"nuns" poems
Once upon a day or night -- Wait, it was day, there was a light
a light, which shone upon a moonlit drive so dark and drear.
At keeping track, I'm sadly slacking. Forgive my memory, it is lacking
memoirs of this day of days I could not -- would not -- hear.
But now alas, alan, alack, something gruesome did attack, my dear.
Something's ugly head did rear.
Indistinctly, I remember, was it June? July? November?
Moments burn together as I recollect the fear.
And though he knows it gets to me, he will never set it free,
the truth of all the memories I used to hold so dear.
The truth you chose to hide from me for days, turned months, turned year.
But no, I will not shed one tear.
He held my hard heart high in flutter. Stomachs full of bread and butter.
Our love could not be jaded, for he traded tea from beer.
And though we were the oddest pair, I thought by now he would not care
how people chose to say their puns of nuns and hateful jeer.
Of wolves and sheep, of awkward sleep, of hunters hunting deer.
I thought we had our life in gear.
Sadly, though, I was mistaken. Blast, that awful wretch has taken
my whole soul and everything I previously thought mere.
He broke it off, and with a cough confessed, a darkest truth repressed
of everything, how twas a lie, and that the end was near.
And with four words, a looking glass of sorts he handed me to peer.
These the blue-eyed snake hath spoke: "Honey, I'm a queer."
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
Anne crutched her way
over the grass
from the nursing home
to the white seats on the lawn
and sat down
in one of the chairs
and threw her crutches
to the ground beside her
I sat in a chair
next to her
she had on a blue skirt
and white blouse
her one leg stuck out
from the end
of her skirt
the other kids played
on the swings and slide
or walked around
avoiding being
near Anne
I wonder
if the nuns have periods?
She said suddenly
I don't know
I said
might explain
their crabbiness some days
she said
I nodded my head
unsure of the topic
periods of what?
I asked
she looked at me
sternly for a moment
you don't know?
I shook my head
gazing at her
it's ************
in real terms
she said
none the wiser
I looked at her
hair dark
and almost shiny
where she’d
brushed it so much
do you know that?
no not heard of it
I said
she sighed
and looked at me deeply
do your parents tell
you nothing?
not about
************ anyway
I said
my old man told me
about the Plague of London
in 1665
and rats and stuff
**** the Plague of 1665
she said
this is real stuff
it may come handy
one day to know
I doubted it
but said nothing
I looked back
at the nursing home
for rescue
do you know anything
about the female cycle?
She said
my friend's sister's cycle
didn't have a cross bar
I said
remembering Jim's sister
and the bicycle
I sometimes rode
no no Kid
not that kind of cycle
her body cycle
I noticed as she moved
on the chair
her leg stump
became visible
when a female
gets to a certain age
her body gets prepared
to put an egg
in a place in her body
ready to be fertilized
ok?
I saw the stump clearly
it looked like the end
of a plump elbow
Kid do you hear
what I am saying?
Yes
I said
good
now if the egg
doesn't get fertilized
by a certain time
her body gets rid of it
in a cycle
and she bleeds
the whole package out
right?
It didn’t sound too good
but I nodded
what kind of egg?
I asked
what do you mean
what kind of egg?
A ****** human egg
what do you think
a ****** hens' egg?
She sighed deeply
and I wondered where
she bought her one shoe
how old are you Kid?
10 nearly 11 years old
I replied
studying her black shoe
and wondering
what she did
with the other shoe
what's fertilization?
