Best Friars Poems
The scent of lavender and Rosemary
In the hedgerows as I walk
The fox disappearing so quickly
Into the hollow caves of chalk.
Within the old oak acre
The trees reach up to meet the sky
A humming bird providing magic for
A little boys enquiring eye .
Then I see her wild raven hair
and those gleaming emerald eyes
She beckons me with her finger
To disobey would be unwise .
Though she may be elderly
I know she'll bring me luck
So I carry her crockery
To wash in the friars brook
Then I fetch her water
and I do not spill a drop
I turn to leave as I was taught to
She insists I stop .
She takes my hand in her hand
In silence she reads my palm
I don't know how but I understand
This lady means me no harm .
Then she made a big mistake
Her story did not make sense
What does a child know of heartbreak
Or its dreadful consequence .
I was to remain faithful to my conviction
and true love would find me
I must not be swayed by contradiction
The colour of lavender held my destiny .
At home my grandma told me
Gypsies were fantastic at reading sign
That dear old lady Rosie
Had just predicted mine .
I have had so many heartaches
As into a man I grew
but forever love make no mistake
I still believe in you.
Categories:
friars, romantic,
Form:
Narrative
The Bad Priest
In Lyons (I think it was Easter, 1438),
I was a priest and somehow can recall
the dim church, the heavy clouds of frankincense
and the knights and the peasants lined up for communion.
I chanted the magic words
and did the magic gestures but
instead of the wine becoming the blood
of our Blessed Lord,
it changed into piss.
I was not ready for this.
Inside the chalice,
the reflection
of my own most hideous face -
I poured my face onto the floor and
a thousand rats writhing in a sea of worms
destroyed my last pretense of piety.
The congregation – the whores no less than
the assassins – knew that I was one of them
and could no longer hide the fact.
The stained glass windows crackled and shattered,
the church crumpled into rubble;
and we all shrieked
as the earth quaked
and God was deaf:
to the sobs of the amputees.
For the unforgivable crime of sacrilege
the ecclesiastical tribunal interrogated me
under the direction of the Bishop.
Those Dominican friars, those Domine Canes
(bloodhounds of the Lord), figured I'd sold
my soul to the adversary and when they
put me on the rack and hung me up backwards
and hammered each ankle and elbow in turn,
I saw that they must be right,
for they showed such tender concern
for the state of my soul.
I confessed but still had to be tortured again,
in order to confirm the first one.
The Dominicans wanted to burn my genitals
to get to the names of family members
who might be party to this conspiracy,
but in his mercy the Bishop forbade them.
I had to prepare myself for being burned at the stake:
There would be no merciful strangling instead.
I could pray for the grace of God,
but I knew I wouldn’t get it.
I could not even look forward to oblivion
as I regarded that yellow shirt
printed with the Devil's signs
that I'd have to wear on that
morning of shame and buckets of ****.
My friends will ask for my forgiveness
as they set the straw afire.
Will I be a Christian then?
Categories:
friars, gothic,
Form:
Blank verse
Lacy tablecloths
Sweet music
Red ornamental vestments
Gold tapers flickering
Red bound book
A sip of wine
White cowl on red
Bowed heads, folded hands
Ruby wine sipped from chalice
Folded white linen napkin
Genuflecting nodding heads
In pious agreement
Brown robbed friars faces
Cynosure of white ribbed
Black cassocks
Little circle of bread
Piously put on tongues
Again and again
Row upon row to receive
Gold richly decorated tabernacle
The body and blood of our Savior
Needs to be kept
Under lock and key.
Categories:
friars, allegory, devotion, faith, inspirational,
Form:
Blank verse
Written: January 10, 2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wenches of Whimsy and Woe
In the world of the fiddled gruntingly,
where micturitions dance,
and arty yawning plurdled gabbleblotchits,
lurgid bees buzz with mordacious glee.
Eardges justle and grumble,
festering infectious organ squealers,
gnawing at the edges excruciatingly,
Intergalactic highways scream,
echoing in their lavish friars.
Gandersalps gleam in the grim groggy gloom
graceful gliding gallant swarupincrafts majestically soar
whoop, wail, wassail wondrous rowan wood
cormulent chitchat flickers like flames
Elevate the mundane,
let foolishness dissolve into the ether,
In the charm of nostalgia, we find the replevy abyss,
Paraprosdokian twists lift us higher.
Triskaidekaphobia slumbers wrapped in jest.
Schadenfreude influences us as
katabatic whispers from the abyss fade away
callipygian figures emerge,
bringing moments of unexpected joy.
Vessels overflowing with dreams,
countehsee the orbs and clusters
while Guinevere gazes, sly and wise,
clipshank the past, whitebootz to come
Here as we meander in whimsical unfolding
Categories:
friars, adventure, appreciation, metaphor,
Form:
Free verse
The helmsman sings a merry song:
Haec est vera fraternas,
and downs a cup of something strong,
Hick, vera, hick, hick, fraternas.
The sailors dance a lusty jig,
forsaking sails, crow's nest and rig.
Young princes and their ladies fair
join in the drunken helmsman's air:
Haec est vera fraternas.
Commoners with nobles prance.
Friars and laymen, how they dance!
The jester sports a broken lance,
a trophy from the fields of France.
"To Henry!" sounds the raucous toast.
Hear the young knights, how they boast
of conquests on and off the field,
when foemen or coy maidens yield.
While Fitzroy strokes a wench's leg,
the boatswain opes yet one more keg.
See their chains of gleaming gold,
but feel the wind grown strangely cold.
William the atheling alone,
to the marrow of each bone
feels what sorrows must atone
for the sins of court and throne.
Woe to the ship, woe to the realm,
where none is mindful of the helm.
Woe to the king who ne'er shall smile,
woe to those bereft of child.
Gone is that day and gone that night,
gone that ship so ghostly white,
gone the prince who bravely sought
to save his sister, deed ill bought!
If, one night by Barfleur's shore,
you may hear that song once more:
Haec est vera fraternas,
et haec est aeternitas.
Categories:
friars, autumn, brother, death, song,
Form:
Ballad
Verily I say unto thee,
The subjects of kings are not free.
They answer to all the king’s court.
Submitting a yearly report.
If rulers own part of thy time,
With a tax on every dime,
Then thy freedom and liberty
Is a fallacious fantasy!
Canst thou even speak to thy kings?
Nay! Thou must speak to underlings!
Not to bishops, but to friars.
Not to knights, but only squires.
Thou art the pawns upon the board,
The playthings of the royal ward,
The cattle that fill their coffers,
Begging the crumbs their king offers.
Thou art the sons of slavery,
And the daughters of apathy.
And those who fought with bravery,
Must yield to thy complacency!
It is better to fight and die,
Than let fear cause thee to comply
With those who wouldst make thee their slave,
‘Til ye rest in thy pauper’s grave.
Categories:
friars, life, political, society,
Form:
Rhyme
Hello and so
How are you
You you you
Cats and pills
All the ills
Of being still
Playing games
Naming names
It's all the same
Shame, shame, shame.
Love and lust
Who can you trust?
Prepare for the just.
Look at the state
Of the union relate
To the god who leaves us
To free will and fate.
Give me verbs and nouns
The soundless sound
Baby bump
Donald Trump
Incubation at January's jump.
Celebration gift
Is all a grift,
For liars and friars and popular kids.
I gain when I Iose
And cry when I win
I'm puddled in booze
And wrapped up in sin.
Categories:
friars, emotions,
Form:
Enclosed Rhyme
On the side of the road to the Small Mission
Of Nuestra Senora del Los Milagros
A white rose stands under the shadow to peace all divisions
Protected by a majestic Eucalyptus with branches we cannot dose
Adeline was a girl whose name reflected the rivers’ streams
White soul and pink smiling cheeks
Age twenty and mystic dreams
Praying for others as many as she could see
Sheltering under the Eucalyptus to escape from the storm
Singing a madrigal to the crystalline river
Echoing with dances the loops of the Andean condor
Covering her shoulders with fresh leaves not to shiver
Walking to the white Mission of friars up to the hills
Counting the trees, the parrots and the toucans
Sheltering by the Eucalyptus from the highlands chills
Caressing with her hands the Stars on the Andean mountains
It was Sunday when she was taken
Bands of rebels surrounded and took her splendor and life
She was left under her tree, still holding a Cross into her hands
A Rosary covering the cut from the knife
Her last thought to Our Lady who smiled at her in those green plans
Ballade pour Adeline
A White rose that can no longer thrive
Women from there to pray for their lives
Adeline inspiring girls when becoming wives
Adeline, who was begging and forgiving those who took her life
Still, in the night, people can hear her songs whispered by the tree
Accompanied by the mysterious chiming of the Mission’s bells
A melody that brings the soul to free
From mind and heart chains that capture love spells
Categories:
friars, abuse, beauty, forgiveness, love,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
Machines With Madmen Groaning
Machines with madmen groaning above me at 10 thousand feet,
Grumbling and growling like maniac sky monsters slurping on bloody prey,
Those steel dragons of yore spewing fire and corpses into the excesses,
Like Rodan and Godzilla maiming each other in the frozen spasming countrysides,
Giant crazed beasts reciprocating the deafening overtures of contrived violences,
Contrived annihilations, a few math equations, and we have the Beast rising from the sea.
Here, pour me a glass of your backwashed spittle as it internalizes with basically nothing.
It’s time to find the time to describe a time when clocks will rage on like crazed moon dancers,
When the girls on the boulevard were cool and accessible in their cruising flirtations.
When tanned nomads inside their cool cars found gliding nirvanas, and a bra strap,
Amidst the midnight milkshakes and the incredible nude conversations in the backseats of time.
Machines with motorized redundancies tap into the central eye where speed finds inertness.
Life can be found below the stage on the Thames, river of history, by the Black Friars on Coffee Street.
Incense-filled rooms lie mysteriously down a long gloomy walkway around the opaque tree line.
Ghosts of codgers and spillmen greet the toothless ladies with bloody knees and rotting finery,.
A young bard shakes the hands of broggers and yeomen with dripping quills and pig’s blood.
Grind on young thespians! Read your antique lines, not forgetting your monologues dedicated to fear.
Grant that the music of the spheres above captures the relative major, with silent egresses to be heard.
Categories:
friars, heartbreak,
Form:
Free verse
Some poets, who have faith, die of old age...
observing profound beauty:
give them that privilege!
Living as friars of the Middle Ages,
the observers write true words
on remarkable pages!
Categories:
friars, art, faith, nature, on
Form:
Kimo
Melchizedek is a King of Salem
Priest of God Almighty
“You are a Priest forever, a High Priest
“Father " is what we call the Friars or the priest
Father Christ nudges me to use Christ after Father
Father Christ is Jesus Christ
The 2nd Person of the Blessed Trinity
Jesus Christ is Father Christ
We all will passed away
Father Christ used me to give the heads up
Heads up that we will meet Father Christ
The 2nd Person of the Eternal God
We will meet Father Christ-the High Priest
Father Christ is Jesus Christ
Categories:
friars, christian, god, jesus, people,
Form:
Sonnet
An active adolescent auld adored
before bipolar behavior began,
articulating anger all abhorred,
became Beelzebub’s best boogeyman.
Called clergy congregated, confident,
discerning deep down, devilish divide;
collectively cajoled - concomitant
deemed demonic delivery denied.
Extinguishing exorcism’s effect,
(for fiendish foe, ferocious, fiercely fought)
escaping existentially erect,
found friars’ faith faint-hearted, fairly fraught.
Gregarious, ghost gracious greeting graunts;
hereupon, his holy harassers haunts.
————-
graunt - an archaic spelling of grant
alliteration using the letters of the rhyme pattern: abab cdcd efef gh - a sonnet's rhyme pattern would end in 'gg', but went with a 'gh' couplet, well, because...
silly, struggled with this one - reminds me a little of the Sons of Sceva mentioned in Chapter 19 of Acts...
Categories:
friars, evil,
Form:
Sonnet
Father is how we call Friars and Catholic priests
On earth Jesus Christ is not a priest
He is a Priest forever according to King Melchizedek
People will die
Melchizedek is King of Salem
Melchizedek is a Priest of God
He is a Priest forever
Father Christ wants us to call Him Father Christ
United with Father Christ
The process of going to heaven
Father Christ is giving us a heads up
Father Christ is waiting for us
God wants us to call Jesus Father Christ
Jesus Christ is Father Christ
Categories:
friars, christian, god, jesus, people,
Form:
Sonnet
Who knows who would
'true valiant be'
when you can't see
beyond the end of your nose?
who knows?
It has to be Sunday some day
and today is some day for some
hymns and hers (towels in the bathroom)
down the stairs
toast and preserves in the conservatory
not mandatory
but it's Sunday.
God must be reeling in shock
wondering what he has done
Jesus is getting the backlash
it's always a Sunday for some.
I'm going to queue up for my
holy wine and wafer
it's
safer not to sit upon the fence
and where else can you find this
kind of entertainment
for a pound or even less,
for fifty
pence?
beyond when I pass into
poets corner
where the monks and Friars
sort wheat from the chaff
I shall laugh
I shall rhyme
have a bloody marvellous time
Who knows who
'..would true valiant be..'
Categories:
friars, god, jesus, religion, spiritual,
Form:
Rhyme
The helmsman sings a merry song:
Haec est vera fraternas,
and downs a cup of something strong,
Hick, vera, hick, hick, fraternas.
The sailors dance a lusty jig,
forsaking sails, crow's nest and rig.
Young princes and their ladies fair
join in the drunken helmsman's air:
Haec est vera fraternas.
Commoners with nobles prance.
Friars and laymen, how they dance!
The jester sports a broken lance,
a trophy from the fields of France.
"To Henry!" sounds the raucous toast.
Hear the young knights, how they boast
of conquests on and off the field,
when foemen or coy maidens yield.
While Fitzroy strokes a wench's leg,
the boatswain opes yet one more keg.
See their chains of gleaming gold,
but feel the wind grown strangely cold.
William the atheling alone,
to the marrow of each bone
feels what sorrows must atone
for the sins of court and throne.
Woe to the ship, woe to the realm,
where none is mindful of the helm.
Woe to the king who ne'er shall smile,
woe to those bereft of child.
Gone is that day and gone that night,
gone that ship so ghostly white,
gone the prince who bravely sought
to save his sister, deed ill bought!
If, one night by Barfleur's shore,
you may hear that song once more:
Haec est vera fraternas,
et haec est aeternitas.
Categories:
friars, drink, history,
Form:
Ballad