"parishioners" poems
acting on a stage,
she builds with each step,
step,
step,
stepping,
the floorboards trail behind her feet.
they form from the soil,
the earth breathing beneath,
wooden planks sprouting between her toes.
she sings in a voice strained and trained,
her diaphragm strong and core
rumbling in single breaths.
her skin brushed with pigment,
cheeks tinted rouge and lips scrubbed till pain,
gold-dusted on her bones
rays reflecting and blinding from her beauty.
stomach she ***** in,
twenty-four
seven,
always prim and proper,
a perfect specimen of femininity,
her blood flows in a viscosity unique
only to the elite.
fingers down
but she lacks words to throw up,
she's silent,
an empty vessel,
her lips meant to be a two-way gate
but nothing flows either way.
her skin sunkissed turmeric,
her irises tapioca pearls,
hair flowing and falling from her face
toasted nori on the white rice her dress.
daily rehearsals of sixteen
odd years practicing lines;
memorizing them, repeating internally,
the stage she builds like a church
her loves oppose to the act,
but she builds an antidisestablishment
forcing her audience of parishioners
away from her.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
Holy Child Parish had seen better days
in the century recently closed.
The passage of time and societal change
had emptied out each wooden row.
The caretaker moved, a little bit slow;
The empty church echoed each step.
There! From the manger; a weak little cry:
A sound he would not soon forget.
A babe in the manager, a live baby boy;
A towel was his swaddling clothes.
His mother had left him, believing him safe.
Safe as anyplace else she supposed.
The school nurse was sent for, to care for the child
who was otherwise healthy, just cold.
Parishioners called him a miracle baby;
found asleep in the crib of the Lord.
The Press soon descended, the media Magi,
to give homage like Pilgrims of old.
On tape and in print the good news went out.
The story was told and retold
It made people smile, for the times now are grim
and good news has been in short supply.
They’ve named the boy John, for the prophet of old;
In the wilderness hear one voice cry.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
“The Mass is ended,
go in peace.”
the aged cleric said.
“Thanks be to God”
said some dozen odd
parishioners
who then fled.
The Priest dismissed
his server.
and had turned himself to
go
when he noticed still
one worshiper
kneeling in the seventh row.
She was an older woman,
her head swathed in
a blue scarf.
She was obviously in devotion
before the Sacred Heart.
He thought:
“There is no need to rush”
He shuffled towards the chair.
which is where the Bishop sits
when attending service there.
The aging cleric said a prayer
for the gracious soul’s repose
whose generosity provided
his vestments and his robes.
He next prayed for his friend,
a priest, who’d grown too fond of wine.
He’s consecrating grape juice now
the non alcoholic kind.
He thought:
“it now is getting well past time
I need to lock the doors.”
His urban church had been vandalized
a scant few months before.
He rose up on his arthritic hip
and didn’t cry in pain
He accepted this, his suffering,
in Jesus’ holy name.
As he approached the woman,
Her head bowed as before
He had a vague uneasiness
He experienced fear and awe
She looked up then and he said
“Mother!”
and fell, senseless, on the floor.
His housekeeper found his body
on the floor of fitted stone.
The police found no evidence of foul play,
The priest had died alone.
The M.E. said the heart had failed
Though not from shock or rage
The Lord had called his servant home
to grace a grander stage.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 12:02 PM UTC
When I was two years old
The sun was just ball of fire that in the sky rolled
The full moon was a round stone in the dark sky
I knew mum and dad would never say bye
The kindergarten teacher taught kids were bought
Many of our favorite heroes were mostly cops
Every guy behind bars was a dangerous criminal
And what the minister stood for was biblical
All who went to church had no stain
Friends would never cause us pain
We enjoyed playing with dirt
Many times fell from tree and were hurt
We knew our leaders would bring peace
And our childhood fancies would never cease
Today with radiance I turned twenty and two
Our nearest star was full of radiance too
The spring night was lit with moon rays
Mom and dad could not agree so they parted ways
My friend had a baby girl with his bride
And our cops executed law according to tribe
The civil right activist was wrongfully convicted
The ministers no longer care for those afflicted
My pagan neighbor and parishioners are all the same
And for my latest pains my friends are mostly to blame
The doctor said dirt was the cause of my diseases
And I had to avoid it to reduce my medical fees
Our politicians masterminded our newest wars
And adulthood came early with too many chores
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
The inner city is relocating
every day there's new direction,
sash windows replaced by double-glazing
robust masonry sandexted,
the muffling of the bespoke past proceeds.
Yet Parties and boom music,
testify to weekend strain,
Sometimes we get more than we need !
How I have longed to reside in Catsfield
nr Pudding Hill Lane
amongst the 888 parishioners
and live with a Battersea rescue cat
a victim of London neglect,
someone's got to live with Phoenix rising, I suppose.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
*looks like someone's dancing in their underwear...
touché - looks like someone's buying pints
of milk in their pyjamas.*
night privy, nocturnal India
i get to do the dance over your grave
while your relatives grieve a pointless
grief: just in the same way they grieved
a rotten chestnut, or egg....
maybe this sprout of anti-imagination
might be a floating limb of ambition
to being simply reattached - *the black keys'
lonely boy* -
spastic maestro number uno - chillies
and the Chilcot KKK inquiry -
got buff results with the whitey crew -
took out the trash, fed the gerbils,
saved a Latex ****** from the hood...
well... the Kentucky hooded brigade,
fully tent equipped parishioners -
and whenever you dress up as sheep
you better barbecue - c k q - what a long shopping list -
**i've got a love that keeps me waiting!
ooh oh oh oh!
i've got a love that keeps me waiting;
i'm a lonely boy"* -
to cue or to queue -
a forever question unanswered -
of simply quit... they call it the lack of
solar tattoo pigmentation -
i treat the argument for god
like i'd treat winning the jackpot in lottery,
it just has the prefix existential- prior to what's
being gambled: someone suggested respectability;
i guess that's fair enough - otherwise
i call it a fail with potatoes acting as bricks
in Northern Ireland... and a blatant lack
of back-up colonialism....
that ****** better sprech Anglo
or he's toast.... then came the Voodoo Vindaloo -
screaming: churn out the chillies into chokes! aah!
oh oh or excessive umlaut agitation -
poor tool tummy - when have you experienced
the ****** in surgical syllables taken
to the butchers for coarse timing
that never coerced?
i danced that dance, angry though,
when they played Pendulum's Tarantula
in a Basildon's night-club - you heard a roar
when spotted an "epileptic"
(both dittoing as said, and ambiguity) weaving a web of
personal space - truly and originally,
not your cup of tea - i'd ensure you as
respectably assured -
mind the Sundays and the roast beef and
the home office and Yorkshire fundamentalism;
Newcastle? Newcastle is too hedonistic.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
And Jesus said, "He who drinks from my mouth will become as I am and I shall be he"
Gnostic Gospel of Thomas vs. 108
*1
They sang and
they danced in
praise of the
Savior
And I left the church
I walked quickly
and I was at the
water's edge.
A man waist deep
offered to baptize
me in the name
of the Lord...
And I did not stop
Further on, a sorrowful
Mother asked if perhaps
I knew of her son
Jesus…
But I pretended not to hear.
In the forest
the twelve
approached me
with a message
of good news...
But I paid them no mind.
2
And when I came
to a clearing I met
a young man whom
I had always known.
His beard was unkempt
and blood was dripping
from wounds in his hands
and feet.
A crown of thorns sat
upon his head, and blood
trickled down his cheek.
'Do you know me?' he asked.
'Of course I know you!' I shouted.
'I left you behind at the church!
At the river, one of your followers
sought to baptize me and along the
road a Mother spoke your name.
In the forest, your apostles
confronted me with your
message.
Did I not take my leave
of them all?
I thought I was rid of you,
yet here you stand
Tell me! Why do you haunt me?
Why can I not leave you behind?'
3
He grabbed my shoulders
and I felt the pain in all
of my body and in all
of my being
and he asked me again:
'Do you know who I am?'
'You are the Christ!' I cried
'And I have heard your
story from every church and
holy man in the kingdom.
But I want nothing to do
with you!
I want only to leave you
behind and live my life
At this he looked into
my eyes and as his
penetrating stare drew
my senses to his being,
his face began to change.
He was one of the
singing parishioners at
the church.
Then another,
and another until the
likeness of each one
was in him.
Then he was the
man in the river
and the Mother,
and every one
of the twelve
and I stared
in disbelief
He began to take
on the appearance
of everyone I had
ever known and
even those I would
never meet.
His face was changing rapidly:
African, Asian, Spaniard, European,
From every race and every creed
he became everyone who ever was
and everyone who ever will be…
A few I recognized.
Mohamed, Caesar, the Buddha,
Pontius Pilate, Krishna, Herod,
Moses, Pharaoh.
Faster and faster he changed until
I was dizzy with incomprehension.
Then, as quickly as it had begun,
the celestial parade ceased.
He was Jesus again, standing before me.
His hands and feet caked in blood.
The crown of thorns still resting atop
his head.
4
'I do not understand,' I said.
And he smiled.
And again he looked into my eyes.
'You can never leave me behind.'
And as he spoke he began to change again,
And I found myself standing before another image.
One I surely knew well.
There…
In the clearing of a forest
that existed beyond the boundaries
of space and time,
I looked into my own eyes...
And understood.*
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 5:16 AM UTC
a friend of mine popped in the other day
to have a chat
we got to talking about the town's past history
and more especially about one of the Church of England vicars
she had a litany of information
relating to his many female conquests
he'd been playing around
quite a lot during his period
as the local rector
one day he was caught inside the church
with his pants down
he was administering
to one of his female parishioners
behind the altar
the fellow who used to do the light maintenance
was most astound at seeing such close contact between
the vicar and a member of his flock
a few days after this occurred
the Bishop of the diocese informed the vicar
that he was going to be sacked
for his indecent conduct within the walls
of a place of God
the female parishioner
was given her marching orders
by her infuriated husband
my friend and I like talking about our town's past history
as there are some events
which are truly worth recalling
to memory
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
A bitter poison spiked with the blood of a
thousand sages ebbs in a chalice at the foot
of the altar.
These soft ripples guide fools the way to oblivion.
Liquid solitude cascades over the parishioners
leading many to believe in the myth of inner
peace.
By morning all will grasp reality for a transitory
instant, cursing their miserable lives while praying
in earnest for autumn's obscure redemption.
By nightfall, they will return to the temple...
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 9:05 PM UTC
Parishioners gather around me
God has taken my mind
My god is splayed before me
Forming dust from thought in time
The ones like us
The ones, they've never come up
And all the ones, they don't deserve
And I
I don't deserve love
Silently burrow
Burning bright
Guiding light
To find me
The organs groan, than make me high
Each new motion besets me
My god is burrowed into the sand
Mocking me
As I am mocking you
My motives burrowed into mind
And you won't survive me god
Every six months, my thoughts change
Any time is too long
Every hour is droning on
Before I wake up, incomplete
We've cast aside distant memories
God is dead
What was once old is still old
Carry on
Robotic
Antibiotic
Symbiotic
Still we remain...
My newly bothered brothers
And sisters, so lovely
So come with me
Into this night
We are the new vicars
The world will bow
And we are the new gods
The sum of which is god
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
You can’t afford to worship here
Our Jesus is not your kind of god.
Don’t bother to kneel or get comfy.
You are not worthy. You’re just odd.
You offend good people to worship here.
We don’t allow your kind in our place.
We have rules about parishioners
Of ****** preference, politics and race.
There are many ways to live decently
But they just apply to a special few.
It doesn’t refer to Middle East bloodlines,
Like Muslims, Arabs and even Jews.
You are too dark for voting here.
Too many of you vote Democrat.
Republican supremacists and bigots
That’s where the real America is at.
