Best Conversion Poems
He put his hands on a little baby
His thoughts and actions, total impurity
Does things that, to us, are so obscure
The kinds of things no one wants to hear.
His 9 year old son,
To his head- Dad holds a gun-
"Now you do as I say," trying to
convince the frightened boy,
"You'll like it, we're only going to play".
He has found his mark
Breaking into her home,
he planned to embark-
in the middle of night
the coward rapes her in the dark.
She is almost eighty
has always lived in love & safety
A happy life she has always lead
Until he beat her over the head
Spread his seed and disease
leaving her for dead, he simply fled.
Immediately thereafter,
He was caught,
his life now a disaster!
Behind bars they want him,
for "Some kinda social sin."
A sweet talking lawyer
convinced the jury he "had problems"
"No need for prison, sometime in a
Mental hospital"
"Conversion, not conviction."
"After all, most testimonies are
pure fiction."
This is the reality we, as a society,
face every single day.
Forget converting these freaks,
sexual predators - molesters
and child **** geeks.
I say fry 'em all
and let them know what it feels
like to be so helpless, so small.
A. Green
Trafficking
I'm sitting In my wheel chair unable to move. But the doctors say there's nothing wrong.
they say it's just me.
days later I am walking again. what a strange phenomenon. Is my disease a blessing or
a curse. No doubt for sure it is eating me up. And when I feel a certain way will my legs
just go away.
I can't decided get depressed and I take some pills so I can rest. But I do not die why
am I not dead I wonder why?
soon I'm in a hospital where they help kids like me kids with bipolar, and depression,
and the conversion disorder like me.
But still It doesn't go away. It's with me now everyday.like a label on my face like
a sign of disgrace. This is me now. But I will not let it decide my fate.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Through a special child, He healed me.
Took me by surprise.
For my heart of stone had felt the pain
in his mother's beautiful eyes.
"My son," she said, "has Autism.
Please pray for our family."
From that moment on, my life has changed,
No more, "Poor pitiful me!"
You see, praying for another,
instead of remaining self-absorbed,
opened my heart to receive
a love I could not afford.
This precious little child,
God's gift from heaven above,
and his lovely mother, so grateful,
taught my heart to love.
I knew that this was God at work,
for I was not that good.
To see the sorrow in another's eyes,
I finally understood...
We are given to each other,
companions along the road,
to be Christ in this world,
to help lighten our neighbor's load.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Entry for Catie Lindsey's Contest, "The Road Less Traveled"
Poet: Ellen Fahey
Conversion
Leopard, jugular eyed, silent,
did you pause to rest too long?
See how she pulls you about her throat
how lightly you rest upon her shoulders.
Upon what missionary did you feed
that you should be so converted?
The corporation offers logo wear
Dazzling subsidized cafes
State of the art fitness centers
They bring the dentist, dry cleaners
And hair stylist to you
No need to leave our campus
Ever! Never! Never!
You won’t be able to resist
“Resistance is futile” sayeth the Borg
But do strive to maintain
A healthy work/life balance!
Productivity depends on it!
We are a big happy family!
With a bottom line
You won’t see it coming
You won’t know it’s happening
A slow chronic progression to blindness
Like whiskey, the collective seduces you
Along the way you will be anointed
With undeniable proof of your value:
Bonuses and stock options land in your lap
Awards and AmEx gift cards appear on your desk
Until you can no longer abjure
‘Tis best to surrender and demur
You have incorporated into the corporation
Your cultish obedience has turned
To Stockholm Syndrome
There, there now...Reeeeeeeeeeelllaaaaaaaaaaxxxxxxxx
Don’t struggle! Do abide!
There, there now...doesn’t that feel better?
How did you get to know
God
By reading the
Bible
A man was walking
Alone down an unlit street
When a demon came
And converted him into
A Jack-O-Lantern of fear
Entrant into Black Eyed Susan's "Single Tanka" contest
10/4/2012
A depersonalized holocaust slowly proceeds
Under convertible assuaged currency
Separate disparate lives, anonymous dredging
Tear against the land, air, and crawling
Human hands finalized the creed
Scourging banks to let the biosphere bleed
Recognizing no natural dignity
Expect that converted into commodified property
Distraction allows us to peel away
Taking the mind narrower still
And filling the void with caramelized exchanges
Simply look away
The slave servitude continues
Saint Patrick died on March 17th.
So we celebrate the day with green and drink.
Patrick, was kidnapped to Ireland as a slave,
a condition he never fully forgot or forgave.
Patty (as he was known by his friends)
was a sober, relentless, devout Christian.
As a missionary, he gallivanted methodically, converting heathens
and if he failed to convert you, you weren’t left breathin’.
He could burn you at the steak for ignoring ‘reason’.
To show Christ’s power, he ‘banished’ the snakes,
It’s amazing, the difference a miracle can make.
The year 461 pre-dated laptops and even the Internet,
so, I think it’s time we finally forgive and even forget
the sad, sordid history of Catholic conversion “therapy”
because today we need a reason to drink until we’re green.
.
.
Webster: Gallivant: “travel for pleasure.”
My roommates and I went to Doublin, Ireland last summer.
In casual conversation we asked how they celebrated Saint Patrick's day and their celebrations are like ours, more or less - a secular overindulgence. But on a deeper level, this holiday, they say, is dedicated to the patron saint of heathen genocide.
Sacrament of Penance within context of conversion
Sin harms our relationship to Eternal God
Conversion, the beginning of our journey back to Eternal God
Happens in the Sacrament of Penance
There have always two essentials
Acts of penitent
Acts of Father Christ through the ministry of the Church
Conversion must involve the change of hearts
As well as change of actions
04052014
My conversion, on hallowed night
I left my life for the dark sight
My existence comes without day
I must recite spells, go and say
It’s a feeling that is just right
I create a storm from what’s bright
And make it dark just for tonight
I hope to keep children at bay
My conversion
I wanted this great change alright
I am quite good at making fright
It’s in my heart to be this way
I now find hate where it may lay
Casting spells in my new delight
My conversion
Russell Sivey
This poem is purely fictitious and made only for dramatic effect
Where there had been laughter, sparkling tears
Kissing naked hearts with shadows, clinging fears
Dreams silenced by the darkness, quiet despair
Erasing all the light within, doubt beyond compare
Echoes of grace and mercy, breathlessly listening
Lifting the obscurity, inspirations flowing, glistening
Whispers pleading for new beginnings, the unveiling
Satisfaction rubbing away the worries, belief prevailing
Serenity sighs through the spirit, jubilantly singing
Dispelling the tears and fears, reprieve is ringing
Where there had been uncertainty and misgiving
His sweet grace dispels skepticism with thanksgiving
When Jesus colors hearts in hues of dancing praise
He reminds the worshiper that His love will amaze
Listen to the breath of hope pouring out on those
Who know He is the One who from death arose!
My television is now in the trash because it became to much ,
the constant sound of selfishness and lack of human touch .
That one eyed monster is finally gone and good riddance too all it’s lies.
As I slammed that lid and I’m glad I did I could only feel despise.
Goodbye too your incessant drone ,
And good bye to the disinformation , goodbye too that hypnotic‘I have too buy,
I’m now enjoying conversation .
Your time was had and you took to much
‘of that I am completely sure ,
But I thank the lessons you’ve taught me ,
too Have you around no more !
Reluctant Rogue Redo?
By Mark Stucky
If Jonah, reluctant rogue of a prophet,
had desired to visit Ninevah,
instead of fleeing the other direction,
how different would his story have been?
More succinct but less interesting?
No stormy maritime mishap?
No hard-to-swallow fish story?
No prayer in the belly of the beast?
Just marching through streets,
preaching his pithy prediction?
Would Ninevah still have repented?
Or did the whale-of-a-tale
add conviction to his message?
Jonah was not unlike me,
a spiritual rogue of today,
refusing to answer my call,
enduring intolerable storms,
crying in the belly of my beast.
Like Jonah, reversing direction,
might I yet find my path
and emerge from the depths?
(First published in Poetica Magazine, 3 March 2022. See also my poem “Whale Wayfarers,” telling two cautionary whale tales about hazardous opposite extremes in following one’s “calling.”)
(Image by anonymous on Pixabay.com.)