"hosannas" poems
Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut
mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum
Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros
autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem
Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de
quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.
S. Ignatii Ad Trallianos.
And when this epistle is read among you, cause that
it be read also in the church of the Laodiceans.
The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh and blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo’s feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.
The ‘potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo’s voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.
The hippopotamus’s day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way—
The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the ‘potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr’d virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
4.7k
Passover Moon's
****** hue
eclipses
the ordinary
in veils of
miraculousness
obscure
rouge
halos
illume
elliptical arcs
guiding
footsteps in
a righteous
exodus
across
troubling
waters
forsaking
hovels
with
painted
doorjambs
dripping
lambs blood
Mezuzahs
bleat
memories
holy
murmurs
bespeaking
lamentations
of ancient
hosannas
our
desperate
supplications
flesh out a
distressed
humanity
seeking
deliverance
from the
vengeance
is mine
Elohim
may it
be nigh
we wait
watching for
an always faithful
Good Deliverer
to honor the
covenant
to lift
despair
with a
liberating
yoke
lugging
leaden
burdens
Oh Holy
of
Holies
banished
in the wisp
of a bitter herb
our
distended
bellies
fill with
unleavened
grace
sweet
droplets
of manna
consumed
with extreme
gratitude
arriving
at journeys
end to
promised
lands
fully
satiated
and free
to rest in
sanctuaries
of radical
hospitality
luxuriating
in an infinite
abundance
for all
sojourners
Selah
Music Selection:
Big Mama Thornton
Go Down Moses
Oakland
4/15/14
jbm
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
You can talk about Jesus
And be instantly heard.
You can call him your Savior
And not mean a word.
You can shout your hosannas
To the people on your street
And few will suspect you
As having pure clay feet.
Holy, holy, Holey Moley,
Things have turned for the worse.
Hiding behind Jesus
Gives our land a ride in a hearse.
When you talk about Jesus
Please be true to the words.
Read what he has said
And not what you heard.
If you read the Holy Bible
And find reason to hate
You’ve been led astray
And it’s not too late.
Holy, holy, Holey Moley,
Things have turned for the worse.
Hiding behind Jesus
Gives our land a ride in a hearse.
So far we’ve noticed
The words that bigots use
Are not from Christians,
But are textual abuse
In that they are from before
Man learned to write
So why are bigots so sure
They got everything right?
Holy, holy, Holey Moley,
Things have turned for the worse.
Hiding behind Jesus
Gives our land a ride in a hearse.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
Stones from Heaven ---pourles enfants de Haiti "Whatcrime what sin had those young hearts conceived That lie bleeding torn on a mother’sbreast... The human race demands a word from God."--Voltaire, " Poem on the Lisbon Earthquake" (1775) the flesh of the city blends its blood with the dust ofearth's gravethe devil quake broke the bones of their beds with itsterrorist bombthey could see the day light of death in the beaten air feel it in their prayerful souls as the some time glad daysun fell into forever's darkness and all the all reeked with theashes of fearwhere is the loving God of married hallelujahs? all the poor man's houses falling falling "amid thedeepening gloom"into a tomb for sons of promise and green daughterstheir pleasure and pain drowned in a ghost of tears lost like raindrops on the grey face of the bottomless oceanvanished like the passing shadows of stories in theimagination of cloudswhy oh darkened God of stones God of the Word God of Heaven? in the once bright light of a schoolyard's promise silencenow bleedswhere young eyes yesterday shouted from their books a beliefin tomorrows now the living dead carry their bodies with loving worms on the gallows of their bent backs wander the veins of thebeaten streets chanting horror's verbs black angels mourning the flesh of222,217 in mass graveswhere is the open hands of God the prodigal Father? they lie down forever in the weather of their sorrow withthe innocent deadweep for the seed of their breathless children in the bloodlit city of gospel sorrow no glad to be home families no wined friends with hope'sholiday songs no loving child's prayers or whispered shut eye no sweetgood nights no these good soldiers of Jesus' hosannas are the inspiredblind no moreto the womb of endless night no to the forsaken God of theirbrambled *****
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
The Universe is compelled to Upgrade!
Stars, Nebula, even Black Holes must be Improved!
**Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
Sis Boom Bah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Sis Boom Bah!**
It is risen! It is risen! It is Risen!
Most marvelous, miraculous divine device!
Forget turning water into wine... Lame!
Forget Muhammed moving that mountain... Lame!
Let Lazarus flop back into the tomb... Lame!
This is Miracle as it was meant to be!
Oh grand glorious God of International Capitalism!
The triumphant product of American Genius manifest
in the work of many skilled primates' foreign hands.