After all, God has told us all
To treat each other as brothers.
It doesn’t say anything about
Being nice to those ******* mothers.
We don’t have to appreciate those
Who don’t follow the American way.
They commit a sin if they happen to be
Dark, Democrat, non-Christian or gay.
So, hold up your head Supremacists;
We are here and have your back.
Our new President agrees and understands,
And will take our Caucasian country back.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality
The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class
A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence
But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies
Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity
Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled
Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it
Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of
The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity
Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things
So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic
I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding
I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses
But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice
Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
The church was now derelict long deserted
in the tower the bell still hung!
Once a holy and respected parish church
left to crumble and rot!
The locals avoided this known land mark
especially after dark!
The familiar sound of the single ringing bell
echoed over the valley.
Filling them with apprehension and dread
it's tone always deep.
How it rang nobody knew there was no rope
in a place that had lost hope!
Sixty years since the sound of load singing
had filled the church.
Happy parishioners filling the oak pews
but faith faded as they died.
Others moved to find secure employment
few remained still content!
Visitors on the narrow lanes heard the bell
often they just kept going.
But attracting the addicted like a beacon
seeking a sanctuary.
Mesmerised by the rhythmic ringing bell
summoning them to hell!
The bell rang that single sombre monotonous note
a desperate soul listened before slitting his throat!
Beside him was his pathetic belongings and the
drug paraphernalia! The bell never stopped!
The Foureyed Poet.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 11:39 AM UTC
Yes, indeed we have a new Pope.
I wonder, however, if we have a new hope.
As a matter of facts, we have two popes:
One is active and the other is passive,
Which means that one is inactive,
The latter was a hell of a man who shocked: folks,
Foes, rivals, parishioners and cardinals,
By resigning his post,
By becoming a different host.
He is still a holy man, in accordance to the latest polls,
A courageous priest, who reminds us,
That man is immortal and fallible.
Pope Benedict is enjoying his golden hiatus,
His retirement in a humanely divine castle.
I don't know much about the new one.
I can only hope that he is someone,
Who's at least similar or equal,
To the former, who was wise and simple.
May God bless his soul,
‘Cause he was able to realize
That he was becoming unable
To lead effectively, and to prioritize.
As a matter of facts, habemus duo popes,
Yes, indeed, habemus duo pontifices.
Hebert Logerie Sunday, March 17, 2013
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 11:40 PM UTC
oh i'll make rome an eternal city, as in eternally struggling to compensate thinking it ought not make such claims.
what's the point
of this humpty dumpty
if he won't even sit on the
******* fence?!
chase a fox to get an omelette?!
yeah, my bones too for
a scramble to the cocktail
motto: can't make an omelette...
without breaking some eggs;
what lovely chimes...
mm, lovely, cherish the parishioners
and their alms dropped
into the coffers of priests':
ave dextra.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
Shame and guilt are not religions,
but don’t tell the parishioners,
it would be unfair,
to up-heave the stones
that their beliefs rest upon.
Besides, I could never make it
in the working world,
and the altar boys
are so fine.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:36 PM UTC
Normally this isn’t the way it goes, but this time I’ll do differently
And so I ask who are you? What is your name?
Do you like running? I do as long as I can breathe
I dream of a day where I can run freely in silent poplar forests without my lungs weighing me down
What is your favorite kind of music? Do you like pop, rock, or hip-hop?
Is your soul kneaded and worked by tender hands like Jazz? Swing?
I may not look the part, but I love classical music; there’s something about listening to Chopin’s Nocturnes that makes me feel as if I am right there with him, sitting in the pews of an abandoned church whose dead parishioners long ago grew bored of contemplating their sins. I feel as if I am gently sipping his breath like one would coffee that’s still a bit too hot, savoring the stories he weaves out of thin piano strings that taste like moonlight
It is a flavor that seldom is tiresome
I wish I could cook some for you
If you could go anywhere, anywhere in the world, where would it be?
Would you roll into an airport with your luggage in New York? Tokyo?
