Best Parishioners Poems
Preacher of the skies,
Sermon of Thy golden rays:
Wheat parishioners.
"As soon as the coin in the coffer rings; the soul in purgatory will spring"~Friar Tetzel~Salesman for the Pope 1517
He knew indulgences and such were corrupt
the church just out to make an unholy buck
he loved his poor parishioners a bunch
he had to do something this unknown monk,
Not being able to take anymore
he nailed his 95 theses to the Wittenburg church door
arrested he stood firmly for all his beliefs
his friends eventually stealing him in the night like thieves,
While in hiding he translated the Latin Bible into German
that way his people could read and then learn from
instead of just digesting what all the priests had to say
they read and interperted for themselves without delay,
Of course religious tension and fighting ensued
but because of Luther his people were not as confused
the German scriptures giving them new light
instead of the churches teachings and their indulgent lies,
Martyrs before and after Luther lending him a helping hand
all murdered because they took a "heretical" brave stand
many burned at the stake the pope declaring they were damned
while Protestantism swept like wildfire throughout the German land.
10-31-17
Laying down in this comfortable hospital bed with blue
and candid linen sheets that cover my strong legs,
I harbor no anger for my illness;
I can't blame God for my woe!
Bitterly and deeply saddened by a slow clock,
I'm looking with awe through a sun-kissed glass window
from the tallest building on Lakeville Road
with an awesome view of New Hyde Park;
it's November and the birches turn bright gold...
a joyful choir emerges from the small church below
as the young tenor sings virtuous notes:
everybody adores him and stands up from the pows!
In there, parishioners are fervently praying
for a divine miracle beyond human comprehension;
is someone praying for me with folded hands?
I'm confident that many have done that for my healing;
it's so absurd that we only ask our Lord for compassion
when a tragedy strikes...we are hypocritical humans!
I harbor no anger for my illness;
if most youth is so stubborn and rebellious,
and doesn't consider sickness:
here's the woeful proof of being reckless!
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.
Her tears lost to rain ...
Dorothea stood in the cold mist,
her habit soaked through, though she cared not.
The gray markers spread out before her like stone soldiers at attention,
as if she were a commander of the dead ...
'No', he would have corrected, 'You are my gift from God' -
her soldier, as cold as stone, now long dead,
deep in the frozen earth at her feet.
She ached for his touch ...
it had been twenty-two years since he'd left for the war -
since he'd been killed protecting his platoon,
yet the wound was as raw as ever,
and the longing for his smile burned a hole in her deepest being.
God was the only thing that made it bearable,
and that devotion was for his sake alone, not hers -
not the children she tended to at the abbey,
not the twisted-limbed gentlemen at the veteran's center,
not the numberless parishioners she had comforted over the years,
not the long lines of homeless at the shelter,
not even the family members she loved and missed back home,
but his ... and his alone.
She read the gravestone aloud,
as she had done so many times before:
"Lieutenant Theodore James Crowley, Jr"
Theodore ... Gift From God, she thought to herself ...
Though she hadn't known it then, it was what her name meant, too ...
almost as if it had been planned, somehow ...
as if it was ordained by the heavens ...
almost as if God had created them ... for each other.
Which, of course ... He had.
N/A'd May 27, 2020, 4:05 AM
In the "Nun" Poetry Contest
N/A'd June 5, 2020, 11:24 PM
In the "Select 5, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "N/A Re-Run 7" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
This Sunday Morning
The plague has shut our church doors this morning,
Even the lovely lawn is bare of chairs.
If you like, you can turn to the internet, though
It’s not the same as warm handshakes, hugs or building fair,
But lo, here arching trees form a cathedral,
As I think of you in prayer,
The birds are singing in a songbird choir,
And squirrels ushering, gathering here and there.
There are drifting clouds of alabaster white angels,
And scriptures’ fluttering pages,
Soft breezes carry the whispers of worshiping parishioners,
With fervent petitions for those who are missing,
And the Devil weeps! – he has not won.
For all this is God’s unending Love!
The Churches are empty!
But the bars are chock full?
Walmart, almost a new religion
unto itself.
It's parishioners, adoring cheap
junk on its shelves!
Few would even think to contribute
to any ministry.
But spend thousands on hair dyes,
and cosmetic dentistry.
We adore our bodies more than God.
He is old-hat, while we are so mod.
We attend sporting events, like mad,
true addictive clods.
The Bible? Oh, my, that is terribly old
school.
We think Google is God and provides
us with ultimate truth and rules.
5/9/2019
Bells, bells, sound of bells fall now and then in my ears,
Their tone and timbre varying, sometimes singing,
Sometimes jarring, sometimes rising to a sweet crescendo.
Clanging and clashing, tinkling, and jingling
Every day I wake to the sound of the tolling of bells,
From the church steeple early in the morning,
A call to the parishioners to start their day,
In prayer and devotion to the Heavenly Father
Each toll causing varied impacts, sad or sweet.
While wedding bells ring with a sweet melody
It is with great dread that we listen to the alarm bells,
Cautioning and alerting men of some imminent danger.
As the funeral procession moves slowly down the streets,
With men treading in silence and the bells ringing a doleful tune,
Reminding us of the inescapable end waiting for each man,
A foggy pain creeps through the alleys of the mind.
Thus, the sound of bells through ages has been rolling,
Through hills and vales crossing hamlets and towns
Either whispering a sweet tale or forewarning an omen
Producing timeless echo, vibrant and resonant in the eons of time!
Excited crowds with fresh palm leaves,
Wave them and call Him King.
They pledge allegiance to their Lord
As sweet hosannas ring.
They cannot know the coming days
Will fill their hearts with dread.
Before five days have past, their king
Will be betrayed and dead.
Parishioners on this Sunday
Hold palm leaves as we sing.
Although we know on Friday they
Will crucify our King.
But we know the end of story,
On Easter He arose.
He ascended into Heaven
Astounding friends and foes.
He suffered all without protest,
Forgave us on the tree.
He conquered death forever when
He died for you and me.
won 5th
Palm Sunday is the start of Holy Week.
The people come with waving palms to hear
Our pastor tell of Galilean meek.
They come both young and old to seek
The Easter message that we all hold dear.
Palm Sunday is the start of Holy Week.
The story never loses its mystique.
More and more parishioners appear
As pastor tells of Galilean meek.
Tears from our eyes begin to leak
As Jesus goes toward death without a fear.
Palm Sunday is the start of Holy Week.
The next few days will be so very bleak
As our Savior to his final fate draws near.
Our pastor tells of Galilean meek.
We hear about the kiss upon the cheek.
As Judas betrays One he should revere.
Palm Sunday is the start of Holy Week.
Our pastor tells of Galilean meek
For Villanelle contest
3/22/13
Hypocrisy within the Village Flock
As the seasons of my life changes, glorious it may not be!!
Valley bells summons the flock to chapel.
Heavily polished Pews squeak, as Village flock take their seats.
Distant ghostly voices ring out with such shallowness.
“Chapel roof raised with such false faith”
No attention paid to the sermon.
The congregation floored by jealousy, as each man mirrored by his own status.
Women competing, against their hats and frocks.
Jealousy worms weaving through their gowns,
feathers in hats, quivers as the coven moves through the vestry door.
Minister excited to the jingles of the collection box whilst being passed around and around.
my soul lays upon a bed of thistles.
Whilst the thorned crown compresses the thoughts within my head.
Lurking within the shadows of the cross .
Whilst the gruelling over the sacrificial lamb
So-called reputable men “ that should not be”
The pitch pine pulpit, creeks with despair.
Parishioners best clothed with shiny shoes,
“all hypocrites congregate here”!!
Layer upon layer of blasphemous faith,
create a stain on uneasiness upon the so-called sacred walls .
Each Private hymnbook worn by sweating hand,
fidgeting tell- tales of fear through ware.
Each before God and un- easy to what conscience they happen to bear!!
“ If this is faith, then I want no more,”
All false faces glance, finally and for the last time.
I exit through the memories, OF that stained chapel door.
An ancient tone-deaf vicar named Fred
His parishioners he loved to wed
When he starts to sing
The bells they would ring…
For his voice would awaken the dead!
Jan Allison
7th April 2016
Barcelona looked like a church
as I walked down La Rambla
in search of a vacant room
on that warm morning.
The balconies of the flanking
high-rise apartments were pews
festooned with holy day
football flags and bedsheets.
The white haired flower seller
sat silently with his serrated scissors
and buckets of sugar water
as if listening to a confession.
People who passed me
on that righteous path
became parishioners
with detailed back stories.
The mustachioed man walking
his dog near the grass
was a lapsed Catholic
and Spanish novelist
taking a break from
the tapping of the typewriter.
The chubby middle-aged lady
in high heels and a skirt,
who carried folders and puffed
on a quick thin cigarette,
was a museum secretary
with the curator's copies
and a mother who cooked up
fish and paella for her children
every Friday during Lent.
The invisible clouds that
wafted from the restaurants
smelling of grilled seafood
and lemons and garlic
were like the prayers that a
priest's incense personified.
I later spent a humble evening
in a small rented room
washing my socks and
shorts in the white sink
and reading the boxscores
and baseball epistles
from a day old New York Times.
I studied batting averages
as my underclothes slowly dried
on the back of a wooden chair
with the help of an electric fan.
Kirby's no Catholic, at least he doesn't believe
the Pope's infallible. Infallibility's for me,
the one he counts on for treats under the table
when no one is looking, or he trails me into
his mistress's laundry room, where
doggy perks are stored along with "Tide, Free &
Gentle, plastic containers of color safe bleach
destined for the King Size clean-machines
as good as any Laundromat on planet earth.
In the church of my persuasion, Thursday
of Holy Week is when parishioners, called for duty,
come forward on cue to sit on folding chairs
before God and the world, while a priest, kneeling
in his grandiose garments washes their feet
in the old way, (a bar of soap, "Dial" maybe,
"Don't you wish everybody did!", a basin
of water, a towel or three) as our Blessed Lord
demonstrated on his way to the tree.
Barefoot at bedtime, sleeping over
with those I love most, Kirby, senior citizen
of our family dog-dom, granted privileged access
to the end of my bed, takes sacramental care
of the object of his affections. My left foot
carefully washed, special attention
to the toes, (no thorns on this rose), are
hors d'oeuvres he does not sample
in his ample love.
You will begin to see yourself as spiritual support for all the
Good work being done
Through your parish if you can stay away from the following:
Negativity: Negativity usually starts with a few disgruntled
people who complain about virtually everything
Can spread like wildfire
The best way to deal with negativity is to address it head-on
by asking some key questions
Gossip: Gossip is negativity directed at a person or a group
of people in the parish
Every parish has gossip-mongers whose own insecurity drives them to put others down as a way of feeling better about themselves
The best way to deal with them is directly by asking why others really need to know the things they share
Or by asking how others can help the person whose reputation is at stake
Or by just
Ignoring it
Cliques: Sadly, people involved in a clique usually don’t think
of themselves as “cliquish.” They’ve just been running things for so long
that they rely on the same people over and over to help Sometimes they just need a friendly reminder to invite others
Newcomers also often benefit—and help the parish
Refusal to change: Tradition is good
But when parishioners become too rigid or too liberal about how the way things have “always been done”
A parish can quickly begin to decline
Change is never easy
Try to find a balance that will maintain some time-honored traditions
Including devotional practices
While incorporating new ways of doing things and involving new people in doing them
No parish is perfect
Even the best parishes can improve
Imagine what would happen if every person in the parish did one little thing to make the parish better!