"vocations" poems
a HOME credible THE BISHOP accusation ADMINISTRATION is PARISHES one MINISTRIES that, SCHOOLS after RESOURCES review SAFE ENVIRONMENT of EMPLOYEES reasonably CAREERS available, CONTACT US relevant MAKE A GIFT information BISHOP’S FAITH APPEAL in LOVE AND JUSTICE consultation AFRICAN AMERICAN MINISTRY with CATHOLIC CHARITIES the PLANNED GIVING Diocesan CHANCELLOR Review OFFICE OF CONSTRUCTION Board HISPANIC MINISTRY or CAMPUS MINISTRY other CRIMINAL JUSTICE MINISTRY professionals, STEWARDSHIP AND COMMUNICATIONS there YOUTH MINISTRY is FINANCIAL SERVICES reason MODERATOR OF THE CURIA to MAKE A GIFT TO THE CAPITAL CAMPAIGN believe SOCIAL MEDIA POLICY is FAMILY LIFE MINISTRY true VOCATIONS
The soup today is not what it could be;
We’d better search out the old recipe
Explanatory Note:
I fear the poem as written fails, which is my fault (perhaps I have lapsed into fuzziness from reading Leonard Cohen), so here is a bit of exposition:
The words in small print are a quote from the Bishops of Texas (long may they wave), generated by some in-house scrivener, about what constitutes a "credible accusation." "Credible accusation" is not a title in civil, criminal, or canon law, and it appears to be some sort of Article 58 (cf. Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago), a means whereby anyone is guilty because he has been accused. It stinks.
Also stinky is the behavior of some few priests and religious.
Anyway, I pulled the quote from a diocesan web site, and scattered among it in LARGE TYPE categories from that site. I stirred 'em all up in a soup because the matter of paedophilia and the bishops' responses seem to be a soup, making it difficult for a "good simpleton" (cf A Canticle for Leibowitz) like me to understand.
May God have mercy on us all.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
Peter once asked: which things make you feel something?
And the truth is I’ve been play pretending since quarentine
When I started to believe in a glamourous life
Lillies of the valley, meditation
Behind sunrise filters there’s someone unhappy, black and white
With a dull and wrinkled skin, she hates the sun
She always thought about her vocations
House decorator but she never could do it right
Just like singing, or dancing or even flerting but not like holding a gun
She lives in a small and warm house
Which she always wished the old roof to cave in
No garden, no breath, but death
Never met the green but fell in love with violence
And by that I mean - her mother talks about the path
God, unfriend of mine
Please, let me d-die
I’ve been play pretending since quarentine
When I started to believe in a fitness life
*** with cellulite but not like Jupiter
Curves all over the body but not like the ones on the road
There is hair, but not long enough and strong enough like Rapunzel's - for her men to entrust her with the climb
There are big arms, but not like Anette's because no one would stay in it for that long
There’s no art on her
November 1st 2021, she noticed that she was thinner but she couldn't wear her high waisted pants like she always wanted
Her mother would **** her if she did
So she prayed one more time
God, unfriend of mine
Please, let me d-die
I’ve been play pretending since quarentine
When I started to hide in the night life
‘Don’t trust the moon, she’s always changing’
Peter once asked: which things make you feel something?
So she prayed one more time
God, unfriend of mine
Please, let me d-die
Jan 17, 2023
Jan 17, 2023 at 11:03 PM UTC
I used all my efforts
To get into the world
That I see some people in
The world with many
Interesting things
The world
In which people eat and celebrate
But all my efforts
Were futile
Nevertheless, I will dance to that tune
I read many books
I did study fifteen subjects
I passed my O’ level
I passed my A’ level
I got three degrees
But it’s all the same
I searched for vocations
But I found none
I used all my fortitude
And I never forfeited
But it was all in vain
Who had bewitched me?
I just ask
Nevertheless, I will be poor forever
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 6:16 AM UTC
Here is the vond vedette,
Here are the congeries scopulous at the alluvion combe - a serow discovers a yawn
Within its palm. Electrical storms redd over this mountain's peaks its verbs, spate it's cwms. Lichen flux ecesis, caught in the current towards veridity.
A verderer hazed by chessile guillotines, naves hain- dwindling grike of corrasion
Indomite lithoids behooving one's obstacle of self, set by sanguine puerile innocent knosps. While the eyes howk that merriment of skin-cleft sensations into the reweaved aureoles, those many colored plumes of split flowers, which open into brightly singing dactyls of these grieving bield and obscene vocations. To the gulch of one thousand bells, and only the passive nestling interstices to anoint them
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 5:46 PM UTC
a ) Enhance the timbre of one's voice
b ) Report the taste of food to the brain
c ) Ignite unquenchable conflagrations ..
Dec 26, 2022
Dec 26, 2022 at 3:29 PM UTC
“I consecrate you to a great novitiate in the world.”
-Father Zosima to Alyosha in The Brothers Karamazov
The monastery gate opens easily
If it really needs opening at all
The road outside also leads somewhere else
But then it just as often leads back again
The distance measured by a crucifix
Where a weary traveler can pray awhile
Or maybe Harry Bailey’s 1 hamburger joint
A cup of coffee and a cigarette
Offered by a pilgrim in the neon night -
The monastery gate opens easily
1 The Canterbury Tales
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 4:17 PM UTC
Announcing all lives matter is audacious & abusive & antagonistic & antiprogressive - yet amazingly it’s always anticipated. But when signs & songs & screams & shouts of our sisters with skin of a separate shade are shot down & softened & silenced, and when the bodies of our brothers brandishing blackness with bravado are broken & beaten & burned & buried by people with perceived power prescribing punishment by punching & pushing & pulling triggers-
Well
One thing remains perfectly clear
Declaring “all lives matter” is rooted in fear
If all lives mattered, then we wouldn’t be here
and “all lives matter” wouldn’t be said with a sneer
Black lives don’t matter
Mattering means more than media manipulating messages mainly for monetary magnitude or validating various vocations as veracious while these villains vie for votes vainly vanquishing value from humans whose hearts are heavy with hurt and having to beg to be heard. Mattering means more than making memes and multimedia messages post mortem when morally bankrupt men ****** men and their mates for their midnight complexion
So don’t tell me black lives matter
Black lives don’t matter
Black lives should matter
Black lives must matter
Jun 5, 2020
Jun 5, 2020 at 10:23 AM UTC
The tender girl had qualms with none
Detatched, there was nothing for the son
Forced to backtrack whilist rolling downhill
Flashing images remain
Of that private, idealistic mill
So I called her name
In the Nether Realm, she screamed
Yes, she is a hard one to please
Especially when she sees
One going through the motions
Rotations into false vocations
So tell me
What was your question again?
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
It's about Politics and sad conflicts
Living in a world, you just can't fix
Holding on or letting go
Finding peace inside your soul
It's about being low, getting high
The in between and the don't know why's
Finding faith. or losing ground,
learning how to live in the now
It's about cashing in or checking out
Knowing when to shut your mouth
Children playing, people praying
Saving earth from decaying
It's about being nice, being kind
Knowing when to speak your mind
Getting rich or going broke
Trying to breath, when you want to choke
It's about Moonlit nights, sunny days
The sometimes Gray along the way
Talking trash or speaking truth
Staying tapped in to your roots
It's about you and me, them and us
Knowing who to blame or who to trust
World Emancipation, communication,
Atheism and New Vocations
It’s about Dedication, determination
Spreading peace to other nations
Illumination, Infatuation
Using moments when there given
It's about inspiration, Education
Ending wars caused by capitulation
Empathy and Benevolence
Compassion for the innocents.
It’s about Enlightenment, Sacrament,
Convolutions and regret
Unity And Harmony
Standing up for You and me
It's about being free, knowing Peace
Having Faith in the God Belief
Staying warm or being cold
And knowing Love can heal the world.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
Torrents of creativity sweat through me,
And with the rapacity of cities
I dare to opine
To the heavens
And to all those who confront my assertion.
Thus, that a pursuit more lofty
Than that of the artist is not to be found.
Neither in oneself nor the matter that surrounds.
For to make one’s stance
In the wailing void
Demarking the known, but not grasped,
From the unknown, but most visceral,
Is indeed a mirror —
A demonstration of our likeness to Him
Who inspires with lightning bolts of revelation
The slice of a master-painter or the choice cut of a bard.
By design we, who occupy the medium,
Live in constant states of semi consciousness
On the border between sanity and lucidity
Chasing fires for the burnt offerings of our attachments
And the emancipation of our better-selves;
Ascertaining horrors and delights most penetrating
Alongside the lusts that course through these gnawing bones.
Of all the vocations and avocations
Is not the quintessence of sentience to be found in the arts?
Is not that the lodestar to our infinite horizons?
Nov 24, 2019
Nov 24, 2019 at 7:37 AM UTC
It was evening; skies had darkened
to that blackened blue.
You entered the common room
where I sat, and said the abbot said
I could come the following September
along with two others, to try our
vocations in the abbey.
Twenty four years later
I saw you last: you aged,
having cancer, but still your
cheerful holy self; I now married
with six children of my own
as my vocation, pained
to see you aged and ill.
You said nothing of yourself,
but asked of the family
and wife and how I was
in self and spirit.
I never saw you again;
you died months before
I came again; dark afternoon
with hints of rain.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 2:53 PM UTC
gently, I devour
the music that you play
the strumming and the sway,
the things you can convey
subtle, but the power
of the songs, the silent way
you make the unsaid there
and it becomes
real, authentic, ours.
Mar 15, 2024
Mar 15, 2024 at 11:15 AM UTC