I asked
looking up at her
sitting in the chair
her eyes focused on me
go ask the nuns
they'll know
she said snappily
ok
I said
I will
she reached for her crutches
and said
right Kid
let's go to the beach
out of the eyes
of the *******
and their reach
and so I walked
beside her
out the back gate
and onto the path
that led
to the sand and sea
blue skies
white clouds
seagulls
and Anne and me.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
A delicious little bakery
is only down our street
the smell of baking bread
well.. it really is a treat
It is run by Mrs ******
she is just so very charming
but she is a little clumsy
it's really quite alarming
You see,
she does her best to make the cakes
and bake such tasty bread
but the currants just go everywhere
and in the pies instead
And in the Cornish pasties
there is very often nuts
and in the fruit pie filling
bacon and beef cuts
But she seems to be quite fancy
well there has been many rumours
of her and the deliveryman
well... she flashes him her bloomers
But she really is so charming
poor soul.. she has the worst mishaps
like when she inadvertently
displayed her finest baps
And no one will forget
when in came a group of nuns
all asking some tea cakes
but out popped her Chelsea buns
But she really is a riot
you can't help but love her so
she give you all you ask for
in a bargain box 'to go'
And she takes care of her customers
and gives out treats to sample
you'll never go home hungry
you'll end up with quite a armful
So if you get a moment
take a stroll just down our street
to Mrs Dingle's bakery
she really is a treat.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
Something awful happened late last night,
And here I lie awake at six AM
Upon the sand of Santa Monica.
The cars drive by, but I don’t notice them.
I used up all my gas to get away
From the ****** pond on my bathroom rug.
It’s more than bleach can handle and I’m scared
That I’ve found a more seductive drug.
Fish intestines line the pier and I
Feel no misery for gutless souls.
The rocks are caked in birdshit, kelp and shells
And, as if in mourning, the cormorant calls.
Upon the rusty handrails, seagulls gossip
Just like feathered girls with brains, persisting
To trumpet my depravity in savage squawks,
And to harass the rest of us for existing.
The white-wimpled, cruel, sadistic nuns
Choose an injured sea lion as their prey.
Cowardly, they flee at his sharp barks–
It’s guts that will decide who wins today.
***** creep over the brown-furred body.
Fighting for its life, it bites the shell
And kills its fellow lifeform. When given
The chance, I’ll defend myself as well.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
My heart pounds for your smile, Dogbreath
I like you more than a ****** likes ****
you may be family and I may call you bro
but it’s not ****** when you’re a Juggalo.
I’ll never forget the day that we met
one kiss and I wanted to be your Juggalette
my passion for you burns like a thousand suns
it can’t be contained even if I were restrained by nuns.
My desire for you isn’t even satirical
if you think about it it’s kind of a miracle
drawn together like magnets – how do they work?
and the way you touch my **** drives me berserk.
You wrangle records like a big money rustla
I like Lady Gaga and ain’t much of a hustla
I was born this way, but my heart can grow bigga
if you’ll take my hand and say you’re my *****
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC
I ain’t got no intimate, ain’t got no stiletto heels
Ain’t got no Lsd, ain’t got no smack
Ain’t got no partners, ain’t got no drill
Ain’t got no slapstick, ain’t got no hanky—panky
Ain’t got no Lsd, no slot to mount
Ain’t got no castrato, ain’t got no crumpet
Ain’t got no conjoined twins, ain’t got no nuns or eunuchs
Ain’t got no whipcord, ain’t got no adoration
Ain’t got no ******** ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no ******
Ain’t got no oscillation, no shags
No uniform, no parts
No smack, no drill
No partners, no peccadillo
Ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no whipcord, no propagators
No titbits, no intimate
I jabbered, I ain’t got no uniform, no hanky—panky
No peccadillo, ain’t copulated till one is blue in the face to have a funny feeling
And I ain’t got no ******
Oh, but what have I copulated, oh, what have I copulated
Let me tell what I copulated and nobody’s going to enlarge telescopic
I got my ***** on my face
My extra—sensory perceptions, my knobs
My ****** peckers and my ********
I got my stuck—out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** my *******
My thingummies, my cockles of the heart and my posterior
I got my ***********
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got ***** I’ve inseminated cheerleaders
I’ve got bottomgremlins and hacksawhoodoo
And Mephistophelian juggernauts too like you
I got my ***** my pistil
My ESP, my knobs
My vaginas, my peckers and my ********
I got my stuck-out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** and my *******
My ***** my ***** and my posterior
I inseminated my ****** sorbet
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got my ***** I got my slipperiness, my *****
I got *****
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 4:29 PM UTC
Hare Krishna's
In their Pickups
Depressed Comics
Down on their Luck
Teenage Girls
Screaming Meme's
****** Pinko's*
Leftward Leaning
Vincent Price
Flo and Eddie
Rodger Rabbit
Priscilla Presley
Nuns in Habits
Dwarf's in Ponchos
Deadbeat Dads
Munching Nachos
Right-Wing Nut Jobs
Trading Slogans
A few Hero's
Including Hogan
Are just a few of the sights you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee
Buddhist Monks
With Electric Banjos
Holding Signs Up
Of Marlon Brando
Taxi Cabs
Blaring Show Tunes
Pregnant Women
Down-loading Soon
Derby Jockeys
Flying Monkeys
Kool-Aidholics
Skittle Junkies
Bozo The Clown
Bumper Stickers
Psychedelic
Crazed Toad Lickers
Rhinestone Cowboys
In their Skivvies
Gothic Girls
Heebie Jeebies
Are just a few of the sights you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee
Blue Haired Granny's
In pink Moo Moos
Ballerina's In
Tattered Tutus
Mathematician's
Number Crunchers
Even have Some
Out to Lunchers
Model 50's
*Do *** Daddies*
One More Round Of
Flo and Eddie
People Sneaking
Across the Border
Lonely Fry Cooks
Taking Orders
A Few Wannabes
Not Saying Much
Will The Real Elvis
Please Stand Up
Are just a few of the sights that you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee
Thank you...Thank you very Much
Ladies and Gentlemen
Elvis...Has Left The Building
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
Asylum
In the madhouse
on beds of daggers
we slept like crickets
chirping to ourselves
while they tried their best
to make us cannibals.
The nuns were worse than
lawyers, praying like accordions,
tracking their sins into our soft
wax skulls, wheezing like roosters
when one of us cried, laying the greasy ribs
of Jesus on our plates.
They kept you behind
door number six. I'd go to you
with a stolen key, when the noon
smelled bright as carnations,
when the nights were
more purple than the jacarandas.
You spoke of your father
dead of snakebite,
a clockwork marvel with
his million-dollar suit of skin,
of your mother
with the viper between her lips.
I remember your kiss
astringent with reason
as bitter lemons, and the way
your hair blew back from
your dog-brown eyes like poisonous
smoke from the oleanders.
I thought these things
as beautiful as angels
whispering in the dahlias
when I was lost in the asylum,
when the doctors did all they could
to see that we ate each other
down to the bone.
April 2022
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 8:54 AM UTC
i just lamented a more complex version of this; i just cannot believe we denote the same thing in order to share an understanding of the same by denoting as such, but when acting we feel so differently about it; imagine the noun iran in the mouth of an american, then picture the verbs subsequent... then imagine the noun america in the mouth of an iranian, then picture the verbs subsequent: words hold as much emotion as actions discard, even though the actions are worded, and the words are almost imaginary when concerned with what iraq was when given belshazzar.
i wonder if as many people would **** or die
for the noun apple, as they do for allah -
say the noun apple... apple apple apple long enough...
will you get apple juice? well no, so if you keep on saying
the noun allah allah... will that thing materialise?
the imaginary atheistic sense
of the word allah, is that humanity
turned the noun allah into a verb
of its own chosing due to man's free will,
i.e., say allah casually over coffee,
now say allah in jihad clothing...
the same noun among diverse verbs...
might as well invent a new grammatical
category of nouns and verbs mingling...
nouverbs... what noun invokes what action,
consolidated in what are excesses of adjectives,
given the quality of a life lived -
the man who casually said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in denmark managed to integrate
into danish society and start up a newspaper...
the man in syria who "casually" said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in syria didn't manage the former...
because his orientation of the noun
changed the path of the sequence of nouns / beheaded nuns,
since the cutting of the word verb,
managed to craft non-verbum-ergo-actio.
in defence of avoiding one’s own mortality,
one speaks against one’s own death,
thus one speaks with the enemy of the people
one shares a life with, for a fake chance of the feeling of prolonging.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
Among pelagian travelers,
Lost on their lewd conceited way
To Massachusetts, Michigan,
Miami or L.A.,
An airborne instrument I sit,
Predestined nightly to fulfill
Columbia-Giesen-Management's
Unfathomable will,
By whose election justified,
I bring my gospel of the Muse
To fundamentalists, to nuns,
to Gentiles and to Jews,
And daily, seven days a week,
Before a local sense has jelled,
From talking-site to talking-site
Am jet-or-prop-propelled.
