"sacraments" poems
my boy with fig leaves and lightning bugs
tied up in his hair, he kneels with
crimson palms pressed to the unquiet dirt
and hums an abandoned melody.
my boy with sunbeams shining through his skin on the riverbank,
neatly coating the grass in thin white trails, woven into footprints like cotton twine, snaking their way across brown earth,
ankles slick with mud and the dead things that lay just underneath.
my boy with rosewater and stained glass ashes
feels me bless him with blackberries and the softest crush of words,
ice cubed, beneath my lips,
as he wipes the ichor from my chest with callouses
worn down gentle.
the light echoes from his skin
there are no symphonies nor sacraments,
only cicadas singing warmth to shivering willows.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
In Spain -
where cheese-making stretches back
to centuries
is a medium sized lump of
Sweet ******* Christ
blessed is the ******
whose womb merited to carry
our small herd of
hand-milked cows
providing milk, cheese, butter, and ice
and to Christians,
the lamb is the symbol of when
the pope and all the christian leadership
will be succeeded by
Moo Jesus
The Good Shepard draws not milk
not liquid from his sheep
but
an overview over Greek pagan
and Christian pastoral deities
then Christ went and
made the exorcism and
he sold in town all his
rriegitha cheese, his curds, his milk
I mentioned that The Green Sheep
had an ad coming out
in the body and blood of Christ
how could the shepherds resist
the temptation?
I was refusing the sacraments
mysticism is cheese
Christ is cheese
better still,
mountains of cheese!
Is your cheese killing the planet?
The Wedding of the Dead:
Celebration and Restraint
Christ stopped at Ebola
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
Friend Rockstar,
Listen, yield to a robust think-tank,
earlobes skidding against wheat and grain.
Terrible story, yes, what happened to that little girl.
Sterile teddy nightgowns weeping in the squad car windows.
Teacher – Teacher, do you harken my yodels for grace?
I’ve never been maternal.
Put the game on. Abortion.
That’s what I’m about.
Grab a bra. Sling some weight.
That’s what I’m about.
Some housefly wings on a weathered corn cob.
Some downhome, homegrown twang for those fancy, fussy britches.
Muddy workboots. Sweat-soaked collars.
That’s what I’m about.
Him done made me read, sir.
What sacraments did we write today?
I can still remember my first broken bone.
I can still remember my first broken *****
That could be what this is all about.
Mary, Mary, you can be contrite,
so knife – so critter – so laze – so stalked.
Who fertilized your seeds? Who reared your sprouts?
Cockle shells and silver bells, honey,
can’t grow up
to be pretty little maids all in a row.
Sterile teddy nightgowns – green bells in gaseous gardens.
Friend Rockstar, you may have to sleep.
This restless harbor is a shivering anecdote spilled from a belly,
a vast, deep cavern with love notes written in milk.
Your fried, stern smile was a flaking fingernail adjacent to the crack in the flowerpot.
Some garden, I say.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
She never noticed
books of poetry.
Her life was busy
with empathy
for those troubled
from pains scratched
on psyches from
neglect, abuse
or sacraments to fallen Gods.
She seldom heard music
except when,
heartsick from lost love,
she wallowed in vain misery
or during her youth when
hit parades blasted from
solid state radios
in dashboards, or from
jukeboxes flashing
come hither.
She thought little of flowers
nor paused to note scents,
shades or grace on
stems of green. Her head
was busy with
important matters,
day-to-day grinding
away on work or play.
Now alone,
she absorbs whiteness from
clouds, motion from birds,
or fragrance from flowers
with senses dulled by
age, injury or illness.
She sifts through her
day looking for
fresh tranquility.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
Colliding; the collusion of day and night
Of things co-exsisting, theirs,
Light and darkness.
Blazing across the ethereal plain
An arch angelic inferno.
Infinite is the horizon
Confluently coloured; eminence
Transforming smouldering heat.
An auric aureole interpenetrating diverse bi-unity,
Illuminative transcension igniting
The charcoal black vast depths of heaven, space.
The eternal perfection ordained, twilight
Zenith sense turbulent like the oceans tide
Anthropomorphic legions, lingering shadows
In the purgatory of mischievous children.
Blood gushing like emotions,
Sacraments ordained for sacrifice
Canonised; Sepulchre
Immortal legions mortal as the knell echoes
This side of paradise,
Heaven an altar
A church altar, rapidly retreating
As stars disperse like candles fading-
Sacrilegious; sepulchre
Of angels fallen.
1997 ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
In my attempt to write you a song
I realized why you left me.
Can we both take a moment,
To light a ******* candle?
The turning of a door ****
The stepping of your sandals.
Sacraments of the diary,
Trafficking of my pills.
If the word would keep my mouth,
And the blood flow from my heels.
Sickened by the thought of me,
You have yourself a drink.
You're not the girl in the mirror,
That girl doesnt blink.
If my hands could keep my side,
And your bones would keep its skin,
Your flesh would appear more alive,
And we would never end.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 11:35 AM UTC
Soft, soft this sigh upon the wind
When darkness
Falls...
Amaranthine love...
Misted lace, winding whispered veils
Of gold and blue;
Never-ending soul-lit perfume;
Pressed moist upon
The breath of summer's sky
So long ago...
Hues of yesterdays
When stars lit the sable'd night,
Dressed in ribbons of fire,
Their resonance,
Like crimson sutures
Across my heart...
Where whispers, soft, undressed me
To receive sacraments of desire
In sinews of nerve-ends
Burning loving breath
Across velvet flesh folded beneath
Your tremors...
In the light of your night
My body
Became yours...tender
... the curve of breast
Caressed by a silken pulse,
Soft...
...the eyes of damp surrender
Dissolving sweet as sugared petals
Upon your tongue...
And in this hour,
Surely you have heard my mouth
Part to ribbon your name in
The tightest corset of night,
Pausing only
To memorise the curl of
Smiles...tracing the lines
Of lips with closed
Eyes so that I might braile
This fiery feeling in the smooth
Shadowy halls of my spirit
always
Always........
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 4:21 AM UTC
Gilded cage so small and tiny
Even singing comes out whiny
Stinking of fake fresh and piney
Tis the season
Leaking water warm and briny
With good reason
Christmas cheer and glasses toast
Loved ones smile and laugh and boast
I sit perched upon my post
A tinsled column
Invisible reluctant host
A heart that's solemn
A longing for a love so distant
The melancholy is persistent
A smile could erase it in an instant
On a face cherubic
For my heart is not resistent
It's theraputic
So that smile that is perfection
Is mirrored in my own reflection
Without a thought about rejection
Hallucinations
About the subtlest inflection
In Salutations
Surrounded by the merrily intense
With drunkard tendencies immense
A bar with all accoutrements
They pound tequila
Drinking away the sacraments
Oh yes, I feel ya
Merry time with old Kris Kringle
Guests all lubed enough to mingle
Mistletoe hangs and sleigh bells jingle
Gifts homemade
Tables adourned and glasses tingle
Gold brocade
Still I sit all caged and flightless
Blind to joy all sad and sightless
Drink could make it hurt a mite less
I'm going backward
Laying here all limp and lifeless
Broke and fractured
Surrounded by the fake and vexing
Artificial and quite perplexing
Reality they are rejecting
The devil may care
Bellies bare and muscles flexing
Lost underwear
So ******* dancing to the jukebox
Lost alone here in the boondocks
There is no snow upon the rooftops
Ahead they forge
Find a room before that thing pops
It's so engorged
Neighbor ***** all dressed in orange
Wearing gold to make the poor cringe
Stripping time to fill her syringe
I'll be her hinderance
Still too drunk from her last binge
Faulty remembrance
Ridding riff raff from the party
People still drunk on Bacardi
Noxious gasses burp and farty
With toilets makeshift
Worn out makeup on the smarty
She needs a facelift
Time to let the people go
Too tired to keep watching the show
Drinking hard and walking slow
Verbose yet listless
Honey I don't want to know
It's not my business
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
If I come to terms then my world will collapse.
You said time's made of pockets, so when in doubt just dance.
Once I was guiding light that he wouldn't go without,
Now a mass of ash, dry in starving mouths.
Remember how I melted into the carpet that moved; the ebb and flow?
Remember the day we stayed up through a hurricane, remember ****** snow?
Memory is a sacrifice buried at our ***** feet,
Sacraments that leave our minds incomplete.
You were my purgatory, your burning makes me clean,
I sat in Persephone's throne, it's fit for a queen.
Stolen maiden turned ***** six seeds seal fate.
I'm consort on your royal tour, but you need to abdicate.
Your morganatic lover under covers.
Sharpened claws hide in kitten's paws,
Concern hovers, while I discover
Who I am, will be, and was.
Like a chrysalis hatched a week too early,
Like plastic, pulled from Laura Palmer's head,
Like latex, pulled over another's,
Like sheets, ripped out from under,
Fear, excitement,
Anticipation.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
I have come to the temple
Of your body. I kneel and prey
Like a sinner. The holy water
Beads low on your forbidden
Tabernacle, sears my touch
In cleansing flame, what I do
And what will be done is all
For unrepentant confessions
And penances. Let me truly
Learn the sacraments of flesh
Before I bathe in your wicked
Innocence and commit my sin
At being mortal in your nimbus
Chambers, let the mercies rain
After the fall of my fellowing
Creature, for this night is blood
Sabbath, and sacrilege under
A Pagan moon and let the dawn
In the rising sun of mute morning
Be my absolution, our benediction,
Let the moving waters enfold us,
Pure as lambs, as washed babes,
Baptismal.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 7:21 PM UTC
*Self-similarity
quietly speaks
in fractal visions..
A special sameness
with difference spices
appears and reappears
in spreading iteration..
If we then
become a pattern of
sacred Sameness
observing out there
the dance of
Sameness and spice
we uncover
for our moment
a most hidden
Sacrament...*
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
at the fete du bons vieux temps - Cahokia, Illinois
White clouds of rosin dust
Flew off Geoff's fiddle strings
As his earth dance
Soared above the pulsing
Of friends on bass and guitar.
Tuniced men bowed
To their bonneted ladies
Bedecked in colonial frocks.
In turn each pair sashayed
Down and up the line,
Whirled and laced their way
Through outstretched hands
Of family, friends and neighbors
Shaping an arch at line's end
For all the rest to pass beneath.
All across our country's timescape
Countless bridal pairs
Have sealed their sacraments
Spinning in the whirlwind
Of the Virginia Reel -
With each interclasping of arms
A blessing upon their unions.
Geoff lifted his bow from the strings,
And bowed with his band to receive
The applause rippling the air
Like the patter of ancestral rain
Nourishing the sweet soil
Of our common earthly essence.
February, 2007
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
Religious moments are sacraments of faith...
I've believed I have found God
Mary and Joseph had a baby......
I looked in the mirror today
God started boasting of his creation
I cried at my self worth
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
like swirling colors, we begin at a party.
at a school
in a town
and a time on earth with the people and the streets and the trees.
tv’s/
like swirling oil of holy alignment. we begin
as a glob (or embryo)
tiny little me/you/each
(organic ******
as children, involved and wearing warm hats,
we wait
on furniture.
the home stretch is free
unto college,
unto seasons, moss or mold, to bud new spells.
boy dunked in the river/
baptized.
transformed into horror.
(summer slash winter)
little brother,
little baby orb of water / air / mountain(s).
fish.
my son becomes a stoner.
he puts a giant-squid on his head
& dances the cha-cha.
star ghoul &
star-calc, skull of light/
bits of she beaming through and known only as the sky at night.
charted;
astro-logically.
in goatsblood.
& the mathematic sacraments of babylon.
meat and feast on forests of tall city steel beasts in beams; towers;
with the blood of men to raise them;
molochi.
(the consumed one)
(consumers)
swallowing dreams and family force nutrients for more and more and
more; as said to sustain.
for life is to devour.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
I should be asleep
instead of watching
insomniac cab drivers
wipe the blood and **** and ***
from their black vinyl seats
mobile priests
of the city, they
have heard every confession
in their yellow checkered halls
those who entered, fell from grace
long before they found this space
the penitence
for which they had not asked
was not given,
the sacraments withheld
while the wine spilled,
the blood flowed, and
the wipers kept time
like some mindless metronome
in the Baptismal summer rains…
in his rear view mirror
were all the stories,
the fallen, the damned
ignored
while they lapped the asphalt miles
their lives measured
by the c l i c k c l i c k of the meter,
until
they made a guilty exit
and said keep the change
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
It's never going to stop
being Friday
The Birth of Sacraments
is not Good.
Autumn is Friday's punch
in the gut of Summer It's
always Friday. The windblown
faded days are a trampled
graveyard.
Today is Friday and if I shovel
the fake faded Forrest of time
it is always Friday. The perennial
glare of a Gregorian mistake.
Christ died for me on a
Friday!
Illusions of time passing are
like
Prayers
blown back
on a Friday.
Today tears the pages off. You
flip it over.
Friday appears as oil from
the flood.
Caroline Shank
9.2.2022
Sep 2, 2022
Sep 2, 2022 at 12:57 PM UTC
.
I have come to the temple
Of your body. I kneel and prey
Like a sinner. The holy water
Beads low on your forbidden
Tabernacle, sears my touch
In cleansing flame, what I do
And what will be done is all
For unrepentant confessions
And penances. Let me truly
Learn the sacraments of flesh
Before I bathe in your wicked
Innocence and commit my sin
At being mortal in your nimbus
Chambers, let the mercies rain
After the fall of my fellowing
Creature, for this night is blood
Sabbath, and sacrilege under
A Pagan moon and let the dawn
In the rising sun of mute morning
Be my absolution, our benediction,
Let the moving waters enfold us,
Pure as lambs, as washed babes,
Baptismal.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
I have come to the temple
Of your body. I kneel and prey
Like a sinner. The holy water
Beads low on your forbidden
Tabernacle, sears my touch
In cleansing flame, what I do
And what will be done is all
For unrepentant confessions
And penances. Let me truly
Learn the sacraments of flesh
Before I bathe in your wicked
Innocence and commit my sin
At being mortal in your nimbus
Chambers, let the mercies rain
After the fall of my fellowing
Creature, for this night is blood
Sabbath, and sacrilege under
A Pagan moon and let the dawn
In the rising sun of mute morning
Be my absolution, our benediction,
Let the moving waters enfold us,
Pure as lambs, as washed babes,
Baptismal.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 2:49 PM UTC
Have your eyes always had the scattered look
of a woman scanning the room for exits,
with
no time to consider the precious intimacies
of skin
or the softness of faces in repose,
the vulnerable sacraments of open hands...
And have you, too, misread the calming waters
perhaps misjudged their depths?
Have you ever, daydream laden or heavily burdened
startled at finding your self, now,
this moment
gaze cast intently
beyond the bounds
of too frail a body
perhaps through your car window
for the broad pause a stoplight can fill,
perhaps in the rain
contemplating bright reflections
aberrant red
and introspective green
through the timpani
of falling water,
feeling the unfortunate gravity
of some unquantified source
at an undisclosed distance,
reaching without knowing
to release
the restraining belt
while, beneath the various
and distracting chatter,
you strain to hear the systole
at the heart
of the music you know could be found
if only you were free to follow?
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
.
I have come to the temple
Of your body. I kneel and prey
Like a sinner. The holy water
Beads low on your forbidden
Tabernacle, sears my touch
In cleansing flame, what I do
And what will be done is all
For unrepentant confessions
And penances. Let me truly
Learn the sacraments of flesh
Before I bathe in your wicked
Innocence and commit my sin
At being mortal in your nimbus
Chambers, let the mercies rain
After the fall of my fellowing
Creature, for this night is blood
Sabbath, and sacrilege under
A Pagan moon and let the dawn
In the rising sun of mute morning
Be my absolution, our benediction,
Let the moving waters enfold us,
Pure as lambs, as washed babes,
Baptismal.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
my path is satiation
rage is my recreation
no more delineation
i crave your liberation
im caught in my own mire
bound up by my desires
cage of my own creation
im stuck between relations
sacraments and medication
breathed into my being
divisions my denomination
emptiness is what i'm feeling
all my hopes ive been misplacing
i lose my head in circle tracing
lines throughout my thoughts
fight to twist, untwist, each place they cross
i guess maybe i'm lost
and so i look for signs
create them where they're not
they say that desperate times
call for desperate measures
im so desperate for pleasure
i mistake it for pain
so hungry for help,
i could drown in a drop of rain
so take me deeper
i'm already under
what more is there to loose
ill breathe in fear
im underwater
this is the death i choose
sacraments not meant for tasting
ive spent my whole life chasing
but my life and self are recreating
and my guilt God is erasing
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
I have come to the temple
Of your body. I kneel and prey
Like a sinner. The holy water
Beads low on your forbidden
Tabernacle, sears my touch
In cleansing flame, what I do
And what will be done is all
For unrepentant confessions
And penances. Let me truly
Learn the sacraments of flesh
Before I bathe in your wicked
Innocence and commit my sin
At being mortal in your nimbus
Chambers, let the mercies rain
After the fall of my fellowing
Creature, for this night is blood
Sabbath, and sacrilege under
A Pagan moon and let the dawn
In the rising sun of mute morning
Be my absolution, our benediction,
Let the moving waters enfold us,
Pure as lambs, as washed babes,
Baptismal.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
Whatever Happened to Ethical Morality?
Mario William Vitale
As a Catholic, it bothers me to see. An ever increasing judgmental spirit among parishoners. We have become lax toward the sacraments & scriptures. Instead, we have imposed a new breed of highly sophisticated intellectuals who know it all. Yet who are they fooling? By reading the scriptures, not God? For God is not some man that he should lie. Nor the son of man that he should change his mind.
Further, we have endorsed abortion on demand. Do we think it nothing to **** the unborn in their mother’s womb all for the sake of convenience? No one questions anymore & no one has a voice until now. Am I that voice crying out in the wilderness? As long as God hears that’s quite all right with me.
What happened to ethical morality? We have embraced a culture of death. Relied on war zones we call schools. We elect politicians that embrace death in their mothers womb. Sadly, this is the current state that we are facing as a nation. It’s time to stand up and be heard before it’s too late!
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC
They,
Laugh openly, mockingly,
at every other Religion,
Philosophy, Opinion,
Lifestyle.
Yet still I am expected to handle them with kid's gloves.
Expected to tread carefully, not to offend any of their sacred sacraments.
They,
who conquered and enslaved my ancestors through treachery and deceit.
NO!
Maybe you should die for your own sins.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC