Best Nunnery Poems
NUN FUN IN THE SUN
There was in hot Tashkent in the orient
A religious uprising - a convent dissent.
Army was ordered in with gunnery,
The soldiers targeted the nunnery.
Here are the events in vista:
One lovely sista was forbidden a mista,
But a certain young soldier kissed her
Unaware of the portents
For the jewel of the convent’s contents.
In her cell he wanted his love to foister.
(She had made his cloister moister.)
His inclination was to osculate ;
The incident threatened to escalate.
Her kiss made him forget his gun,
Which overheated in the sun.
The magazine cooked until done,
Then bang, their love was gone.
'Twas God's cradle, not a stork, that carried her to earth
A babe nestled in God's loving hands prepared for birth
Still enraptured by heaven's spirit, feeling its mirth
God's hands remained after birth to ensure this child's worth
God's hands left her in safety at a monastery,
This babe grew in the loving heart of a nunnery
Her sweet cradle songs were hymns of saintly bravery
An artist she became, angels filled her gallery
Resting in our Lord's gentle palms, she never knew strife
Married to God, serving only Him as a loyal wife
From this child's birth to her death, heavenly thoughts were rife
The spiritual world remained throughout her earthly life
*For Robert Ball's "Spiritually Uplifting Poems" contest
Sister Josephine, our neighborhood nun.
No longer fit for ministry;
although she’s quit the nunnery,
she sits at our day camp nursery.
Go Jo uses every amp of energy
so as to champion or otherwise dampen
the spirit of grit in our scamps.
Sister Josephine, power shavers couldn’t stun.
Noise is born in my son.
Enjoying his horn on the run
from morn till night with the sun,
Boy Roy is fun, delightfully won.
Toys are Sprite cans, squiggly egg whites,
old cobs of corn and badly worn kites.
Sister Josephine, our savior you’d want.
Nursing their aches and their sprains,
reversing the stakes in their games,
she takes on blessing their brains.
Interspersed with pain, her tests will train,
coerce and arrest their thoughts with some stress.
Her heart makes and breaks their quests.
Sister Josephine showers favors - on good done.
Rhyming Words:
Stanza one:
no, although, Go, Jo, so
fit, quit, sits, spirit, grit
ministry, nunnery, nursery, every, energy
camp, amp, champion, dampen, scamps
Stanza two:
noise, enjoying, Boy, Roy, toys
born, horn, morn, corn, worn
son, run, sun, fun, won
night, delight, Sprite, whites, kites
Stanza three:
nursing, reversing, inter/spersed, coerce
aches, stakes, takes, makes, breaks
sprains, games, brains, pain, train
blessing, tests, arrest, stress, quests
Random rhymes in the the single lines:
our, power, showers
(neighborhood), (shavers could), (savior you'd), (favors/good)
nun, stun, want, done
R and R
Fan those palm fronds a little faster, boys
As I recline here in dignified poise
I’m Cleopatra, your Egyptian queen
I require the most sumptuous cuisine
Not queen for a day, but for a whole week
Surrounded by tall men with great physiques
Quit your bellyaching, why can’t you grasp
I’m not fated to succumb to an asp
Just provide me with every luxury
Or I’ll send your wives to a nunnery
For seven days I’ll be waited upon
It’s my vacation so I can dream on
Classes I miss and work piles on my desk
As I relax, remaining statuesque
Rest and rehabilitation is grand
On day eight, I’ll respond to your demands
For Carol Brown's "A week to do as I please" contest
"In the 1840s, two sisters fall in love with the same man.
While drunk, he writes a letter proposing marriage
to the wrong one."
My friend from New Zealand calls from Palm Beach
to tell me in her lovely down-under tones
that David, her husband of 40 years is gone.
She'll go in August, that august month, to take home
what's left of the hearty man who loved her--
admired me. Ashes to ashes, earth to earth,
dust to dust, or in the case of the precious 65%
of the body, water, returned to water.
New Zealand, Yes! "Green Dolphin Street," old film
of transport. Lana Turner in her finest role.
Van Heflin, concealing love for the bride sent-for
in error--her inconsolable sister fleeing
to the sea, whose incoming tide entrapped her.
A rocky climb to safe haven with the holy women
at the top of her washed-out world saved her.
Poor girl, first time an ocean ordered
"Get thee to a nunnery!"
I have been a witness to the mysterious tide
of Mont St. Michel's 'plein mer,' its glistening lip, gliding
snake-like to reclaim what was solid, solid no more;
threaten feckless strollers struck with sea fever,
or a would-be bride in wrongful death. Solid, this earth,
as far as we know, "terra firma," yet terra agua
summons us: the cobalt ocean of my childhood,
a sparkling Paris fountain, its sibling in St.-Michael
town, assorted rivers I have loved: Georgia's
Chattahoochee, the fabled Seine, or the Flint River
of family outings. These move the plasmic stream
within, washing where the ashes of my brothers
enrich the ocean. David's destination, as he
follows their lead, and Yes! I will join them
when the tidal heart runs out.
for my brothers, George and Jim
A Chinese girl I took to a nunnery
I
I led her
Her silent leg-irons cutting into my shins
That day when the air stood still
Dry as the day perhaps on the hill
when he spoke standing still
Drier still my words today
of a redundant ransom of flesh:
I’ll take you to the stopping place
Where the quiet cowled nuns make lace
They run a school for well-bred girls
In a cloistered fenced-in arbour
There where you’d have no need for curls
She turned just then seven and ten
Me barely two more when
She said in a breathless moan:
Take me to the French Convent
Here my road has come to an end
I want to learn
I want to gain
As much knowledge as my brain
Will strive to contain
I had no choice
I had no voice
In a Chinese school which stopped midways
She was the best of forty times five
Where I was hoarse from English and Science
She sat so close in the front row
She must have felt my breath at home
Her cowlick hand stretched crooked
Brushed my thoughts down my mane
Something about her dragging gait
Spoke of late hours as a kitchen mate
Or as the matron of squabbling squawking siblings
When the mother scrubbed and ironed
the landlord’s lingerie and loins
A saddened face she kept awake
All through the hours at stake
II
It took me days and days of doubting pains
To ring at last the nunnery bell
And to stare aghast at a pallid face
Not quite white and not quite couched in cowl
To register my request
The novice drew and barred the door
As though I would break down the wall
And as the minutes raced in anguish by
And I heard the rusted pig-iron latch click open
Two forbidding eyes contemplated my plight
Under strictly starched and stretched folds a-sail:
“Is she Catho…” she made to ask
Then as urgently withdrew her demand.
“Bring her tomorrow at eight,” she let her words
escape.
“Ring the bell at the gate.”
I never saw the demure girl again.
Her schoolmates thought she worked for the nuns.
Others: “ She took some vows!”
A sibling: “ She took no clothes for a change!”
Just before her silhouette effaced itself
Under the porch of creepers dense
She turned to give me a look:
Was it a look of despair
Or a well-thought-out
farewell fair?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
What's a matta Rick?
Get tired or sick
Bored of your board?
The chore you adored
Now left for a ghost
No more here to post
Left for all but dead
Did you lose your head?
Did ya fugeddaboutit?
can't get a "roundtuit?"
Left it high
Left it dry
Go outta your mind?
Get lost in time?
On to greener pastures
Where the flora and fauna grow faster
"The grass isn't always greener
Where the septic tank is cleaner..."
A bit of advice amorphous
From the wise old Greek, Erroneous
Mayhaps thou art a lurkin'
Packin' prose perniciously perkin'
Mr. Robot's radar is workin'
Are you in a gerkin?
Didst thou lose thy quill of tales?
Choo Choo train gone off its rails?
Tall ship lost its sails?
Out huntin' great white whales?
Not a victim of skull-duggery?
Or engaged in some fool-buggery?
Anon, get thee to a nunnery!
I but jest, a bit of funnery!
If you're hangin' with the fairies
Ya best have a care, be wary
They're a tricky little kind
They'll mess with your mind
And before ya even know it
You're a mad mushroom poet...
Costa Rica
In Puerto Lemon I met a girl, back then there were
many girls in Puerto Lemon, only she wasn’t of them,
she was the daughter of the harbour master
And she had class. I knew the harbour master well and
it was at his home I met her.
We had dinner, to my dismay it was alcohol-free
so many people at the table uncles,
and I don’t know and under my deep tan I was
in a permanent state of blushing,
shyness and timidity have always been my let down.
after dinner we walked in the park we held hands
and behind us her family.
A chaste kiss by the door, shaking hands, I was,
I think accepted.
And the girl, well, she had beautiful eyes but had
the odour of a nunnery and soft drinks.
I hasten to the nearest bar and drank rum & coke,
I met a girl there she also had lovely eyes.
Someone told the harbour master who didn’t think
I was suitable suitor, and his daughter had cried,
once again, I had lost a chance to be respectable
in Costa Rica.
The days of the year has quickly flown by
collecting aspects of serenity in the clouds,
for passing storms to stir the tremulous sky,
and try to make futility multiply in floods.
But from under gloom voice that hilarious cry,
See happier faces more lustrous make you smile.
With friends whose virtuous lives will never die
their beauty transcends the surprise for a while.
Celebrations to come from the nunnery of advents
unlike other days of the year; today is your birthday,
summary of days on peak season, outlived past events,
This rejuvenation of joy gives youthfulness each day?
Enjoy your dreams and the sweet encore of fantasies,
Sizzle with kisses and firelight stars of beautiful optimism,
beyond the grasp of humanity; soulful symphony echoes,
and the sound reaches to the highest temple in heaven.
Gathering the applauses commission from east and west
compliments make the visage of your virtues increase,
With kaleidoscope colours appeared in tears of interest,
where the value of your worth shall never decrease.
Halo skipping up to the sky; the eclipse makes a happy cry,
flames hides all hint of pain and the rain falling frail,
with moonbeam stars swelled bright in the mock eye,
A clear path between faint feelings and the swale.
As a lactose intolerant
cow whirring lion eye zing
dual (Banjo playing) Manichean
("FAKE") keen man womanizing,
faux nymphomaniac wannabe,
I cone only scream about visualizing
nip pulling and getting a breast
of Hani La (vanilla),
this sweltering unfreezing
Wednesday while mouth
watering chiefly hanker
for milch of
human kindness, which titillating
fanciful fandom fantasies
skinny dipping into soliloquizing
whet dreams har made
sadly, simply, and sorely realizing
test tickles quizzing
noggin merely figment
of fertile imagination pricking
prurient potent plentifully oozing
naughty salacious, licentious,
and felicitous evocations pulsating
hypnotically invoking
trance send dint overriding
gloriously flirtatious escapade needling
my over active
thought processes monopolizing
ability to focus attention trying
to compose joyous leavening,
sans jump starting
massaging, and kneading
dormant limp libido liberating
panting allied force,
which seems tubby
in axis Sybil for Nick -
A.Ting, thus Celeb Basie,
frantically, gingerly, and
haphazardly kickstarting
pussy riot with this feeble attempt
for a firm hut heave action,
one docile male member
devoid of livingsocial,
hence aye coon
sitter ring joining
a nunnery, which
would be habit chilly unfitting,
and very un convent
shin null for a poetic happy ending!
IF LOVERS WE
(To Julia)
`` If lovers we, you and I, who would we be?
W0uld we be William Powell and Myrna Loy,
sophisticates, trading alcoholic quips across the dining room?
Would we be Abelard and Heloise,
lovers doomed, she to a nunnery, and he,
his castrati voice intoning high prayers through the fog
of winter afternoons
Would we be Tom and Valerie Elliott
plunging into a cold madness?
Would we be Bonnie and Clyde,
outlaw lovers, running down country roads
to meet violent death?
Would we be Buster Keaton and the heroine,
he taking a pratfall towards her heart?
Or an average couple, maybe, growing old before the fire,
watching the last dying coals go out?
No, I would be your Robert Browning
and you would be my ‘Lizbeth Barrett--:
you are my poetry, the rhythm and metre of my soul,
you are my painting, the portrait in my mind,
you are my music, my perfect pitch.
It is through you I speak.
Think that you might agree with me ,there is no way easier to pen a poem,
Than writing it right here, on your poetry home.
There are no characters to remember, no details that you have to keep together, with a mental hook!
In a short poem, like a haiku, there are only three lines!
It doesn’t take a notebook,stop wasting valuable time!
Writing poetry to me is as easy as visiting a nunnery!
Go get to work with, joy and write down all your funnery!
Plus, you don’t have to store your poetry anywhere at all!
You can just put it right on this site any fortnight, any season at all!
So what I’m saying is, that writing poetry here~~is no big bear!
Poetry Soup stores it online, so there is not even a piece of paper to tear!
3/11/2025
A world that’s filled with anger,
corruption, hate, and poverty,
sometimes in the midst of this
there is one heart warming story.
It’s usually where there’s sadness,
and when the weather’s bitter cold,
where some poor soul is struggling.
and where the gutter’s taken hold.
I heard one in the Barley Tavern,
when perusing the T.A.B.
but I wasn’t sure if it was true,
‘cause it involved a Nunnery,
but then again the Sisters there,
do give good comfort with their aid.
I heard that Sister Barbara,
with an outsider had it made.
I’d often hand a couple of bucks,
to the old wino Billy Brown,
who’d take his cask of tupp’ny red,
to a park, on the edge of town.
The one thing that I knew of Bill;
he’s honest as the day is long.
He’d give to you his final breath,
if it meant it’ll keep you strong.
Sister Barbara at the convent,
of Tommy Brown was unaware,
until she saw him from a window
in the worst of his despair.
Now there’s a man the Sister thought,
in desperate need of charity,
and from a family gift to her,
she’s sworn to help humanity.
Sister Barbara wrote a note,
giving Bill encouragement.
‘Don’t Despair - Sister Barbara’ -
to help Bill with his nourishment.
She threw the note onto the ground,
and watched him read her written quote,
while in the other hand he held,
a one hundred dollar note.
Bill looked up and gave a wink,
and wandered off along the street.
One hundred dollars for no chance,
but Bill must act out quite discrete,
for one hundred dollars in his hands,
from Sister Barbara’s convent,
is sure to stir the fires of hell,
where Bill would never frequent.
And like I said I knew that Bill,
was honest as the day is long.
If he had something that’s not his,
he’d take it where it did belong.
And so it was that the next day,
where Bill would never frequent,
he was knocking on the door,
of Sister Barbara’s convent.
And greeting Sister Barbara,
with a wad of hundred dollar notes,
Sister Barbara asked “What’s this?”
and sheepishly Bill gloats,
“It’s your eight thousand Sister;
it’s the money that you won.
Don’t Despair won in the seventh,
with the odds - eighty to one.”
“O’ Shepherd, a penny for your thoughts,
What a handsome couplet we would make!
Let’s seize the day and let’s make hay”
“Madam, have we metaphor?
Get thee to a nunnery *
For I am betrothed to a maid most true,
Who goes by the name of Villanelle”
“You mean the maid who lives down by the stream,
“About a meter or so by yon,
I really simply cannot stanza”
“Madam, for your amplification,
You are an anastrophe”
“O’ Shepherd, don’t be an oxymoron,
Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit, *
I am hired to help you with your labours,
Let’s seize the day and let’s make hay”
“Madam, do you consider me an idiom?
Let’s no longer beat about the bush,
For I have bigger fish to fry”
“O’ Shepherd, come and punch above your crooked staff,
And by the way, please call me Consonance,
If music be the food of love, *
Let’s seize the day and let’s play on”
“Madam, you are as mad as a Hatter,
Simply barking up the wrong tree,
And your innuendos bring out my analogy”
“Shepherd,
There's many a man has more hair than wit, *
So, you take out to graze that countless flock,
You seize the day and I’ll be on my way.
Adieu"
6/11/22
*William Shakespeare
(to the tune of "Joy To The World")
For "A Christmas Carol Contest"
12/17/21
And here's the thing,
Set aside your bling.
Make life the worth of it all.
And tell it to the nunnery,
And tell it to the funnery,
That love is overjoyed,
That love is overjoyed,
That love is all there is.
Bring here the news,
In life we choose
Love, or lack thereof,
And I know them both
With both I've been betrothed.
Forever entwined as two,
Forever entwined as two,
Follow not as I say,
Rather as I do.
I breathe the word,
Like a big, heavy bird.
Too fat to flap my wings,
Too fat to flap my wings,
Resound the sound
Of all good things.