"kneeler" poems
We stood in a circle in the parlor,
Jim was chatting with his golfing crones;
Her body was there for the viewing,
But we're keen on his hole-in-one.
We gave him our proud approval,
We chorused, Jim, well-done!
Then Jim took his turn on the kneeler,
To ponder before her coffin.
We all know the cold humility,
That an ace needs a load full of luck;
Yet we're pleased to hear all his details,
From the crack off the tee,
To the flag in the cup.
I waited for my turn behind Jim,
I overheard his solemn words:
*... an eight iron... bounced once, then straight in...
Oh, and may you rest in peace too, Mrs. Hobin*.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 9:41 PM UTC
The kneeler cracks from the weight of my sins.
Suddenly the board splits into two.
I feel sharp splinters in my knees
as I stumble towards the door.
I can hear soft whispers
amongst the people.
At the exit
I see her.
My love.
God.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
Praise be to the pain of the pew!
Hard wooden bench, you are forever burned into my memory.
The way your unforgiving surface cuts into the arch of my back
during the seemingly endless lectures,
that drone on about the “Light of my life”
and how I was created to appease him.
That hour dedicated to making me feel like cattle
as opposed to the lamb my shepherd is supposedly protecting
That endless hour of watching the iridescent light
shine through the stained glass
and thinking about how I much preferred the shining of the sun
As opposed to a “light”
that didn’t even warm my face when I looked his way
Your beauty is appreciated greatly.
Though the glossy finish is deceiving,
for when I sit upon it I feel the chill on my bare legs
as I am reminded that I was forced into wearing my sunday best
Oh mighty Pew, I must give you thanks.
You were the only thing that held me up
when the weight of the harsh judgement,
the intense trailing eyes that raked over your image mercilessly
and intrusive mouths full of only the nosiest questions
made me want to drop to the kneeler
even when we weren’t told to bow our heads in prayer.
I am forever grateful
for the amusement
of peeling flaking paint off of your corners
to battle the brain mutilating boredom
that came along with the monotone voice of the pastor.
You truly are beautiful,
You and your clones all lined up one behind the other.
All facing towards the front
where the cross stood above all,
the lord’s painted eyes watching us.
All of us!
A bunch of sinners.
How fearless of you, great pew
to harbor such sinning souls.
To help them convert
to something worth saving.
So even if your hard surface cuts into the arch of my back,
And your glossy finish deceives me with it’s cold exterior.
I must thank you
for helping me sit up straight in church.
because I wasn’t sure,
between the judgemental stare
and the hissing threats from my mother,
if I could even slouch in my seat
Without the need to beg for the forgiveness.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC
Durable Medical Equipment
Standard kit; four wheels and a hand
brake, tubular construction in sober
parsons black with a lick
of chrome fittings, she’s low
to the ground and tight
on the turns with a basket
up front, padded kneeler in back,
our Mardis Gras float, I’ll ease her in
behind the Krewe of Mona Lisa and Moon Pie
while you slosh hurricane and wave
to the joyous, drunken throngs.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
she appeared in a dream
way back in my younger years
a solemn, solitary white woman
kneeling silently at the altar rail
her long brown hair covered
beneath a long white veil
looking like Mary
she spoke not a word
her hands clasped in prayer
we all watched from the pews
mesmerized
without moving, she called my name
sounded like Mrs. Pino
my 5th grade catechism teacher
she kept calling
she wanted me to come forward
to receive recognition or an award
glued to the kneeler in the pews
I thought to myself
‘Lady, you’ve got the wrong guy’
he appeared in a dream
many, many years later
decades
he drove a red Honda
up to my back porch
in the projects
I often dream of that childhood place
as still home
he got out of the car to address me
tall with faded jeans
gray hoody and sunglasses
obscuring his face
couldn’t even see his skin tone
as if he were purposely unviewable
my unempowered eyes searching
he stood there in glory
looking like a son of man
he wanted to know if I knew him
I kept ogling to see who he was
but I couldn’t tell
he asked again
I didn’t answer
still focusing on ****** features
instead of the all of him
he turned back to the car
got in and drove away
leaving me still wondering
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
Once the fee fie fo fum ********
Stopped, he was small,
Lying still,
Eyes and lips glued,
Orifices finally stuffed.
What would a priest do?
So, I stretched my hand,
Ritualistic-like,
As a benediction of charity,
An attempt.
I should've worn a soutane,
Perhaps used a kneeler,
But suplication ended.
That night, I looked
Beyond the moon
To starry clusters of ka-boom,
But nothing.
That sealed it.
Death bed conversions
Don't move me;
Death bed confessions do.
Ah, still nothing.
Forgiveness has
A statute of limitations.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC
Studiously learning what’s in the Mazatlán,
They caught each other’s eye as she sat in a corner booth,
The gleam he saw aglow there, he began to dwell upon,
The radiance of her countenance was akin to light and truth
He joked and mugged and walked a wire,
She gestured, and, the flames grew higher,
She told him of her man betrothed,
He shuddered but appeared unmoved.
But growing way down, deep inside him,
There welled a thirst, so powerfully pure,
He tried to bury it, to push it down,
But drawing him, pulling him, her enticing allure,
They stood calf-deep near Ontario’s shore
The moon smiled down and charged their glow
She’d lower her eyes and his heart would soar
That moon knew things that she didn’t know
For he whispered to the moon his heart’s desire
That this fair maiden would one day be his,
And the mother of the fates was summoned by wire
And soon, on the island, it was sealed with a kiss!
And she changed her destiny and his heart leapt for joy!
She could not have known how happy she made him;
There were fireworks and magic for that unseasoned boy
He was glad his thirsty thoughts had betrayed him
Fast forward five years, to a kneeler on the altar
A bond was forged there - which never will falter
And darling new creatures now fill their book
And he is even more smitten than at that first look
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 11:27 PM UTC
"Bracken course Breacán Healer
Saints altogether one kneeler"
© 2021 Carol Natasha Diviney
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 9:42 PM UTC