At first, just ridicule and taunt
Quit complaining, says my aunt
Technology to brag and vaunt
Apps to load and screens to flaunt
I fear I’m haggard, tired, and gaunt
I’d settle for a dream to haunt
To don the mask, a task I daunt
But if I can be your confidant
We may have even reached detente
I hopped up and I took a jaunt
To breakfast for an egg croissant
Though I’m not yet a dilettante
Or leaping the baptismal font
I finally got the sleep I want
Unsteadily he walks down the linen aisle
On his right arm the pride and joy of his life,
Proud he is, you can see it in his broad smile
A young man at the altar will make her his wife.
Sounds of the Wedding March reverberate
Around the walls of the old, ornate cathedral,
And the priest stands tall, ready to officiate
The papers have been signed, and it’s all legal.
He glances out the corner of his eye and sees
The mother-of-the-bride seated near the front,
She’s the most beautiful lady present, if you please,
Since the day they stood at the baptismal font.
written January 26, 2022
Poetry…
not about the words
but how the words were born
(Dreamsleep: June, 2021)
If I were a little flower, my colorful soft petals I would flaunt,
Purest nectar within my heart would be fit for the baptismal font.
The sweetest of all perfumes I’d always spontaneously exude, It would not be for self -glorification, but for the common good.
If I were a little unpretentious bird, just perching on a tree,
Or hopping from branch to branch with no one there to see,
I’d still have my duties to perform, all for the common good,
From the seeds I’d scatter, baby plants would sprout a shoot.
If I were a little worm, I would do my duties well-known.
For plants I would enrich the soil, and churn it up and down.
If I were a little cloud, I would generously bequeath to all
Pearl-like drops of water, sparkling as they would daintily fall.
If I were a little babe only gurgling, chuckling and cooing,
I’d bring a smile to your lips without your even knowing.
If the darkened world is brightened up by my little ways, Little acts of yours are needed to make it a better place.
As I walk by faith, my heart is swollen, with His Love,
As I walk by Faith, my feet, they are hitting the ground,
As I walk by Faith, to spread His word, my thoughts are truly sound..
As I walk by Faith, my head held high, looking towards the sky,
As I walk by Faith, so far from home, hoping to spread some love to whomever will listen,
As I walk by Faith, The Spirit, my GOD, his face his touch, I know Will glisten..
As I sit down to pray, He speaks so softly in my ear, My Faithful servant, Job well done,
As I hear others talk and testify to the Book of Mormon, "Ye, has believed it's true, nay, come upon to my Baptismal font, Enter into my holy water, go under, to come up as a free, clean, child Of GOD, for I created you, to be where you are now, to Learn, live, be like me, Don't worry, my dear Child, for You have the Holy Ghost to lead you, guide you, Walk beside you".
As I walk away, with Faith renewed, my Savior Jesus Christ, I kneel down to pray, My dear elders, rest your faithful, tired, body, Remember, I called you to Serve, and Serve you did..I love you, now Go forth, and know you are Forever loved.."
They don't know him, but he knows them.
It's Revival time under the big tent of the sky
for the evangelicals among them (Billy's Boys),
and vespers for the liturgicals like me, prayer
meeting for all, whether it's Wednesday or not.
I used to wonder what this nightly heavenly
glory story was all about, sangfroid from
a faith I was never baptized in.
They fly in without fail every day when day
is done; same hour, same place over water, where
following ritual circling, they make lake-fall
for meditation until one of them by signal known
solely to the divine, flutters his feathers, and,
as if at Benediction, they lift again and drop again
in a rhythmic rosary the pagans named a wheel.
There are no words for the sea birds, only
cries that break the sound barrier of the skies,
where they Were before earthly worship
in the baptismal font of the faithful.
Lake water made sacrosanct
On the 10th day of Christmas -
I didn't have a true love.
I burned my knee caps with cigarette butts.
On the 9th day of Christmas -
I reminisced about the death of John Lennon
and watched re-runs of Gunsmoke.
On the 8th day of Christmas -
I called my cell phone 8 times because I was lonely
and needed to hear a familiar voice.
On the 7th day of Christmas -
I fell asleep in St. Patrick's cathedral
and didn't drink from the baptismal font.
On the 6th day of Christmas -
My best friend passed away.
I saved his Bloomingdale's gift-receipt.
On the 5th day of Christmas -
I watched the movie: "It's A Wonderful Life."
I simultaneously laughed at my own.
On the 4th day of Christmas -
I woke up and opted to eat stale fruitcake
Shards of broken Christmas ornaments adorned my flesh.
On the 3rd day of Christmas -
Was the 3rd day of Christmas.
I burned my Advent calendar while drowning in a scotch-bath.
On the 2nd day of Christmas -
I prayed for nonsensical, spiritual guidance.
No one, of any importance, heard me.
On the last day of Christmas -
I purchased myself a rifle.
I found it unnecessary to re-read the instructions.
They used to flock here
Of a Sunday
For worship and prayer
Lost in a world
Of private contemplation
Now they come
For that first Sunday pint
Praying for an end
To splitting headaches
And that endless ennui
The wafer and chalice,
God's own flesh and blood
Have given way
To Bacardi breezers
And two for one burger deals
No need for a collection plate
To pay the poor priest's bills
The greedy owners rub their hands
As cash flows into the tills
A couple of miles away
Young couples arrive
For a peek around
St Michael's showroom flats
The baptismal font
Of property awaits
If they stump up the cash
And take a leap of faith
Mortgage advisers
Wait in the wings
With chequebooks open
Ready to earn their corn
For this is modern Britain
Born of Thatcher's greed
And moneylenders in the temple
No longer brings scorn