Best Confessor Poems
Just believe you will still be here
When I will be here too.
That I will heal sufficiently,
To see you come right back to me.
I want to be with you.
Don't leave me all alone, I fear
A life without your laugh.
I want us wheeze in unison,
No end while we have just begun...
I know, I am no seer.
Nor am I healer, or confessor,
I'm just this loving kid,
That crossed your path one day,
No bigger, but smaller, lesser.
Had no idea we'd fit
Like fingers in a glove.
Please say:
"I'll be here when you return,
I'll stroke your back, I'll kiss you,
I'll be here because I yearn,
Because I love...
I love you".
Just believe you will still be here,
Because you want to be with me.
I'll smoothe the creases in your brow,
Wipe away your fear.
If only please...
Promise you will be here,
That when I wake you'll be near.
My virtual arms can hold us,
We both fit there so nicely,
Be here, for you, for me.
***
March 21, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
The Imp sat atop the dresser, unmoving,
in the corner of the room, I waited, pen in hand.
No sound did he make, nor his locus improving,
as his bloodshot eyes, my attention, they demand.
In days slipped past, he spoke in lulled timbre,
for years he abated the fears that I had,
his mind so subtle, his thoughts so limber,
but through each day my questions he forbad.
I wrote each word, every syllable, every notion,
spoken dark or tender, whether thou or thine.
He laid before me his songs of emotion
and I stole each one and made them all mine.
In his voice, I claimed, all of his treasures,
without a thought he'd discover, in time.
Yet, now he speaks with words always measured,
and burning glares that scream of my crime.
Does he know I've used him to privilege my psyche?
Does he know how his rhymes have impassioned my soul?
Would he care if I offered to proffer my ego,
or pay, with my heart, this immeasurable toll.
“Living In The Dark ,“ so easy he spoke this,
while together we lived each verse, he and I.
Darkness foreboding, for he, was in bliss,
but for me pure terror as his words I decry.
He laughed at my fear and smiled with derision
as my name I placed at the end with the date.
His eye slowly narrowed as if changing his decision
but I watched as the dark made these feelings abate.
I gather before me his sonnet's solemn lines,
He allows me to name it,"Fire," seems right,
as his bitterness taunts me with each phrase he entwines
leaving visions of me in the sallow dim light.
I live in his blindness through eyes of midnight.
The coals of his vision, burning embers of fright,
but the words he has spoken I endeavor to requite
for they linger and fill me with horrendous delight.
Each syllable I have written, each turn of a phrase,
I owe to this Imp as he glares from the dresser
but silence, now, while he sits in the shadows,
how I wish again to become his confessor.
10/07/2020
Troubled heart and best friend.
Your love is ridding a rail.
Your hair within the wind.
Take the fragments from every one night stand.
The bottle is always half empty.
When passedfrom a guilty hand.
Am I your confessor Your lover your clown
or friend.
In empty arms you take refuge.
with many smiling fools none of which
you can depend.
Sorry I played the game withuot even
reading the rules.
Sorry I bleed from the heart.
Only to speak from the pen jules.
Run and hide try to erase your
thoughts from all.
In a labyrinth we do exist.
From that pool of nothing we crawl.
Should I fade like some villian down some dark
street.
Forgetting the encounter.
Only to recall a moment in another tragedy
we did meet.
Even the most firey passion cools.
cast away my wishes
and engave my words.
Forever my Jules.
Have you seen the light of Him that shines brighter then the
Aludra star of heaven's lair, and have you seen the rays that
Veer towards you when you pray, my brother have you
Ever known more peace then when you bow your head in prayer
Yoked to your heart He is your everlasting soulmate and your friend
On the wings of faith you can soar towards Him night and day
Unearth your fears and find the comfort that you need
Sacred Father, Abba, Patriarch and Archer of all that is good in you
Every action of yours is guided by His Holy subservient angels
Experience Him in your journey of love and know that you are
Noteworthy of His protection. Sister of life on earth plant a seed
The creator will water it and make it grow like a rose in the dessert
Hide it from the enemy let it prosper in His vineyard. You the
Elect who is never left in the dark, is a child of the Beloved,
Love with all your heart as he has loved you, built an alter and
Invite Him to your table dear friend, He is the candle that burns bright
Goodness and peace will follow you if you make
Him your confessor and your constant companion .
Trust in Him who created you to His image, know you are loved.
The colors in your sweater
do not grow here
but bloom without regard
in the mirror of your cheeks
We ran with arching strides
through seas of igneous poetry
written for our electric white lashes
Our layers of sturdy bone
And yes, there were times
we nearly escaped the snap of the metallic sky
the same confessor
behind matronly curtained hills
the only words to tie me here
are the mouthful that rattle my cup
yet I can always paint myself
miles deep beneath this anchor
Five foot nothing,
Round as a rubber ball and just as bouncy
Known to all and sundry as Nanny “Ding Dong” Bell
Thought the Ding Dong hilarious, recognized a term of affection.
Midwife, child minder, mother confessor
Stalwart in church, cleaner on weekdays, organ player on Sundays
Lender of single shillings when meters ran out
Rescuer of stray dogs, cats, and hungry children
Excellent cook and loving grandmother
A friend to all with no distinctions.
When she died a light was extinguished in our village.
September 29th 2011
Confessor bare your soul to me
Unburden with alacrity
I see your sorrow does ensnare
My calling is to help and care
I make no gain, there is no fee
Confessor bare your soul to me
As you lie prostrate on the floor
A maelstrom storm beats at your door
Face yourself to enlightenment
This is no dream you have dreamt
Confessor bare your soul to me
Brave consequences, do not flee
Innocent lives have been taken
In anger your control shaken
Your life now forfeited I see
Confessor bare your soul to me.
In rememberance of the suffering of
martyred church officials
in Elizabethan and Stuart times.
The poor lad was sixteen when they kidnapped him
They took him from England to Ireland but the boy did not sin.
His father was a Deacon and his grandfather was a Priest
Who would have thought this would have started
The St Patrick’s Day’s once yearly feast.
A feast back in tradition that was of bacon and beans
Not only has that changed, but the colour has from blue to green
Patrick did escape his capture; he said God told him he must.
He returned to England where he took his confessor into his trust.
He studied to be a priest and then set back off to Ireland
He was a clever man; he taught and held up in his hand…
A piece of shamrock, to us the three leafed clover
A teaching for the trinity and he won lots of them over.
Upon his death on Patrick’s day the feasting and drinking does begin
The wearing of the green and there is a little bit of sin
The pubs were closed at one time, to stop the Irish fun
But now it has spread worldwide so Happy St Patrick’s everyone.
© 06/02/2013
Contest entry for: An Irish Poem
An Interview with Sin
As the moon argues with clouds in winter’s tormented sky
A frail life lingers in the shadows
Waiting for deaths hello
To ride the waters of dawn
On a black majestic funeral swan.
Through frosted windows,
A whispered presence
Drifts into mortal conscience
Mirrored in dancing apparitions,
Around the candles flicker.
A voice that is familiar
Yet distant in the memory
In the Rocking chair a figure
Speaking, plumes of mist
Looking from a dark abyss
Where once there was a face,
The scratching of a Quill,
Writing, moving across a veil of grey,
Hiding the pages beneath
Words ringing in the brain
I am the collector, the scribe
Your confessor and your obituary
The keeper of the book of time
Come sit with destiny
Shall we begin?
What form shall I be?
An angel to the faithful,
Or the demon to the liar
Perhaps a treasured friend
I come in many guises
For I am the poet of life
Saints and sinners, Kings and beggars
Good and evil
All accountable in the ledger of time
The quill will sense your soul,
Though your heart will try and hide,
The truth, the person that is you.
You were given a conscience
And that will always betray you
Your page is for another to judge
Your existence a statement of your worth
The outcome, the navigator
To where your swan will fly
Fear not, for many sins lie here
The harvests of war and famine,
The indifference of man and
The corruption of the planet
All lie here.
Sin created my destiny, my prison,
I cannot go into deaths kingdom
Not until the sun turns red
And the rivers run dry
I wait for silence to shout his name
Till all that is now is gone,
Then my sentence will be done
The sins of the world belong to me
And the last page waits for my confession
And then too I can take the swan’s journey
Though I fear eternity has no happy ending for me.
I'm so proud of my poem
It's literally perfect
I read it over and over again
To savor every aspect
Oh, the cleverness the wit!
I truly amaze me!!!
Even this poem excels
In its delivery
Rain in the rain forest
My talent pours down
Soaking everyone
And everything that's around
I won't show it to my professor
He'll ruin it
My humility is grand enough
And my pride won't benefit
So if you're looking for brilliance
You've come to the right place
I will take your breath away
With expert skill and grace
Just enjoy my delight
As a transparent confessor
And make sure you don't show
This to my professor
Wrapped in some linen appearing as drab;
Beneath a saber of menace that constantly stabs.
It’s a mother of vengeance with words spat from vile;
It’s a thing of deceptions that has charmed and beguiled.
A possessor of titles with a venomous charm
But not a confessor of doings that harm.
Surrounded by circles disguised by a maze;
Seeing only reflections from a sight that is glazed
In a cave with a fire its creator does watch;
It’s a pleasure exquisite that flows from its crotch.
Is it human or demon as for me I don’t know;
But I know that I’ve heard it where ever I go.
The Failure
When I was bored with sea life
and walked ashore in Santiago
I could find no work except in house of ill repute
throwing out the rebellious and for some reason
became a father confessor to the women, not a good start
No one wanted a book- learned man who had read Nietzsche
so when the money was gone it was back to sea.
any ship would do as long as I was paid so I could leave and
try my luck. I got a job on a Liberia type ship that looks as
it was ready to sink – it did after I left- for some reason
the ship was going to Norway it is a mystery we got there.
After years of self-disgust, I had a heart attack and the state
gave me a sick benefit which was not enough to live on
in Norway so I want to Portugal and stayed, there deep in
the interior and spent my time walking or writing
alternative poetry with little success, which disappointed me
that not being knows, until I realized it didn`t matter
I had found my Shangri La and that in the end is my goal in life.
THE RELUCTANT
by Mark Miller © 09/19/2014
We are the living seeming stillness willful we endure
Through vows of contempt to never surrender
Vacate questions fly by trees terse unknown
Retreat or follow the terminus term less
Momentary pains unheard retort by shallow useless
Redound prismatic dreams latter stray trust
Natures vacant way redresses selves pose in us
Pernicious waves enter ancestors unearthly graves
Today's rays show muses midriffs ghastly craves
Stealthy mending blindly tenuous mendacity
Humorous make believe entertains cryptic insanity
Friendless unbound plays acts shameful indelible
Mindless conceit surveys noiseless hostile handily
Downward deadlock hours wither over certain irritant
Moonlit nights stare down reprisal in winnower's other
Fury's insight fortify fearless worry nowhere
Repress paths repugnant reptiles past broken paths we honor
Reconcile wrath's subterfuge insults spites the confessor
Splitting subverts imaged illusions rouges gallery succession
Accosted conditions denied serfs exalt failures procession
Recover the recreant disloyal sequestrate authority
Lucifer's sepsis addressed banished brotherhood of man restarts again
I
You are far from a whisper;
surviving where echoes
fall between cracks in the floor,
where the pulse of phantom tangibles
beats only in your hands, loving
no more, no less, no one.
Witch doctors finger your spine,
and ignore your soul. Run
from their sagacity, the lectures
of apposition; take ink
for internalized pain.
Your images and my next breath,
collide, disappear into memory,
leaving a concrete stain on the page.
II
You sit there, slanted
in a prayer-like pose,
divining harsh penance
for the innocent paper you hold;
as if ink were holy water
flushed through your veins,
and your pen, an instrument
of ablution for troubled days.
Silent petitions, numbered in reams,
beg to lift your mind from your knees.
III
There are times I wish
you had never picked up a pen,
never wrote words that go deeper
than the language of superficial friends
who shop the glossy pages of magazines
for caricatures to suit themselves in,
who avoid passion to save their footwear.
Those chums, who kiss the air and not your cheeks,
are ones you can live without for weeks,
and months and years.
I wish you weren't a poet, whose thoughts I h(f)ear...
Blow, blow, you unfeeling winter wind,
Cruel, wicked you are,
Numberless leaves you pluck so harshly,
Clothesless you make them unkindly,
As mercy is not enthroned in your heart,
Oh! How truthful you are,
You're inward alike as your outward shows,
Poisoned soul with devilish appearance,
You are not a deceiver but a revealer,
You hide none as a living soul does,
How living souls smile through the heart is poisoned,
How they speak gently though inside fury sparks,
How they laugh sweetly though sadness dwells beneat the chest,
Trying to impress others they live,
And in the graveyard they reach truth being unrevealed,
Oh! Humans try not wearing two faces.