Though warm my welcome everywhere,
I shift so frequently, so fast,
I cannot now say where I was
The evening before last,
Unless some singular event
Should intervene to save the place,
A truly asinine remark,
A soul-bewitching face,
Or blessed encounter, full of joy,
Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan,
With, here, an addict of Tolkien,
There, a Charles Williams fan.
Since Merit but a dunghill is,
I mount the rostrum unafraid:
Indeed, 'twere damnable to ask
If I am overpaid.
Spirit is willing to repeat
Without a qualm the same old talk,
But Flesh is homesick for our snug
Apartment in New York.
A sulky fifty-six, he finds
A change of mealtime utter hell,
Grown far too crotchety to like
A luxury hotel.
The Bible is a goodly book
I always can peruse with zest,
But really cannot say the same
For Hilton's Be My Guest.
Nor bear with equanimity
The radio in students' cars,
Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!--
Girl-organists in bars.
Then, worst of all, the anxious thought,
Each time my plane begins to sink
And the No Smoking sign comes on:
What will there be to drink?
Is this ma milieu where I must
How grahamgreeneish! How infra dig!
****** from the bottle in my bag An analeptic swig?
Another morning comes: I see,
Dwindling below me on the plane,
The roofs of one more audience
I shall not see again.
God bless the lot of them, although
I don't remember which was which:
God bless the U.S.A., so large,
So friendly, and so rich.
4k
a high school football game.
the field is ablaze with juicy roses
and doves.
the athletes suddenly drop thier pencils,
their coughing hands made of melting wax.
all the trombones are falling apart, and
the flute players are losing their *******
under the bleachers, throwing away secrets.
heartbeats cracking broomsticks, the nuns
were always hitchhikers with resounding
gag reflexes.
i sail forward, snatching the time bomb
from the quarterback, snuffing out
a pall mall on his right eyelid.
the dead angel is summoned to slay
the horrible hippopotamus. she is ancient.
she has a mouth full of cavities and peace
in her veins.
the truth is a piercing thing, whose bitter tongue will decay me.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
This Black African nun in cherished photo
she calls our right to vote
Her kindness in her laughing squinting eyes,
and her kind bow smile to match
The voice of liberty written and etched upon
her kind and brilliant face; all imprinted for years
to come
All hail her bus with her sisters all in one;
a beautiful chariot on busy wheels that run
across our nation to give a helping hand
And lift our thirsty spirits on a dry and desolute land
They hold that lamp of liberty on kind hands
and gentle voice, but strong in truth be known,
to hold our basic right, to close those drapes and
snap a switch, to a voice of our own
They cross our land in valor in gentleness and kind
these nuns of liberty and justice in an unjust time
Their hearts are made from goodness; their strength
so often done, in a land so heavily pillaged, they will
never never succumb. They see a new sun rising over
the distant hill
They know their work of justice never to be still...
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
I dream of rigged lacrosse matches
won in 4th quarter
overtime
of chess games won with en passant
(what exactly is that?)
of horses falling at the first hurdle.
I dream of Martian landscapes
through sand-dunes of heartache
because as a child, at McDonalds
I was never allowed a milk shake,
while in my waking hours I have
absolved a multitude of sins for
lapsed nuns, ringmasters and troubadours.
I have filmed riots,
marathons and abortions.
I have seen things
pickled in jars
holding open heavy doors.
I have tried,
like an idiot
to commit all this to
memory.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 2:15 PM UTC
*i hate to break it to you kid,
i'm not mindful of narcissus'
economics that's all oh so very modern...*
but women are their own orbit,
more chance to find a single mother
than a single father...
it's against nature to make the man
without god,
as it's against nature to make the woman
with god...
thus we have the tectonic plates
making man with god, accepting
or doubting, church or laboratory...
and woman... an eroticism of jaw eaten
faces... but a kiss to be a fingerprint
likened to erasing the dangling of the bitten
jaw... erased only once by the aphrodisiac of sirens'
wail of aquatic opera so damnable that only
one man heard it, while others scolded
being in audience with beeswax...
and by second chance, erased, indeed,
but only by the suffragettes as the new nuns...
as the new nuns dare comply to change,
like every male become female and
vice versa,
and the popes disclose their continual
loss of matrimony in their misogynistic
involvement in ****** if i'm not the pope
and do no encounter such practices,
i'm not a pope at all!
*only a ninth spoke as the necromancer,
and of the nine spoke clearest,
as it spoke, it dawned on me
that sauron was invisible for the sword
to strike, a gravity enveloping,
a gravity envelope, rather than a skin
of infinite diadem sharpenings,
for nine rigs unto men,
seven unto dwarfs, three unto elves,
but none unto the orcs... strange....
ORC ARKHAN MORDOR ARRAC!*
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
I am numb
Numb am i
Numb we are all
Numb nuns
Numb nuts
**** nuts
**** ****
****
****
****
**** my ****
**** my ****
Until it is numb
Crumbs
****
Drum
Hum
Numb
Stuck in gum
Or ***
Or drool, **** wine and glue
Like me stuck to you
**** you
**** me
I’ll watch
And use both hands
To tell the time
A crime
Committed
Omitted from books
Like cooks and crooks
****
Numb
I am numb
None
Nom nom nom
Numb
Succumb to my ***
On a street corner
Begging for change
It can’t stay the same
Someone might notice
Notice Otis?
They’re *******
**** *******
They must be numb
We’re all numb
Numb nuns
With guns
And **** puns
To **** tons
Ones and sons
Under one sun
A numb sun
Like god
God is numb
Dumb founded and *** pounded
Until it is numb
No feeling
No ceiling
Just sky
High
**** smack, ***** and ***
Up my nose
**** my nose
With a hose
Like one ***** hoes
No one knows
They’re all dumb
Numb…
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
I stood in line
to be weighed
in the bathroom
of the nursing home
Anne crutched herself
behind me
you haven't
got a chance in hell
of winning
that chocolate bar Kid
she said
I've seen more meat
on a butcher's pencil
stuck behind his ear
might win
I said
might fly
she said
the kid in front of me
got on
the green metal scales
and the nun
moved the weight
along the top
not you Malcolm
she said
the kid got off sulkily
I got on the scales
and the nun
moved the weight
I looked at her
black and white
headdress
her pinched features
not you Benny
she said
I got off
and walked away
Anne awkwardly
got on the scales
holding herself
on her one leg
the stump
of the other
hanging there
best so far Anne
the nun said
told you Kid
you didn't
have a chance
guess not
I said
as she crutched herself
along side of me
not to worry
if I get the choco bar
I’ll give you
a quarter for being
a good friend
no other
in this **** hole
gets a look in
we went along
to our rooms
come in Kid
she said
I hesitated
come in
I want to
ask you something
I stood swaying
uncertain
what if
one of the nuns
comes along?
what if I don't give you
quarter of the choc bar?
she said
I followed her in
to the girls dorm
no one else
was there
just she and me
she closed the door
with her backside
right Kid
I want you
to do me
a favour
favour?
I said
sensing uncertainty
hit my gut
yes I want you
to sneak along
to the kitchen tonight
and liberate
some biscuits
liberate?
I said
biscuits?
yes you know
what biscuits are
don't you
those hard things
with cream in the middle
or chocolate
on one side
I know what biscuits are
I said
but what do you mean
liberate?
take some
from the big tin
they have
on the shelf
in larder
take?
I said
you mean steal?
steal
take
liberate
whatever word
you want
to use Kid
what if I get caught?
don't get caught
but what if I do?
Anne sighed
sat on the edge
of her bed
I thought you
were someone
I could rely on Kid
not some cowardly custard
yellow belly
I looked
at her leg stump
sticking out
the other leg
reached to the floor
if you're really good
I’ll let you touch
my stump
she said
no need
I said
I'll try tonight
sneak down
after lights out
good Kid
she said
she took my right hand
and lay it
on the stump
and held it there
it felt warm
and soft
she let my hand go
good huh?
wish the rest
was there
she said
off you go
and don't get caught
I nodded
and backed out
of the room
seeing her cover
the stump
with her dress
and smile
see you
I said
you bet
she said
I walked away
thinking
of the big steal
of biscuits
unthought through
by my 10 year old brain
as yet.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
The nuns did not have much
But they valued all
And truer, fuller days filled with chores
Passed the sun-moon-suns
Some nights the mountains
Were cold, so they gave her hot coals
Their bodies thin and fragile, impossibly resilient
Winter; cup of animal fat
Thirteen years, cooking for twenty peers
In lessons learned foreign tongue
From her alien education, taught too
She passed her blue-star-blues
Painting sweetened hues
The elevation and scene in dripping sweeps of brush
Nepal became even more
Beautiful on paper
And behind thoughtful eyes
A tourist hands a wood carver
Several years salary, is this
Enough?
Masterpiece etched given free petty possessions
Empty handed back to hungry mouths
Fulfilled and satisfied
At night the unpolluted bright
Reflected off the lake; God smile
Rocky range round in isolation
The wind, for once
Whispered truth
She inhaled the honesty, and reunited art
With canvas
The Earth shook, no one else felt it
But she knew
And happy filled a forgotten face
In wise silence
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
What was known yet unseen
was a king and a dying queen
holding their last kiss good bye
That day the kiss died
He then ordered all his men
to bind all lovers in his den
Every embrace ever lied
The day the kiss died
The Judge and the Law
all came to find flaw
In any poet or guide
The day the kiss died
Finding two lovers, that spoke
of how his and her lips broke
Evidence, they could not hide
The day the kiss died
They cried,
*“We hold and we touch
yet it’s not enough in as much
a kiss can’t be denied”*
The day the kiss died
With a kiss hid in their heart
They tore them apart
and took them aside
The day the kiss died
Children chanted, *“the kiss of death
will draw your last breath.
Don’t or dare to no longer abide”*
The day the kiss died
And all the people they wept
and the sweepers that swept
the sad streets, they sighed
The day the kiss died
In lace they all dressed
in hope to lay the last kiss to rest
In a coffin to confide
The day the kiss died
That night,
Artists repainted the sky
Lanterns hung high
In the black rain they cried
The day the kiss died
While white doves bled red
It was heard and it was said
even the angels cried
The day the kiss died
The clowns in all places
Painted a frown on their faces
for all grooms and the brides
The day the kiss died
Old widows slept as it seems
waiting for their dreams
nuns by their side
The day the kiss died
The romantics broke doors
of bottle shops and liquor stores
yet the wine had all dried
The day the kiss died
Yet, still up north and down south
lovers, for love, open their mouth
welcoming death near and wide
The day the kiss died
May 14, 2023
May 14, 2023 at 3:44 AM UTC
Sai Baba is the most Popular Hindu monk
And mother Teresa is the most beloved Christian nun
Both of them almost reached the state of divinity
by serving the humanity And with a lot of religious piety
Some may think Sai Baba is just a magician
And Mother Teresa is merely a nun
Their arguments sound quite fun
because All the nuns and magicians can’t serve the world
on such a grand scale unless they have divine charisma
Both of them have disciples all over the world
They were treated and revered almost like living gods
As humans they might have suffered from some human follies and foibles
But they proved to the world that SERVICE TO HUMANITY IS SERVICE TO GOD
Let us all pray for the two noble souls
Keeping our religious faiths aside
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 6:56 AM UTC
John Scalla remembers
plain–clothed white coiffed nuns
in sunday school classes
who were the sweetest things
you’ve ever seen with a razors edge
carried proudly from an emerald isle
John Scalla spent his sundays digging
through big soft Bibles discovering
a father who loved everyone
as equally as he was thorough
a son born to wear a crown of blood
but never lost his most sacred heart
and a universal spirit’s open-armed
quiet embrace of your trembling frame
John Scalla was born to hold a communion
with something far more complex or
precise then our poor sweaty coils
wondering how bread could be body
and blood so eagerly consumed
John Scalla stole from complex pages buried
deep beneath outdated expressions
and miscommunicated messages
a simple cypher that condenses
all the rhetoric down to it’s square root
love
John Scalla locked the cypher
in that secret spot between heart
and stomach holding it close
dreaming on distant playgrounds
where it was slowly worn away
by bullies still casting long shadows
like limestone sphinxes now noseless
John Scalla’s distant playground dreaming
of a personal relationship with God are gone
because if He was there then that makes him
a single string of an infinitely intricate
vast woven narrative where he is only aware
of adjacent pieces unable to take a firm grasp
of the situation continuing to grow
John Scalla weaves narratives through
his prayers sending them nowhere
because they wouldn’t know where to go
with so many far-off stars dead and leaving
cosmic vibrations both here and everywhere
making it hard for them to escape with
their best intentions unmolested
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
In a world where two people get down on their knees
Both in the business of selling themself
Both hoping to be blessed for the work they put in
One called a preacher
The other a *****
But only one is seen as a sinner
And one gets paid to say what anyone can read
I been around both so I'll speak for me
Ten percent seems high just to sit and listen for sixty minutes twice a week about a make believe world that nobody will ever be able to say it even exist for sure
I'd rather pay alittle more and get straight to point with the working girl
Sweaty men in cheap suits don't do much for me
Besides I need the relief of a release
Their worried because she has kids
Talking **** as they drop their kids off to Father Ben
Never noticing the nuns
That's mental and physical abuse showing on their face
She's trying to get paid
While the church gives millions to cover up their peodphile ways
Moving them from place to place
Making the devil take the heat
Wait
Is that why the devil even exist
So you religious sinners have someone to blame
Black people being racist
Then crying about slavery
White folks mad because they will soon be the minority
Campaigning for a white lives matter movement
The Spanish stay yelling P.R or NY
Not sure why they even moved
Straight people angry cause they can't go both ways
Gay people hating for still being blamed for creating aids
Old don't like the new
And the new to dumb to have a clue
It's all petty **** and a waste of time
Like voting for an election of any kind
They control us by keeping the hate between us
Because I bet if religion didn't make a dime
Religion would be gone faster then the evidence they had aboit JFK being shot
Look back and see the past got us here
Now look ahead with a different plan
Respect yourself to remove the label they selected for you
Give these kids hope for a bright future
Or might as well give these kids the rope so they don't suffer in the future
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:50 PM UTC
If I saw your handwriting
would I know
whether you were taught
cursive by nuns
or a teacher
on the public's payroll?
Does your hand calligraphically flow,
from a favorite Mount Blanc pen,
or do you print
using a bookie's pencil
made by the millions
by Chinamen?
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 8:54 AM UTC
Nicky, the neighbor’s dog, drags a road **** home.
A beautiful pelt like those fox shoulder garments women wore in the
forties.
But the head is crushed beyond recognition—maybe it’s a fox and that’s
why Nicky, a canine, is conducting this wake on our front lawn.
Loretta, my wife’s mother, is in the hospital again. Forty years of Crohn’s
disease has finally broken her.
It may take some time but she won’t bounce back from this episode.
None of us are sorry to see her die, not even Loretta. There will be a
thunderous downpour during her last hour.
I like the story about the nuns hitting Peg in school–contumacy is a sin.
Emile and Loretta considered it an inappropriate punishment for their
cherished adopted daughter.
So they pulled her out of Catholic for public school. They did their own
thinking about discipline.
Early Spring, peepers all night, then the birds take over at dawn.
Soothing—the mourning doves.
During this half of the year, May through October, we live in a green
bower.
We turn the house inside out, move into the mountains.
In their annual order, flowers appear in the understory: coltsfoot, hepatica
and trillium through to the end, late purple aster, spotted joe pye and
pearly everlasting.
We let Nicky nurse her road **** watch over it, roll around on it.
Don’t let go of the steering wheel while driving fast in the passing lane.
Jan 16, 2024
Jan 16, 2024 at 7:35 AM UTC