Best Cassock Poems
For a man of the cloth, our dear vicar
is not very partial to clothes
He is almost allergic to trousers
and y-fronts get right up his nose.
Ev’ry Sunday as he climbs in the pulpit
(where the choir boys are sitting below)
His meat and two veg are seen swinging
And it’s proof that he is commando
The ladies who bake and do flowers
don’t know if to scream or to peek
but Olga the Organist’s smiling
and she’s practising eight days a week!
At this year’s summer fete it was breezy
and the wind, I’m afraid, took its toll
His cassock blew up to his waistline
as he served up the last sausage roll
I've heard when he goes on vacation
He suns himself on a nudist beach
and his wife applies his sun lotion
to stop his tush looking like a ripe peach
03/14/20
(Part 2 of Trilogy for My Father)
We stand on cemetery Astroturf
strategically placed to spare us the dread hole,
snow scaling the tops of our shoes
to compete with the ice in our hearts.
The old priest’s boots peek from beneath
a cassock that dangles below his parka.
He jokes gamely about the weather,
reading prayers for my father, a man he never met,
with shaking hands and chattering teeth.
He is a stranger recruited by the others lest someone
discover the shame of self-inflicted death.
Numb in every way it’s possible to be numb,
we await the blows of a grief that suicide denied us
and summon memories that refuse to respond
while, in their place, we have
Astroturf
and snow.
In the river Jordan
you baptized the people,
some were brood of vipers:
pharisees, sadducees -
hey sanna hosanna,
king Herod you opposed.
You were his prisoner -
his servants cut your head.
In spirit you survived,
bashing black pharisees
even in red cassocks.
White cassock will not save
the one with black soul
and be it the vengeance,
hey sanna hosanna -
just punishment of God.
Many many moons ago
leaving the porch
of a south-facing canyon,
I hiked to a place
where the foothills
narrowed,
Where the asphalt road
ran astride the reservoir lake
into which kingfishers
dived at will,
and Great Horned owls
hooted at passerby,
And crickets chirped
in the castor bean
in the broom grass,
in the sumac and sorrel
and the scrub oak
and the sage,
I walked with gathering dusk
upslope to the ridge
where one lone bat
in diving approach,
plunged to air
as kingfisher to lake,
As owl to moon
or as moon to owl
or as owl to owl,
two owls upon the perch
fated couple
to a lifelong mate.
At this very place
I saw my mission unfold
in ceremony of solemn joining
in deepest respect
this wedded pair
framed aside starlight,
Framed within angles
of better aspect
placing male to left
female to right,
then married them there
till death do they part,
He in a cassock of feathers
all attention to duty
she with a blink
of a solitary eye,
I with a wave
of the official hand,
"I decree thee man and wife"
I the chaparral poet of authority
captain on this ship
I do wed thee,
witnessed by bat and kingfisher
cricket and castor bean.
And so my sudden voice
startled both to flight
he with wings to eclipse
the moon, the sky
she in silence
winged forever to his side.
I beseech thee to
answer
Is there still
hope???
Forgetting their
vows of chaste they
become lecherous
Fighting for power,
they become
ambitous.
Their actions make
people shock
For they forget why
they put on the
cassock.
Respect for God, our
clergies no longer
have
But so greedy with
the things they
have.
They make not,
benedictions to
empty pockets
But go for the rich
to enrich
themselves.
Churches are now
business centers for
money
Clergies bless only
those who make the
offertory box full.
SO BROTHER, IS THERE
STILL HOPE??
They stand as if
pious to duty
But pious are they,
to money.
They check not the
motor
But go for “500frs”
which is their
motto.
They can be seen
standing with zeal
Hands stretch, they
stand still
First, they stamp
After collecting
bribe, they champ
SO SISTER, IS THERE
STILL HOPE??
The rich live
mysteriously
And enjoy themselves
like angels
While the poor live
in mysery
And die because of
negligence.
TO YOU, IS THERE
STILL HOPE??
Embezzlement in
Cameroon is a virtue
It is practised in
all offices
Thieves go in broad
daylight unscathed
While the innocent
ones are caught and
they cant fight.
My country is said
to be democratic
But elections have
never been smooth
For a score and
ten, the president
has stayed in power
Using deceit and the
gun to rule.
IS THIS HOW IT
SHOULD BE??
Virgins have now
liquidated
themselves
They prefer being
ravishe.
Whores, they become
in quest for money;
My black girls don’t
like their colour
They strive to be
whites
Thus, monsters they
become in a bid to
peel their skin
Very few believe in
“black is beauty.”
Brothers copulate
sisters
While fathers
copulate daughters.
IS THERE STILL HOPE?
" 1st price, poetry
contest,
poemsclub.com,
April 2014"
Limerick : Once a Cossack in tundra cassock
Once a Cossack in tundra cassock
Crept to spy on his wife : got a shock
She lay stooped in prayer
Without a stitch on her
Guess whose head was on the butcher’s block ?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Three Irishmen by a window in stare
At a building just over there
From their heads their eyes pop
Their mouths all agog
So close they all are to swear
"Would you look at that!" the first Irishman says
"I've never seen this in all my days"
The Methodist Pastor so near
Into the building disappears
"I don't think this is the place where he prays"
No sooner are the words from his lips
When a Rabbi appears from the slips
With a quick look around
He disappears without sound
From his cassock, they see is a whip
Lost for words so agape they now see
Their Catholic Priest in front of them three
With a knock on the door
Like he's done this before
Appears not a total mystery
"Ah, now dat's sad." says the third Irishman
"As usual they've allowed him to go in
"One of da girls must have died"
It's why they let him inside
Be Jesus, it's a brothel, he's never to sin
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/humour-7.php
He took his place in cassock clad.
The yearning unchecked, her chances slim
The veil she clasped around her head
She knelt at the box where light fell dim
Confessing the love she had for him.
The choice was made and rings changed hands
Obstructions and doubts were shoved aside.
In upstairs room the wardrobe stands
Where parts of his life discretely hide
Limp cassock for years has hung inside.
-----------------------------
Contest: English Quintain
Sponsor: Janice Canerdy
How melancholic was the silent Saint Peter's Basilica
without a melody played by the bearded deacon,
priest of the Camelites who died in sea-washed Licata;
there, the Viol was played by Angelic of Jerusalem!
For years, it was covered in dust and fallen into oblivion:
it missed the Gregorian music sang with sheer enthusiasm!
A humble pilgrim expressed his faith in terms of miles:
he traveled far in search of spiritual enlightenment...
not knowing how close to him was the resurrected Christ!
The Parishers with drab faces waited for his return,
they missed his soothing music that delighted their smiles:
they believed that Jerusalem was a city of little concern!
Jerusalem wasn't Rome embellished with marbles and bricks,
not churches built with white limestone found in the highlands,
those same hills where Jesus preached on the Mount of Olives,
and amid Jewish rabbis and Orthodox priests with long sakkos,
Angelic blended well and continued his pilgrimage despite dangers...
nobody knew his whereabouts that increased their unfounded fears!
Finally, a letter was delivered to the archbishop of Rome;
Pope Pius II in white choir cassock trembling opened it,
and read it to the teary Parishers wishing he had returned home!
" I have knelt in front of Christ's sepulcher and prayed,
I will remain in Jerusalem and finish what I've started."
Profound silence dominated in the Basilica illuminated by sunset!
When the stomach of a child
Who has overfed rumbles, it is not
In memory of the empty hands of the past
Or what the future holds in hand
It is to mock hunger by saying all is well for now!
All is not well for tomorrow’s grinding hunger
When the Ministers of chronic poverty
Are the symptomatic children of gluttony.
The politicos eat their fill of the national cake
Down to their kin, while the dry crumbs
Are earmarked for poverty alleviation.
Today, like yesterday immemorial
They formulate policies, sign MOUs
Host conferences, organize seminars
Then publish readymadecopypaste reforms
Before the press and assembly
On how to terminate the gene (ration) of poverty.
But then, await aids, charities
Foreign loans, Sani and Diezani’s loots
Which are then looted again.
Only for the political meme
To procreate poverty, a social gene.
All is not well
When inflation drowns and hunger mounts.
You who eat until your every anatomy become fibroid
And then you say all is well.
Have you ever heard or felt
The roar and bite of empty stomachs
Or the crackling ribs of raving hunger?
And have you felt the hopelessness of trying
To perceive the aroma of tomorrow’s break of fast?
We cannot live by charities
Palliatives and crude empowerment alone
But from every sustainable development
Infrastructures and industrialization.
Our palms cannot always be spread under the sun
Awaiting bronze coin and silver manna.
No more nagging stomachs, colourless eyes
And furrowed brows
No more the darkness distributed by PHC
No more the public wealth shared by NASS
And their fellows, the contractors
No more business monopoly, hoarding and inflation
No more the love for foreign lands and goods
To the detriment of the homeland
No more insecurity, hate speech and division
No more fraud, immorality, tribalism and mediocrity
No more laziness, vain speech and promises
No more the birth of the almajirai and abandoned projects
No more the suit, cassock and agbada ministers of poverty!
Three Irishmen by a window in stare
At a building just over there
From their heads their eyes pop
Their mouths all agog
So close they all are to swear
"Would you look at that!" the first Irishman says
"I've never seen this in all my days"
The Methodist Pastor so near
Into the building disappears
"I don't think this is the place where he prays"
No sooner are the words from his lips
When a Rabbi appears from the slips
With a quick look around
He disappears without sound
From his cassock, they see is a whip
Lost for words so agape they now see
Their Catholic Priest in front of them three
With a knock on the door
Like he's done this before
Appears not a total mystery
"Ah, now dat's sad." says the third Irishman
"As usual they've allowed him to go in
"One of da girls must have died"
It's why they let him inside
Be Jesus, it's a brothel, he's never to sin
Now the Church Heads have finally disclosed
That their clergy's have been so exposed
No more their visitation
No more their titillation
That this place of ill repute's now closed
[4TH CONTINUATION]
I was in front of BEELZEBUB, my father-
My tender father, how tender!
He was smiling at me, smiling-
He was the famed LUCIFER. Sweet father so smiling.
1
He is the leader of the revolution against HEAVEN
He who wants to restore the bond between heaven and hell so fervent-
Else we shall continue to deceive the earth and HUMANITY
And continue making man God's enemy.
GOD: That is not a new thing son, of the famed Beelzebub.
Here I was in the Kingdom oh hell,
A twin thousand of years old which no human could tell-
And on my head was my crown of FATE of good size-
And around my head was my AUREOLE, a copy from that of the weakling, CHRIST.
There is none as beautiful as dad
And as transparent and divine as his friendship so fat
Which Heaven so foolishly refuses to accept.
He is handsome without a thing as except-
GOD: His beauty is a curse from Me THE SUPREME DEITY
He is a beauty to the eyes of the evil.
Go on DAIMON. We are growing impatient.
The Tale merits many a talent.
I was in a black cassock, with black sandals on,
Cassock of the Luciferian home. I was his son.
Father is a huge Man with a handsome tail and a head with vipers-
Red-eyed, deep-voiced, and with four delicate arms with hair like spikes for THOMAS.
LUCIFER:
[CONTINUES..]
Jesus, I saw you hanging there alone
Like truth that needs neither props nor supports
Deserted by your studiously chosen apostles and
Disowned by Peter, James and his brother, the approved inner circle
Jesus, I saw you hanging on the cross
Like a slaughtered goat for public sale
Condemned by the elders who induced the masses to ‘crucify’
Convicted by Annas and Caiphas the diligent chief priests!
Jesus, I saw you hanging at Golgotha, the place of sculls
Like a criminal with no legal practitioners to defend
Beaten with cruel hands, legs and whips
Belittled with filthy motions, petitions and abuses
Jesus, I saw you hanging outside the gate with your cassock missing
Like an un-ordained ordinary layman
Accused by both religious and secular powers that wish to stand apart
Avenged by Herod, the foxy culprit, and Pilate, the cautiously benevolent
Jesus, I saw the truth hanging there alone
With neither props nor supports to ease her suffering
Jesus, I saw truth hanging on the cross
Forsaken by both the elites and the masses
When truth didn’t profit them
Jesus, I saw truth hanging at Golgotha,
The meeting place for sacred and secular
Abandoned by ministers of Church and State
While truth disturbed the status quo
Jesus, I saw truth hanging outside the gate
Humiliated and defeated, ready for burial
Because truth refused to compromise
he came, his sword unsheathed
like his forbears in -deed
cutting through thickets of injustice and oppression
he plunged deep into
the hearts, and the heart of corruption
he came, a priest in lyrics robe
made an altar of music
he called forth saxophone
horns and drums did his bidding
lyrics, rhythm and harmony were his adornments
imbued with power of music
he cast off cassock of white lily thoughts
and embraced the gourd of black wisdom
necklace of cowries adorned his neck
he pulled down frontiers and fortes
of imperialisms and all isms
he lived Africa
bought and thought Africa
he died African....
FELA ANIKULAPO KUTI
One, waiting at the outpost prison on the shore,
Two, atop the soundless ship across the bay
and nearly to the open sea,
both still in sight and bound as one
to the relentless motherland of Spain.
On the deck, a priest walks restlessly,
his hope compliant to a fading God--
and by his blood, compliant to the state--
absolves, and bends to royal will...
and then the pillowed sail is made
to spill the wind, and everything is still.
The messenger is at the signal light.
Was it a grace to lift the prisoner
inside his head, the spirit doppelganger
raging? "Will it never let me go?...
In nomine.....no, I may never
bless a death like this!"
His cassock, collar, torn away
to strike the shrouded sea
the naked cleric shrieks renunciation
of his vows,
and of his breath,
and of his soul.
And as he also disappears into the depth,
the fabric of eternity, for him once whole,
is rent into a thousand threads; the chant
of "Dies Irae, Dies Illa"
and a thousand echos do not die,
but in the darkness, swell forever
far beneath the waves.
~