Truly an event of Startling Global Significance!
And you have stood like a lemming on methamphetamine
many long hours in the rain to be possessed by its majesty
and now it is yours, yours, yours, yours alone
for only $649 dollars plus a few hundred monthly.
Let all the bells be rung! Let high Hosannas be sung!
A phone so smart it was beta tested on the lobotomized
and made them look like slightly scarred Steven Hawings!
The apps that are available will explode your existence!
They can provide *********** wipe your *** ******* you.
Yes! Imagine Siri willingly kneeling between your legs!
Oh, but what to do about that first important call or text?
It must be equal in loftiness to this Digital Masterpiece!
Perhaps command it to call Obama and implore him to gain weight,
or Alexander Putin to tell him a Polar Bear needs wrestling,
or perhaps God to tell him he is no longer necessary.
No, all of these are far too paltry for that first message.
Instead, tell Siri to search for the nearest Lunatic Asylum
and book as many cells as possible for self-obsessed consumers.
That way they can text and call in medically supervised bliss,
undisturbed until Apple provides them with the next Transfiguration.
It will probably only be six months from now... Suckers.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC
**I've a home prepared where the saints abide,
Just over in the glory land;
And I long to be my Saviour's side
Just over in the glory land.
Just over in the glory land
I'll join the happy angel band,
Just over in the glory land;
Just over in the glory land;
There with the mighty host I'll stand,
Just over in the glory land
I am on my way to those mansions fair,
Just over in the glory land;
There to sing God's praise and His glory share,
Just over in the glory land.
What a joyful thought that my Lord I'll see
Just over in the glory land;
And with kindred saved, there forever be,
Just over in the glory land.
With the blood-washed throng I'll shout and sing
Just over in the glory land;
Glad hosannas to Christ the Lord and King;
Just over in the glory land.**
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
seethe ~ bubble up as a result of being boiled,
<>
sunrise was 714 am in nyc
this perfect fall day,
chilled to perfection,
a white wine of a day,
so imbibe,
only later does it
heat up up and onwards
to the temp where the
walkers/joggers/runner recite
hallelujahs and hosannas while
moving at their own chosen pace,
in a state of warm southern comfort,
never a racing
lest
the poems
now seething, boiling-burning
bubbling up inside
into the atmosphere explode!
all of these
early warming~warning inspirations,
now~expressed,
realized flickers of
original ex-impressions,
cannot be contained in
an open field unsupported,
these
breech babies each,
in a pediatric ICU,
demanding an
instantaneous airy concoction
to Earth’s atmospheric
literary intoxication
they use:
up hard, a dice roll,
who lives
who wilts,
that docs cannot but
obey
the fetus’s insistence,
many instructions,
push pull breathe,
must the. be given forthwith
through to our
servile waiting
uterine fingertips,
for we human are just be
~ings,
nurturers of
verbal artifacts
that never die
in
an~always~at~the~ready,
in service to
the great conceptual,
poetic in/justice
Oct 23, 2024
Oct 23, 2024 at 3:33 AM UTC
How do they call you,
those who’ve passed through unmarked
twin doors for the shy
side of one century?
Is it as Nicholas
of Myra,
or of Bari,
or as an unlocated saint,
working wonders in
this home of trim white-stone
block, with three tiers of black-
arches, frowning up at
the merciless
grids behind?
Rows, rows, rows, they float on
glassy, steel-blue oceans,
and these oceans will fall in
violent, cascading, millennial
waves unlike any with foam
caps that once lapped
the rocky coast of lost Lycia--
your see
our maps don’t contain,
and our licit hosannas won’t reach.
Who are they
who pray here?
Bakers, sailors, bankers,
all whose sighs
rise with a torrent of immigrant chants
liaison rafters
fracture in echo-song,
the old coinage that plies your favor.
To which patron can they turn
when your cross crowns not
the work of masons
but one day’s
rubble,
a tongue without a bell,
the charred
relics of unnameable acts?
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 1:16 PM UTC
Ode to My Hero (Me)
to be sung by Donald Trump
with apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan's
H.M.S Pinafore
As a callow youth I served a term
as Senior VP of my Daddy's firm
His moxie and his money so suited me
that now I am the ruler of the Trump fam'ly
When asked a question, my Golden Rule
is to bluster loud and flaunt my cool,
And this evasion so well suits me
that I've become the master of chicanery.
With legal suits, I've made so free
that all my smitten lenders bow down to me
For I pay my lawyers so liberally
that I never lose a dollar on a bankruptcy.
If now and then my luck runs out
I've buckets of money from my TV route,
And since my ******* up name is Gold
the money keeps a 'comin from the young and old.
For my great fame they pay and pay
and their paltry savings they fling away
on Trump U studies they're sure to find, will empty their wallets, not fill their mind.
So listen and learn from my Trumpery
and join white men who hate Hillary
They holler hosannas for their hero DonT, though for Trump adulation they can't beat me!
My heads not troubled by policy woes
'cause I learn all I want at beauty shows
I've put up very well with my three wives,
my yachts & my mansions & my gambling dives.
I've exalted myself unsparingly
and tossed off little lies with impunity
Let fey foes fault me as vain & mean,
their rightful envy leaves me quite serene.
With my big mouth and red regal head
I've clobbered all my rivals until they bled
With frank contempt I dissed Jeb B
bashed Carson & Kasich and Ted's lady.
There's hardly a Republican left to fight
and, in wimpy Dems, I inspire fright
while fearful folks seek my mighty arm
to shield them all from ISIS harm.
Now I've come to the end of this very fine Ode
to march with pride on the Presidential Road
For my boundless bluster's so elevated me
that now I am the ruler of the GOP.
If another Trump you aspire to be,
you must never, never fret about decency.
Just stiff the losers and brag like me,
and you may be the Grand Old Party's nominee.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
As I hold you in my arms I search my
spirit for the perfect words to say
Take a snapshot in your mind of these
moments of contentment for they’ll
sustain you and they’ll surely pass away
We all are stuttered benedictions
Played out of tune Hosannas
Imperfect parts, through God made perfect, Whole
A sweet and subtle contradiction
Of power and mercy defines and refines Our souls
Let the wind blow, let it move you on the ocean
Of yourself
Let the rains come, hailstones clatter but it doesn’t matter
It is well
Be slow to anger – for we are surely slow to understand
More out of simple fear than hate
People will break your heart and later on
They will regret – but you will never know
Try to find your joyful duty
Like the one I found in you
And in your brothers, in your mother Long ago
Find the faith of our fathers
It’s the harmony and rhythm
Of your symphony and all you’ll
Leave behind
Seek out the pen-strokes
Of your composer, and the watermark within
First edition, signed
Let the wind blow, let it move you on the ocean
Of yourself
Let the rains come, illusions shatter but it doesn’t matter
It is well
Be slow to anger – for we are surely slow to understand
And as I put my pen to paper I hear your mother calling, calling-
Me to bed, to gather strength to fight and rest my weary head
To wage war with the world and with myself
Let the wind blow, let it move you on the ocean
Of yourself
Let the rains come, hailstones clatter but it doesn’t matter
It is well
Be slow to anger – for we are surely slow to understand
Lord knows, we are surely slow to understand
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
I lay my head upon the altar
Censers filled with weeds and salt from
Seas long fled
Inside my head
And vestal ****** cover me in oil
And light my bier
And follow me awhile along the pier
For soon I will be dead.
Come see my prayers laid bare across the floor
The clutching fingers that can’t close around existence anymore
Come see my life sprawled underneath a pin
Come cold hosannas wash me free of sin
Come heaven and bright water Christ don’t leave me now.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
Palm Sunday
Voices bellow loud hosannas; palms wave vibrantly
The gentle humble King rides through the city gate,
The crowd extolls, not knowing what will come.
Holy Monday
He casts the merchants from the temple's court,
Coins clatter like thunder in the dust,
A sacred grief ignites within His soul.
Holy Tuesday
He teaches truth where traps are slyly laid,
With kind eyes and a steady, gentle voice,
He sows the seeds of justice, sharp as blades.
Spy Wednesday
He is touched by shadowed, silvered hands,
One kiss is weighed against the world’s regret,
The hush that falls before the hammer strikes.
Maundy Thursday
He breaks the bread and offers up the cup,
A basin, towel—He stoops to serve them all,
The garden waits beneath a sleepless moon.
Good Friday
The sky goes black at His forsaken cry,
The nails resound where silence should have been,
His cross stands rooted in sacred holy ground.
Holy Saturday
The grave is sealed beneath a silent hill,
No word breaks through the stillness of the dark,
All heaven holds its breath beneath the weight.
Easter Sunday
The earth exhales as angels roll the dawn,
He rises, bearing everything broken,
Joy bursts forth—exalt Jesus! Christ is risen indeed.!
Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 11:22 PM UTC
This month I call you Saviour.
Mostly, instinctively, I tend to call to you
as my Lord-God and Father.
Typically these are the names I call to mind at early dawn.
But this month you are 'Saviour'
as I become more acutely drawn to my need
to call on your saving grace
to draw on your sacrificial willingness
to cast off the trappings wrapped up with heavenly glory
to embrace the blood and the mess
that comes with small town nativity
and ultimately with betrayal in the big lonely city.
This month I address my prayers and my Hosannas
to you, my loving, risen Saviour.
Mar 1, 2025
Mar 1, 2025 at 5:09 PM UTC
This month I call you Saviour.
Mostly, instinctively
I call to you as Lord-God and Father.
Typically these are the names
I call to mind at early dawn.
But this month you are Saviour
as I become more acutely drawn
to my need to call on your saving grace
on your sacrificial willingness
to cast off the trappings
wrapped up with heavenly glory
to embrace the blood and the mess
that comes with small town nativity.
This month I address
my Hosannas to you,
my divine infant Saviour.
Dec 19, 2024
Dec 19, 2024 at 2:41 AM UTC
Marching in hope, marching in praise
Marching in joy where there's joy forever
Raising our hands to glorify Jesus
Shouting Hosannas, praising the Lord
Hallalujah, Jesus reigns with the glory
Of victory for every trusting and
Worshiping soul
Marching in victory, marching above
Where we find happiness waiting
Marching triumphantly praising the Lord
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
they say bow down, peons
bow down to the golden cow
to the holy, the sacred one
unending loyalty avow
raised high on four shoulders
in processions for all to see
celebrate and cheer as it passes
with streamers thrown in a spree
send up fireworks in its honor
its resplendent glory extol
croon hosannas and hallelujahs
hand over your very soul
it's the be all and the end all
that's what they'd have you believe
that it deserves all attention and laurels
of course they'd never deceive
make no misstep, follow along
like lemmings to the sea
don't think for yourselves
now and then bending a knee
if someone says "I love that cow"
say it louder and repeat
that golden idol so worshipped
give the most exalted seat
place it on a pedestal
encrusted with precious jewels
that's what they believe it's worth
those fawning, sycophant fools
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 10:00 AM UTC
Altas encinas de ondulante copa;
Troncos que os inclináis sobre las aguas
De los torrentes; pinos misteriosos
Que sois, al viento, cual silvestres arpas,
¿En vuestro ensueño secular y altivo,
No soñáis con las épocas lejanas,
Cuando el eco fugaz de los desiertos
Del Canadá, tan sólo en la comarca
Conocía las voces de las tribus,
Que en su existencia nómade mezclaban
Sus cánticos guerreros en la selva
Al rumor de las grandes cataratas?
Bajo el cielo, de estrellas tachonado,
Cuando del polo tempestuosas ráfagas
Sacuden vuestros gajos, que parecen,
Bajo la luz lunar, vagos fantasmas,
(Soñáis tal vez con los lejanos días,
Con los días gloriosos de la patria,
Cuando en vuestras guaridas, nuestros padres
La barbarie de siglos dominaban;
Cuando llevando el ideal por guía
y de ensueños heroicos llena el alma,
Se abrían paso entre la selva, al grito
De «Dios lo quiere»; el campo desbrozaban
Para la vida, y en el yermo inculto
Convertían los troncos en pilastras
De futuras metrópolis, y luego,
Pensando en las proezas del mañana,
Al amparo del bosque congregados
En las noches de invierno, como hosannas
Hacían resonar en sus clarines,
Nuncios de redención y de esperanza,
El himno del futuro en el desierto,
Sobre la virgen tierra americana?
Sí, soñáis, de pretéritas edades
Testigos, que os erguís en las montañas,
Mudos sobrevivientes de naufragios
En que fueron hundiéndose las razas...
y resistiendo el golpe de los siglos
Vuestro ramaje que imponente se alza,
A los vientos del cielo canadense
Con voz triunfal nuestra epopeya canta.
389
The annual Darwin Gay Ball
Was a gala occasion for all.
The Australopithecus
looked quite ridiculous
Leaning, half-drunk, on the wall.
Zinjanthropus, high on bananas
Uttered forth a long chain of Hosannas.
Although missing a link,
He knew just what to think
And went cruising for greener savannas.
The Cro-Magnons (more agile than Lucy)
Like their hunting and gathering juicy.
The mating was prime
And their dance, so sublime,
could out-monkey the funky Watusi.
Twas a lowbrow event; all the same,
Proto-drag-queens competed for fame.
The divine **** Habilis***,
Hairy, but fabulous,
Gave Knuckle-Dragging its name.
**** Sapiens***' wisdom has wrecked us
As the Darwinist doctrines infect us.
Knuckle-draggers may dream,
But bonobos now scream
That the winner is: **** Erectus***!
Feb 26, 2020
Feb 26, 2020 at 7:08 AM UTC