Would you brave the crushing heat of Cairo for a glimpse of Giza?
I would go anywhere, anywhere you’d like, as long as we come home
I’ll open the door and immediately turn on the space heater—I can sense you hate being cold
While the tea is warming on the stove, we’ll talk about your favorite artist’s best album
Listening until we’re interrupted by the shrill shriek of a teapot needing attention
And that night I will dream that my footsteps will never be lonely
I’m terribly sorry, who are you and what is your name?
I do not know; you are there and I am in here; my mouth is so dry it hurts
Neither coffee nor alcohol can spur me to action
There is nothing I can drink
I can imagine, but I will never ask
I already have, so many times
Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 8:35 PM UTC
|
—
|
Signs, signs,
Signs and wonders
Look at the truths
Look at the blunders
Lift up your head
Look at the light
Notice the angles
Beaming so bright
The textured ceiling
Whorls and waves
Parishioners kneeling
Warping the staves
Choral reflections
Bounce off the walls
Such genuflections
With genuine *****
Lysergic clergyman
Sturgeon and stews
Blue hairs with hats
And how-do-you-dos
Echoes of people
You’ve known in your past
All are connected
And all will contrast
Pick down the mountain
A way sure and true
Past frozen fountain
Through deep midnight blue
~
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 5:06 PM UTC
Today is Sunday.
The schools are closed.
Thank God
there's such a thing as school
because everybody
has the right to study.
We already went to mass
and we did our duty
as good parishioners.
We already washed the dogs.
God,
what wonderful animals
dogs are.
Loving animals
is a beautiful thing.
Today there's no meeting
of the Anti-Hunting Association.
The Child Protection fundraiser
is tonight.
This morning
we are free.
Let's go fishing, son.
So we will have
a little fun.
30.7.'10
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 12:56 PM UTC
Oh hell yes, I drink, I swear
those, and other things
I've done far worse than that
sinning bad, and of, irreverence sing
Drag me from the pulpit
as drunk and cursing, at the throne
taking swings at the priest
parishioners, just not leaving me alone
I'll wander from one trespass
moving on to greater heights
daring the devil, and my savior
as their revulsion, I invite
Don't pity or pray for me
I'll throw it in your face
this is how, I want to be
in, the inane human race
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC
Below the sun starts to droop
like my eyes in the winter haze
Swift and aloft, mesmerized
The penny looses its shine
And the well seems fit for drowning
Rummaging the the rubble
My heart's not a store
Scarred and broken
open through the door comes the looters
I am robbed
bobbed for a bite on the floor of unseen
Though these eyes are sore for looks
Scandalizing props a broker through
stained glass windows
faulty ceilings and fogged up glasses
Elapsing through the Praise scratched Lord hands
Am I left to compose
Iced over good mornings as honor and parishioners rumble over
Where am I headed, where do you *go?
plastic pieces flexing
Docking down to where the light never seems to hit
But we take mark with a bouy-
To say your words "This is how far I got"
Through my meadows I burn
To the chimney stack scoffs
And the melancholy sweeps to rotate the blinks over
and over and over again
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
Eager man
to prove piousness
when he’d not one per cent.
Liking way
he sounded to himself
on and on he went.
Not meaning to
inconvenience oneself,
no interruption lent.
Held possession
of microphone from
assembly, church and tent.
Gifted as
he was it seemed
parishioners drifted off.
He lifted hands
as she day-dreamed
and held back her soft cough.
“Ahem,”
preacher’s wife did utter
as last one did run off.
“Amen to
less the said,” said one
as labor to impress bring scoff.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
Lilacs are bound to be ruptured,
Shape as sharp as the livid side of the planet.
(the visions of childhood are blurring at the back of your eyes)
in a diaphanous dawn I tried to grab your fatal wound and hide it behind my teeth
(A vivisection/sacrament?)
My Adam's apple, I want to do to you something parishioners did to God.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality
The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class
A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence
But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies
Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity
Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled
Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it
Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of
The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity
Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things
So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic
I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding
I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses
But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice
Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC