fresh as the month of May
The Friar
A gossiper full of language
I hope to understand
To grasp
A Sailor
Having bad joints
From extensive labor.
He must work substantially to acquire those injuries
The Summoner
Full of white pimples
Yet drinks red wine
As red as blood
I create a story
Yet can end it all the same
I tell you what you want to hear
Not what reality presents in front of me
For life is not exciting
Without a bit of imagination.
And with my mastered poker face
It may be impossible to seek out my lies
The darkness inside us all
Can peek its head at any time
Consuming us into a downward spiral
Of lie after endless lie
So am I reliable?
We’ll just have to see.
So here comes a story
Told by me.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
Each button
Of the elevator
Is lamented with the misers
Of religions rejects
To see the
Face of a man
Forgotten in time is
To look in the mirror
Every waking morning alive
And well until you are no longer
The centipede creeps
Like rain wet fingers in the
In the depths of a mournful jungle,
Swearing that the good times are ahead
Of them if they can just survive this summertime
Entranced, we mention
Gods but in our
Dreams only can
Imagine ourselves
Freud said
Something like that
But he's dead
Long gone
Living in books
To be:
Misinterpreted
Misspelled
Misused &
Manufactured
For future generations
Of blood thirsty swine
Wiping their ***** with
Hundred dollar bills and
Ingesting 50 cent pieces
Just for the hell of it
When the night finally falls
And love subliminally dies
The circus will stay open &
The ferris wheel will continue
To spin and spin and spin
I like the
Way you
Brush your
Hair after the
Nightingale sings
I like the
Way you
Say you
Never hated
Until
You
Met me
I like the
Way you
Make up things
That are
Seemingly true
But when the
Do needs to be done
The only way
You act
Is Blue
And the separation
Of ourselves
Is left
To the open road
The naked toad
The unmentionable node
God's broken big toe
"The Devil made me stub it,"
The friar said to brother John, "We got
To get out of here, we don't
Have very long."
Press my linens with
The soft ****** hands of angels
Let me pray for my own sins
My own low down ***** miseries
As we walk to the top of the hill
We think we are entering the right realm
There are secrets in the stones
In the rivers
Within the leaves and the branches
Of every living tree
Listen
Hear
And learn
To believe
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
If it is only *** spirited and jolly
That gives utter joy in fading life;
Then that priest pious and holy,
Who must not have a darling wife--
Seeing he hath pledged to celibacy--
Will never experience earthly ecstacsy.
And if it is alone gluts of money
That do ensure the soul's bliss
And peace; then that ascetic crony--
The friar--who did willingly kiss
And vowed wholly to worldly poverty,
Neither will know also prosperity.
But, nay; it's neither cash nor coitus
That gives the heart satisfaction surplus.
Rather it be Jesus supreme and superior
That guarantees man intense joy interior.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 7:42 AM UTC
As I review the periodic table of elements
I have resorted to some thing so Idiotic
That the scientist have adored the relevance
of some infantile youthful designation.
I wondered... if one hydrogen atom
became two in what state,
what would two hydrogens be in another state.
Shiftless bonds, or double 0 eight.
Is H2o oxygen or is it O2 in rain drops.
How exactly do I love your poetry.
Do I breath as do tears fall from my eyes.
Are we all spying in on the great love.
Does a capitol L make us doves?
Ive never had such a crush,
To turn down. How much of a hug
is a lie to another friend. Ive had so many
affairs. That the friar asked me to spell affiar again
aware of a fraudien slip.
I listed turned and down again I went as
I listened to my mother speaking to frenchmen.
The diety, the diet, the destruction of language, I just
stood there smiled and again I said... I wish you knew
what you were saying in Latin as the
holy spirit convenced him. She said in uncertain
latin, the angle (angel) condemed us to understanding demi gods
and taro cards from matter to benevolence.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
INTO THE INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE INELUCTABLE VISUALITY
Leopold Bloom
tousles my hair.
Tells me I'm a
"...grand little fella altogether!"
His large black eyebrows
look as if they will leap
off his face and land on mine
chew my mind.
Of course he is
only Milo O'Shea.
Actor extraordinaire
from Strick's ULYSSES.
Some concert in the girl's gym
has mad him appear here
before me
quaking in fear.
He is the first man I see
in a tux.
Our class is to recite
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.
Was I not nervous?
Jaysus I was so I was!
The spotlight a Medusa
turning us to stone.
An audience a many
headed monster.
I...I...I
petrified.
I throw my voice
out into the dark
like throwing a mad dog
a bone.
"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky."
Guy beside me starts to cry
wee running down his left knee.
Now it's over and I
am returned to myself again.
Meeting Mr. Milo
is just a happenstance.
Later he will will become
Durand Durand
trying to **** Barbarella
with sheer pleasure.
Now, Zeffirelli's kind friar
in ROMEO AND JULIET.
But for me
he always blossoms
into Bloom
tousling my many many curls.
"A wink of his eye and
a toss his head.
soon gave me to know
I had nothing to dread."
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
Dragged forth East out of Wales
land of song and tales even then.
The harp cherished more than the sword.
Oxen strained as his joy drew them on.
This effigy would change so much
healing and mending with its power.
Ancient oak, left to dwell,
kept deep in some unforgotten cwm,
revered still then stolen by
this mendicant friar blinded to his only fate.
What songs and spells it hid within
the silence of its brooding?
Feeling now the time had come
choosing a earnest man of Christ to
make its final play.
What form it had no book tells,
an Great Oxen in my mind
to draw the condemned souls back from hell.
Condemned as Forrest himself
poor fool.
Burned on his pagan effigy, at london's gates
his fate.
And the final victory for the tree.
Darvel Gatheren you might read,
this twisted form spoken now
still makes branches stir on windless days.
And trees smile, and thank the bishops
for the last sacrifice to the old British Gods,
made by the new order.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 11:26 AM UTC
Who will sail down
these laugh line Ganges rivers?
you should hope someone will.
turn to me and whisper,
declare, utter
that in the sinosphere,
they hire crying women
lest we pass, sail, transcend
within the silence we were
ushered onto this plateau with.
lest our Deity mistake the two.
scratch. stratch scratch scratch
on the back of your throat.
Two Hundred and Two Days ago
this would have been
your Angela’s Ashes spiral
into veiled, Catholic interment.
but you’re a heathen
and no criers will have been hired
no doters at your stone
come Dias de Los Muertos
as mother to grandmother,
as peasant to ****** Spanish friar.
but you have a plan.
you,
will be ground into a fine dust
and pressed into a record.
eight minutes on both sides
be not afraid,
be not a swan song.
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 6:06 AM UTC
It's morning, I wake.
To my shock, it's all the same.
The scenery. The air. The silence.
Without hesitation, I continue the ritual,
The manufactured production line of life.
I pass you by, the love I see.
Everyday I pray to be,
Your one and only in trust,
But before that we must.
Build bridges o'er the system,
The malfunction is just too much.
Create an identity and own our own privacy.
We cherish most what we desire,
Acknowledged just by the friar.
Sacred matrimony, bond, connection.
I pass you by the love I see,
What more can I hope to be?
Than your one and only.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
In fair Verona where Will set the scene
Belle Fortune moves the markers up and down.
Two households both alike in dignity
Fiercely compete for fear of losing ground.
When Juliet saw Romeo at the dance
Events were set in motion that, perchance,
Would see fair Juliet as our Romeo’s bride
but ultimately result in her suicide.
With Tybalt and Mercutio both dead,
And Capulet and Montague estranged.
Young Paris sought fair Juliet to wed
not knowing of her loss of maiden-head.
Romeo was banished for his crime,
a sin for which a peasant would have died
Their two households, joined because they wed,
remained divided by their foolish pride.
Summer’s fierce heat shimmered in the air,
oppressive in the absence of a breeze.
With Friar Lawrence’s help, Romeo’s girl played dead,
as if struck down by some unknown disease
Romeo , in Mantua, heard that his Juliet
Lay dead amongst the sleeping Capulets.
A draught of deadly poison he obtained
So they might sleep together once again.
When Romeo met Paris at her tomb,
Words led to swordplay, leaving Paris dead.
Would not the world have been a better place
if Romeo had kept it sheathed instead?
Unshriven, Romeo drank the poison down-
the only son of Montague now dead.
Perchance just then fair Juliet revives
Bereaved, she took his Dirk to bed instead.
Authorities, arriving at the scene,
could only mourn a brace of kinsmen lost.
Capulet and Montague were reconciled
Their amity bought at a fearful cost.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 8:18 AM UTC
(crazy indeed i believe) by me.....
Forensic friar,
frigid liars,
arent we all the forecast over overnight paintings?
Packs to be handled,
monstorious scandal,
Murk with no lighted candle to show you thine way!!!
Merry making believers believe,
concievers concieve only to turn around to be fooled once again!!
Minced meat poison to drain thy wearied inner,
thy eyes sink in thinner,
as the sharpened mirrage stares back at you.......
indigence canst only grim so much,
doth thou haveth any more meaning without your Mr or Mrs special touch?
cacoon hustles muffled to trotted maturities,
where conspiracy takes strange,
taketh realism in full pains!!
tear away at these cut patches,
where bought blotches are nearly detailed!!
Crusade of all Majority,
spare from this speared destiny,
where old timing recipe's become thine old time Menu...........
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
Books in Barnes;
A Noble night.
One of laughter,
Not of fright.
We walked and read
With coffee, hot.
As I watched your head
Bow to words so smart.
We waited an hour;
Then a bit more.
For you to see
My one fine *****
I'm joking of course.
She's really quite grand.
As you are to stars
And I to any man.
And that little bundle
Of energy and words
That never stops,
As if were birds.
Oh, the *** food with salad
Dead fish without tan.
Talking about the stars
As if ocean sand.
So immensely vast
Just as our souls
You read your lyrics
As we shared our Bowles.
You told of life
And the struggles thrown
At each of us
And how it's known
To rock us roughly
Then settles to peace
As we know more each day
And walk with more ease.
To find another
As we found they
Across a parking lot
Waving "hey".
But not your first meeting.
I'm not talking about Jim and Nick's;
But beyond what we see
In stones, leaves, and sticks.
We are out of this world
And in the center of it.
Lives crossing through others
Bit by bit.
So you know them well
You just missed their smiles
And the giggles unlimited
While we spun our tires.
We've danced before,
But not like this.
We've hugged like bears
With ethereal kiss.
Across the miles
Through water and fire;
Through earth and wind
By slave and friar.
By king and jest,
Princess and queen.
Through beast and fowl
We each have seen
Each other before
In glancing ways
And finally spent one of my dreams
At night, after one fine day.
And I'm thankful to all
That we met up that night.
That we shared our shared being
Through touch, sound, sniffing and sight.
And to the cosmos
I'll say this quite loud
I love you three the mostest post toastest. Ha!
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
I don’t dwell on the whiskey burn
Or on lager-foamed lips
Rouge lipstick mark hints
Of a bruise to form and swell
You say you remember it well
Of me doe-eyed, above the glass
That captured a moment passed
Sleuth youths with young lungs
Huff up Villier’s smoke - so cool
Smirking, as we watch the girls
In vintage skirts, they coyly twirl
With kindling eyes and Gordon’s wine
In shy reply.
Echoes of the night before
Slowly fade in violet hours.
What’s so inviting under Arches
Now clatters back to the Strand,
Away from Embankment
And stolen midnight kisses.
So to remove a part of me
Is to remove a world of Pride.
A journey not yet run its course,
A journey not at its hearse
;
For if it is not alright
,
Then it is not yet the end.
Without due care I flick the end
Towards the river well
.
It roars and sighs,
By the ‘friar,
Past the Tower,
And Shadwell,
All through Rotherhithe.
It’s not the end, it’s not the end
.
For we go on and on
Just like the Thames.
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 4:59 AM UTC
Many thoughts flying
And sides trying
To find the underlying meaning
To words actions and mannerisms
Winding up in a cataclysm -
Quickly turning to the television
In a fog, thick mist, I’m foraging
For a piece of me thats readable
Or even just believable
I’m a liar, I envy the friar
To whom the word is dropped down
For them to pray on and drop down
To their knees and say “Oh
God you guided me
Kept your eye on me
When I couldn’t see
And I believe
I believe”
But if I did so blindly seek
Affirmations from this heaven freak
There’s so much to concede
Cos my world is telling me
We don’t deserve equality
No, Earth’s no hell
But its a hell of a monstrosity
Good god
Is for those with no gut for suffering
For those who can’t bear uttering
Words that simply bounce around a void
Devoid of meaning and shattering
Their dreams of happiness
Good god
Suddenly this entity
Is growing heavy with hostility
Who's the enemy?
Think I’ll choose quite pleasantly/vasectomy
Over your supremacy
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 4:39 AM UTC
Between two caves
deep underground
lies a place they call
the whispering sound.
Once
a place of castles
Kings and Queens,
a place of silence in
your dreams,
a place where Arthur has the throne,
where Robin Hood is known and
speaks of John and Will and
Friar Tuck,
where
Puck ***** on the nannies ***
(the last bit an irrelevance)
but needs must speak
of past and all events.
They were seen,
the courtiers passing vessels to
the Queen,and she who
plots against the King was seen by
Fairies in the fairy ring.
Spells were cast
a ruling passed
and
death flew in on scarlet wings.
In the whispering sound
deep underground
silence sits alone,
no king no throne,
the whispers whisper
all alone.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC