"recessional" poems
Right in the physics lecture
Mentally dreaming,
Thinking of a phenomenon
I am day dreaming,
In the front seat of the corner
And all the conceiving,
Thinking of a phenomenon
Cause I am day dreaming,
Sometimes the teacher gives a bang,
Mentions my name, and takes away my tang,
Little does he know that the lecture he’s singing
has a thinner bandwidth than mine.
So, right in this fellow’s lecture, mentally beaming,
thinking of a phenomenon, I am day dreaming.
Sometimes the future bike is back,
Other times, the actress who’s not black,
Sometimes the ex girlfriend whose new boyfriend,
for whom we say, “Hey he looks like a ***
Moreover, you think about the dating,
Was she pleased or was she just faking
Next date in café coffee day
Or the recessional snack corner away
So, right in the fellow’s lecture, you keep on dreaming
Think of your fond hope
And keep on day dreaming.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 8:53 AM UTC
God of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle line—
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies—
The Captains and the Kings depart—
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
Amen.
2.9k
...you stand surely to shipwreck.
all hands on deck.
accordion three-four lilts amelie
hymn hummed
beneath frenetic waltz of fingers
Rain-bitten and dumb
pirouette recessional to the sea
and such enchanting cobbled waves
how truly quaint rosy tempest in the square
pour down the dirge to murky drain.
throw in the bottle, the maps, the ropes
pirouette recessional to the sea
lastly heave-ho
i throw in me.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
Mind and body were weary...it was the
Third night of nine anticipated dawn masses...
Most people were yawning,
Fighting the urge to nod and start snoring...
Trying to finish what they started,
To have their petitions granted.
The Reverend read the gospel,
Emphatic, spotlight was on him as he preached
About greetings, prayers and good wishes.
He didn't want to see more sagging heads
Among his audience,
So the Reverend spoke louder,
In high tones, but with a smile,
Aiming for his sermon to reach every ear.
Surprisingly,
The sleepy atmosphere became lively...
Every face turned to a smiley,
Laughing, murmuring about the funny stories
The good Reverend was sharing
During his homily.
Recessional hymn started...
We all rose from the pews.
On my way out,
I bumped into somebody
I had avoided meeting for sometime now...
But there she was, in front of me...
We both stopped, at a loss for words,
With no ****** reactions.
It so happened that
The good Reverend passed us by...
He looked, absorbing emotions...
He bowed his head,
Then turned to me, and smiled...
I sensed the air, the hint.
Without much fuss,
I smiled at the unavoidable someone,
The one with the unwelcome face,
Who brought some unpleasant news
With her usual audacity.
No more turning back,
I was already there, in that part of the evening's drama...
So I held her hand,
And as she hugged me,
I heard myself utter, "Shalom!"
The way the Reverend said it in his sermon.
Why was it not so difficult that moment,
When I used to be so unwilling before?
But...it was over, done.
We went our separate ways...
I could not believe I told her
"Hello! Goodbye! Peace!"
Walking home, a thought kept nagging me...
I dwelt on it, for it had happened twice already.
In the church, strange things do happen,
Strange occurrences that lead to
Happy endings.
I recalled the good Reverend...
He didn't usually pass my way...
Why that strange but encouraging, soothing smile
As he passed us...WHY?
Also, I could never forget his homily...
His funny, lively stories
About a greeting, a prayer...
A word that brought good wishes...
A single word that said a lot---
" S H A L O M ! "
Sally
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. bayan
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
Drawn lines amongst the willows dripping,
Shadows of the morning,
Sight set upon the evening star,
He gazes at the solstice moon,
Plots placements of the plinths and altars,
Holds the hearts of sarsens.
Tomorrow all the villagers will come
Expecting messages and blessings.
Tonight he only dances.
Robed arms upraised
Reflect the branches overhead
Now shattered by the starlight,
Recessional of priesthood.
Across the yawning sway of centuries
He smiles.
He knows the fervid moss
A dream much like his own and all those after,
How the generations falling down
Will wonder, touch the giant stones
And breathe
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
You are fighting again
And want me to come
To worship at your temple
Of the dazed and dumb
Who are led so easily
By the mention of God
And find us who question
To be diseased or odd.
Don’t sing us songs
About your holy wars.
That is really not what
Praying and progress are for.
You dress yourself in medals
And thousand dollar suits
And pretend merchants
Are not your family roots.
You think to disguise profit
As your one raison d’etre
So you speak flowery nothings
And haven’t made sense yet.
We have untold resources
To heal the lame and poor.
Endless war is not what
Praying and progress are for.
You create your holy mantras
About defense and protection
While every kind of help for us
Meets with official rejection.
You make excuses to invade
And make money out of death.
Then, make up tales of threats
Until you’re almost out of breath.
Don’t sing us songs
About your holy wars.
That is really not what
Praying and progress are for.
We have untold resources
To heal the lame and poor.
Endless war is not what
Praying and progress are for.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
a bittersweet call
of Pomp and Circumstance
that echoes in the wind,
like a memory from a photograph.
soon the school band
will chant a Recessional song,
the brass ensemble roars
like an inspiring church choir.
today's hymn will become
tomorrow's nostalgia.
the teenage years filled with misery,
we will forget, in years.
but we'll remember the times
as if they were golden.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 6:47 PM UTC
The fanfare begins
The feet of 100 nervous graduates come together
Attentive to the music, an oral instruction book for their march to the stage
And you
In the mess of individuals stick out like a sore thumb in my eyes
Unwillingly, I service these instructions for you
Directed by the make of these processional blueprints
I rebel against the document in front of me
With symbols that speak of melodies, harmonies, and chords
Slow the tempo
Stretch the fermata's
Refrain from that horrid second ending, which proclaims your childhood
Fine
Save me, Mr. Conductor, from the Recessional, where we say
Goodbye
And you exit to the parking lot
While I exit to the band room, which will no longer consist of our jokes and laughter
Rather silence and empty moments that should have been filled with smiles and conversation
Conversation shared between two friends
A friendship that died in a gym
A friendship that died because of me
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
RIP: The greatest show on earth
The announcement came:
This was the last year for the circus–
The working man's circus,
The last ******* child of Ringling Brothers
And P.T. Barnum
Good, my wife said
Think about the animals.
I nod in absent agreement -
But I am at Coney Island as it might have been, once.
And watching amusement parks in Celeron, Bay Ridge, the Palisades and a hundred others places vanish -
One by one like altar candles extinguished before the recessional.
I am a young boy staying up late tearing through Ray Bradbury's "Something Wicked this Way Comes"
while everyone else in the house is sleeping.
I am at a City Lights book store in San Francisco
Where Lawrence Ferlinghetti is sharing his cotton candy with Diane Arbus and Allen Ginsburg
I am listening to "Take Five" in stereophonic sound.
I am behind the Big-Top
with Edgar Allan Poe and Charles Dickens
trying to catch a glimpse of the show through the shadows -
Then being told to get away by a large sweaty man who doesn't smile.
I am eating peanuts salted in the shell.
I am holding my daughters tiny hand
while my son hides behind me–
a clown is walking by.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 5:01 AM UTC
I ache in the places where I used to play. LC
Silence reigns
in the caverns of song;
the days grow short,
the shadows long.
Where are the flowers,
where is the sun
in the waning days
as the race is run?
Running out
of things to see;
running out
of things to be.
Dreams and lovers
lost and gone
and nothing waiting
further on.
With each new dawn
of each new day,
fewer reasons
to wish to stay.
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC