Best Genuflecting Poems
The apostate looked out his window, and started to believe
As genuflecting pylons sent ramifications through the trees
Chaos questioned reason, hoping for an early plea
but the world was too far gone, so began the killing spree
The Crier rang his leper bell: “Our town’s a godless apparition”
Filling hearts with envy of a once-dreaded condition
Now the King prayed for calm, in a pagan act of contrition
After his son died at birth, he had proscribed all religion
Atheists came from all around, excommunication filled the air
Roots faced horizontal, trying to feed off despair
Anxious to leave town, fallen gargoyles block civic square
Steeplejacks grow disoriented, looking up at their disrepair
“That hole’s not deep enough,”winked the jester to the knave
He could never resist a shortcut, even digging his own grave
As the madness continued, hermits set fire each other’s caves
Shedding light on the void, by burning alive its willing slaves
With the apocalypse gathering pace, populations slowly died
Some genius came forward a real madman in disguise
Said, “We need a scapegoat—a martyr, an ultimate sacrifice”
He was crucified for being too clever; they much preferred no advice
And whilst writing this story, that apparently makes no sense
The queen was in her chambers, hanging herself from suspense
Children butcher themselves gaily, having learned how to fence
As for putting fear of God in us, the wicked come crawling to repent
At last when heaven reopened,
an eclipse tried darken that day
Never to see man overcast again,
sun went nova, boiling all life away…
Chug-a-lug, Chug-a-lug –
no matter the fly in our
President's mug, the bug in
his thinking...my reflecting on
his ailing brain, and it's obvious
volume shrinking:
Those mindless, confusing rants,
Bidden juices-up; Psaki, drinking
without blinking – regurgitating
at deceptive White House briefings –
propaganda validated by shameless,
would-be reporters, were it not for
their obvious conscription – their
sacrificial genuflecting, having
sold their souls to the Golden Calf
of Soros wealth and tyrannical
influence –
For Progressive compliance – securing
her high place of worship in a Marxist,
Totalitarian Kingdom – Pelosi suggesting
free ice-cream be given to all, in place
of Tried-And-True, Good Old, American
Freedom –
"The Epiphany Rose"
All well and good,
the story unfolds;
the isolating madness
drew out the poets
in all the shunned
playing up and out
their origami
word games
something like
an epiphany rose
in them, the mad,
recalcitrant ones,
like nuns leaving
the genuflecting aisles
turning backs
before all their
starched alters
dripping idols
no longer really there,
they were somewhere
outside of It all;
the closed rose
turned around
to walk as one,
out the doors
into the blazing sun
finding some
strange reunion,
peeling off their
dark layers,
their novitiate
romance, their
too hot habits
disgarded
under indigo sky
of long dark nights,
reeling in the dream
like cotton thread
from a spinning wheel,
strange Ezekial creatures,
their nakedness
witnessed like
whirling dervish
calling in revolutions,
the expected extracted
arriving in the rolling clouds
another kingdom comes
swiftly opening
minds like roman candles
exploding like spiders
across the stars…
the timeless road
is now wide open
and well lit
(Ladylabyrinth / 2023)
"…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…”
(Keroac)
"Wherever the spirit would go, they would go, and the wheels would rise along with them, because the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels. When the creatures moved, they also moved; when the creatures stood still, they also stood still; and when the creatures rose from the ground, the wheels rose along with them, because the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels."
(Ezekial)
“Oh, honey my life and it's got me old fool gold
In the gold dust rush I can only genuflect
Oh, honey my life and it's got me old fool gold
In the gold dust rush
In the gold dust rush
Honey it is horrible
(In the gold dust rush)
There's locusts in there
She's got the old fool gold …"
(Cocteau Twins)
"The Meditative Rose"/Dali
A true story, based on family oral tradition
from the oldest part of the city of Bern,
capitol of Switzerland, where my mother was
born and raised, in the Nydegghoff)
He lighted the candle with a quivering hand,
his overcoat seeming to weigh down the old man.
He paused in the aisle to genuflect,
and wondered if God knew his heart was a wreck.
He found a pew and got to his knees,
hands clasped together, he sent out his pleas.
He is old and he's tired, now he's alone,
his wife died last Spring, now his house wasn't home.
They'd been blessed with one son, he'd died in the war,
and now there was nothing for him to live for.
He prayed until his knee pain was great,
then sat back in the pew and tried not to shake.
The cathedral was beautiful; he loved the stained glass,
but, oh, they brought memories of Sundays past.
How could he make it through Christmas alone
in a house that was empty, no longer a home?
The kitchen was silent and cold as a tomb,
but her scent lingered on in their modest bedroom.
He said one last prayer, then rose to his feet,
genuflecting again, he went out on the street.
He walked home near blindly, not even aware
of the snow that was landing on his shoulders and hair.
He was cold inside, his heart like a stone,
and he felt completely and utterly alone.
He turned down his street, saw his porch light's glow,
and only then realized it had started to snow.
He opened his gate, thought of making some soup,
but froze in his tracks at the sight on the stoop.
On his porch sat a basket, the old wicker kind,
he thought for a moment, he was losing his mind.
Inside the basket that sat on his mat,
were three tiny kittens and one momma cat.
What a pitiful sight, so cold and so thin,
he scooped up the basket and hurried them in.
He found some canned tuna and warmed up some milk,
gently petting the babies, whose fur was like silk.
He never discovered who left those cats there,
but, as his love grew, he no longer cared.
His wife had loved cats and this comforted him,
as they slept on his head, or tucked under his chin.
The kittens grew quickly, as they're wont to do,
amused by their antics, his love grew and grew.
There was laughter and joy 'til the end of his days,
for God works, as you know, in mysterious ways.
“dans le heure bleue"
My skin feels alive
when you are
next to me
blood pulsing
from the core
of me
Root Chakra Red
My throat exposed
the Wolf now
lies next to me
in my warm bed
savage and smiling
he is seen, he
smells of
fresh crushed green
pine leaves
lemon
basil
bergamot
a heart blooming
with jasmine
rose
carnation
coriander
patchouli
sandalwood
and iris root, then
I’m on my knees
genuflecting
he says,
“Come here,"
He kisses me
and tastes
like
Star Anise
"sauvage
je reviens
vers vous
Rouge
dans le
heure bleue..."
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
V.S.A.S.
"Scent of a Woman
rising from
the Oceans blue
necklace of pearls
on a clam shell
salt and air
silver cut grass
then earthed
terra australis
Red"
(ALLITERATION)
Cows milked: mitigated mooing in the meadows then
Weaving on the warp, some workaholic women
Harvest of hapless halibuts on hooks
Bookish book-worms buried in books
A palomino and a pony patter on the paving
Hucksters and hawkers hawking every housing.
Ravers out on the razzle raising a raucous razz-ma-tazz
Beavers busy building beaver-dams but about it quite blasé.
Doves cooing in divine chorus
Frogs frisking out of focus
Horoscopes are hocus pocus.
Tidal waves of tsunami treacherously tread
Sea-anemones scattered upon the sea-bed.
Geraniums genuflecting in jungle-like gardens
Hunters wary of wandering wild-life wardens.
All this when I ventured about videotaping
Nature's much nicer even with no landscaping
These are direly different scenes from different parts of the globe
Perhaps like a space probe's kaleidoscopic poetic probe
( this poem has every letter of the alphabet except x)
Surrounded by seven cherubs of cheer,
Just recently passing my 100th year,
I’ve been standing here on this perch,
In Little Falls, MN’s Our Lady of Lourdes church.
Most of the day I’m alone simply pining away,
Surrounded by stained glass scenes of yesterday.
Watching glorious beams of color jump left to right,
As east to west the Sun travels ever so bright.
Mostly alone with a visitor or two,
One of my favorites is when you are in view.
You study my features with such wonder and awe,
I can see deep within, you are on your last straw.
Walking in with face down slowly plodding as one,
Genuflecting with pain in respect of my Son.
Shuffling into the pew, your body sulking and sits.
Looking up at me, into my eyes, your stare hits.
I wish I could reach out and hold you in my arms,
Wrapped in my blue cloak, protecting you from harms,
Rocking your fears away, with a simple motherly sway,
Breathing into you new life, taking away all your strife.
Times like these you need, comfort and touch,
I thank God above for others providing so much.
It is now that I listen for, the eery creak of the door.
For a heavenly sent friend, to cradle you until the end.
AntiPoem 2
You know only one thing and that is:
Dying is not on the agenda.
Let us march now inside St. Mary’s,
March reverently through these green repentant doors,
These holy portals to grace and absolution,
Into a stain-glassed sanctuary of sinners kneeling in disguise,
These sullied souls coming in through the out door again,
Figuring death is furloughed from the crucifixion business,
Two thousand blurry years later.
Let us still march forward now to the glassed tabernacle,
Resting up there ensconced upon the marble altar,
Beyond human touch;
The host inside now transubstantiating as with earthen time,
From dry crusty oatmeal,
To omnipotent King of the Universe.
The boy holds his new Sunday missal,
As the family drives to ancient St. Joseph’s,
Up the asphalt hill, there on Gold Street,
Amidst the tentative Yuletide presentations,
Of tinsel-lit trees and blinking avenue abodes.
In the distance Lady Lassen wears a white bonnet,
As the Redding Christmas Tree stands exuberant,
Seventy-three feet into the icy air on Market Street,
A rainbow-glowing giant with a thousand staring eyes.
Brenda Lee is singing,
Rocking Around the Christmas Tree,
From blaring radios inside Oldsmobiles and Studebakers,
Cruising Placer Street to the Cascade showing Butterfield 8.
The boy is counting the neon cocktails,
While riding in the backseat on blue polyurethane,
His father is intently driving the blue ’58 impala,
Into a gravelly hilltop parking lot.
Blaring outward from the church there I heard voices,
A bubbling sacramental bouillabaisse of silent
Parishioners all genuflecting in pristine Latin confusion.
The girls choir wearing skirts of curious plaid, is
Singing loudly and softly their angelic vocal renderings:
“Gloria in excelsis Deo"
Father Elliot is extending his arms outward now,
Bestowing the final expectant blessing;
He is giving absolution to the captives driving Cadillacs.
You know only one thing and that is:
Dying is not on the agenda.
in one night crystal magic covers forest
forcing trees to bow toward ground
who is boss? Winter asks.
The trees go quietly, genuflecting
without argument, allowing her wrath
and her anger to agitate other forest components
Who is the boss? Winter repeats, wanting
them to give up their respect and their power
The trees hold fast, bending closer to the ground
Not answering, not arguing, not squealing
Their silence more effective than any amount
of words or screams. Winter gets angry and goes away.
Kicking snow up with her foot as she walks through
the months of January and February.
Trees smile at March’s sun, who heats them up
and rescues them.
I am so proud of you! She tells them; you survived
another winter.
The rose, Nature’s fragrant
Enchanter – inspiration of poets
Our preference for themes of romantic
Banter
Embracing her velvety flutes and
And silky arm swirls
Genuflecting servingly at her sacred
Scented altar
Is there more to be said of such
Endearing essence that has not
Already been amorously written
And gushingly read?
-------------------------------------
Perhaps highlight further
Her blood-like red -- rebleed years
Of greenless stems and deeply
Penetrating barbed thorns?
Or simply allow her to be
A manifest less complex rarity
Never linking her heavily to our own
Vein letting excesses and soul shredding
dooms
Affirm royally the Rose’s purpose, above all else
Simply to reside as another of Mother's perfect garden
Blooms --
The apostate looked out his window,
and started to believe
As genuflecting pylons,
sent ramifications through the trees
Chaos looked at reason,
was it about to make a plea
I see Satan’s raising an army
or so the nihilists agreed
The Crier rang his Leper bell,
‘our town’s a Godless apparition’
Least he filled hearts with envy,
of a once dreaded condition
Now the King prayed for calm,
in another pagan act of contrition
After his son died at birth,
he had proscribed all religion
Atheists came from all around,
excommunication filled the air
Roots now faced horizontal,
trying to feed off despair
Anxious to leave town,
random leaves block civic square
And steeplejacks are disorientated,
from neglecting their repairs
That hole’s not deep enough,
winked the piper to the knave
He could never resist a shortcut,
even digging his own grave
But the madness continued,
hermits set fire each other’s caves
Shedding light on the void,
by burning alive it’s willing slaves
And as the apocalypse gathered pace,
populations slowly died
Some genius came forward,
a real madman in disguise
Said we need a scapegoat,
a dimwit, an ultimate sacrifice
He was crucified for being too clever,
they much preferred no advice
And whilst writing this story,
that apparently makes no sense
The Queen was in her chambers,
hanging herself from suspense
Children butcher themselves gaily,
having learned how to fence
As for putting the fear of God into us,
the wicked come crawling to repent
So finally when heaven reopened,
a total eclipse tried darken that day
Never to see man overshadowed again,
Sun went nova, vaporising all life away
By
David Kavanagh
A single red hibiscus flower
Waits for me this very hour
In my garden small and quaint
Reminding me of one dear saint.
Who knew me when
I was a dream back then
Before my time and hour came
Giving my heart its burning flame.
While here I rest, ponder and gaze
At this beauty of beauties in the shade.
Amazed at the way it bends in the breeze
As if genuflecting next to me
Hands together, petal to petal
Love upon me gently settles
Deep within my aching heart
Praying for a brand new start.
Here inside this garden gate
Where whispers of my mother waits
With love beyond the grave’s cold ground
In this red hibiscus flower found.
A grasshopper
on a bamboo shoot
genuflecting
I Hear Your Crisis
Scream if you have to.
Scream out your guts if it’ll make you feel better.
Scream out everything you have inside your spasming soul
And let your tongue be numb.
Scream out like a banshee
All your festering frustrations;
Frustrations of always losing and of desperately drowning,
Frustrations of accelerating powerlessness
And of deepening deprivation.
Life as we know it is getting dicey in the big city.
Dull-brained dopesters with tattoos
Of fading flowers and dangling dragons
Know the score.
They know of the hopelessness
They have tasted the vinegar of reckless abandon.
They have seen the downcast stares
Of ten thousand depressed days.
I hear your crisis.
I know your pain.
I understand your disease.
Look out this window here
And notice the old Victorian house across the street.
It’s a dead house now.
The flowers in the garden stand slumped over
And the front yard grass has faded,
Faded like the faith of a million Catholics.
The windows are creased and cracked,
Like the bulging buttocks of a dozen whiskey *****es.
And there are genuflecting ghosts
Of long-dead children in the closed-up chapel;
The cross of Christ is covered with burlap now.
I hear your crisis.
Scream loudly dead children of the night.
Scream out your guts.
Because I know your pain.
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.