Best Parochial Poems
Quote:
"Xenodochial (pronounced zeena-doh-key-ul) means to be hospitable. Making others feel at home is truly an art. When you can make your friends, family, and even strangers feel as if they truly belong, you are making the world a better place". By Poet
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In a rather distant and uncaring world
There is a virtue that is widely unknown
Friendly, xenodochial, and blithesome Words
A non-parochial warmth is widely shown
Strive to treat strangers with dignity and kindness
And to bless your soul, grant no eyes to blindness
You may glimpse angels—in this river of dryness
No impediments ought to obscure the light
Treasure is always found at unexpected sites
Always be suitable for fresh starts and height
Welcoming pathway lights are faint yet pearled
Bear in mind we harvest whatever we have sown
Don't scold or exhibit just a shred of unkindness
A star shining on you will be soft, mild, and bright
Come close, come closer ...
let me bend your ear, my estranged countrymen
It don’t matter to me
if you’re a Democrat or a Republican
Your political persuasion
is of no concern of mine
Me be a global citizen,
parochial politics, I’m not so inclined
National jingoes
don’t make me do patriotic monkey shines
Us free thinkers,
we got an elevated state of mind
Listen here citizen Democrat,
don’t be no left-wing party socialist cheese eating rat
Listen up citizen Republican,
don’t be no right-wing party capitalist mice eating cat
It don’t matter to me
what your politics be
It don’t matter to me
if you’re a Republican or Democrat
Independently speaking,
neither party got any good stats
So vote however you please,
it simply don’t matter to me
I’m a global citizen,
don’t have no national self-interest
What’s good for humanity is what I want best
Are you listening citizen Democrat,
are you hearing me citizen Republican?
If America is one body,
how is it that the left and right hand ain’t shaking?
They both don’t do enough compromise,
they both love to spew party propaganda lies
History just repeating itself,
another divided house destined to die
Fighting against each other
Civil War
Brother pitted against brother
Rich against poor
Democracy now seeking cover,
done voted themselves a dictator lover
But none of that matters to me ...
I ain’t no Democrat or Republican
No, my friends,
I’m a practicing voter vegan
Don’t have no red meat party allegiance,
got no partisan politics infecting me
I’m a global citizen, 100 percent absolutely
So whatever your politics be,
it don’t matter to me ...
I’m above the fray,
I’m free thinker range-free
The sky is red by the blood being shed
The conscience of civilized world asleep
Where in the world is humanity being lead
Here is a corpse there is a throat cut deep
Vultures are feasting, dogs devouring
Devils dancing, angels clamoring
Monsters feasting, demons dancing
Guns tottering, weapons wielding
Is Muslim blood thinner?
Easy to be shed without remorse
Palestine, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Kashmir and now Myanmar
And existing Al-Qaida, Lashkar-e-Jhangvi and Taliban’s curse
Tortuous perils and vulnerability,
Fanatical sectarianism’s brutality
The two-edged sword of bigotry
Parochial savagery and barbarity
Religious teachings innocuous
Be them of Buddha, Muhammad or Jesus
Where are your wits, where is the focus?
Insensitive, vicious and callous
Await the leaping Hell-fire’s tentacles
----
Incomprehensible are the
Petty landmarks that linger in a person's life
It happened so long ago
That I'm surprised I still remember.
In St. Thomas' parochial school
When Sister Elizabeth held a ruler
In her pale white hands
Any signs of mercy
Mysteriously vanished from her blue eyes
Religion was her weapon
Corporal punishment it's end
Fueled by frustration
She held the class
In fear.
Every school day
Was a grey morning
Of my longing to be somewhere else
Standing by the door
In a robe
Of darkest wool
Sister Elizabeth counted us in
One by one
As we walked in silence
Hair combed
Little backs held straight.
From her glance
The message was clear
Grade school was not about deep thoughts
Or clever ideas
Originality was not in vogue
It was about small things
That grown-ups winked at
And often ignored
Issues, important as the color of beige.
One dull morning
I whispered to a classmate
When I shouldn't have
Called to the front by Sister Elizabeth
I was given the ultimate punishment
The ruler and then some
In her capable hands my palms were lacerated
When I cried out
She turned my hands over
Until my knuckles bled
Darkening the cuffs of my white shirt.
That evening my mother cried at my bruises
And my father uttered a string of curses
Long into the night
True
Sister's time was not easy
Teaching mindless brats
Such as myself
Only added to her
Disappointment.
Over the years
Attitudes changed
Commitments weakened
And Sister, childless and alone, realized
Much too late
That her days of sacrifice and Catholicism
Chastity and prayer
Had been a life against nature.
Even now my hands cringe
To a fist
When someone holds a ruler
For the wounds are marked deep
In memory.
Round about nineteen 1971-2, yours truly bid adieu
to Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School
(situated at crossroads – then beau
colic rural routes of Evansburg Road and Ridge Pike), where nary a clue
prevails today of such pristine farm country due
to undergo radical urbanization during my boyhood edu
cay ting this sensitive kid asper flora and fauna drastically became few,
but primary aim of poem intent to focus
on grievous sobbing from lifelike goo goo
doll (cries and whispers ken still be heard within beef jerky
ladder day grown man body electric) hoo
vividly recollects scathing stabbing, torquing twerking,
survey monkey wrenching “IDO
NOT WANT TO BE ALIVE” reaction from manifold factors,
which exponentially increased goy tar attacks
targeting thine mideastern suffer tick Jew
such baiting (though nary a hint
how mean neighborhood kids gleaned this information),
since not one kewpie doll,
nor telltale Star of David dead giveaway, no one knew
such sacred symbols never adorned, deployed gripped ourselves,
(Unitarians encompassed family of origin), which credo Matthew
best describes as a hodgepodge, pastiche, ragbag, et cetera of pew
pills amassed from a gamut of disparate Parochial spew
wing litany trouncing as heresy
any diametrically opposed sanctified religious treatises
secular regents questioned plants seeds of white lily
germinating, sprouting and teasing out through
logical, oratorical, rational invocations such a heretical view
which synoptic backstory of mine, now allows,
enables and provides an opportunity for you
to read what I intended to be main essence
of this notion communicated
from one to another primate within the human zoo.
Beneath Australia’s expansive sunlit sky, I recall the patchwork quilt, where my life began
12 provinces united, one country created; uniformity resists when anthems unite the parochial clan
From staunch Overijssel in the north, to Limburg’s laughter in the south
From Drente’s eastern reach renowned, to Zeeland’s exalted river mouth
Friesland’s fair and twisted tongue, a language apart
Her “Tjalks” adorn the “Ijsselmeer”, binding forever a Fries heart
Groningen’s Martini towered capitol sits amid Europe’s oldest man made scenery
While Utrecht at the countries heart, the nation’s birthplace abounds in greenery
The Hollands next both South and North, give us cities which compete
For world renown, both Rotter- and sweet Amsterdam, with tulips are complete
Gelderland’s unfortunate claim to fame came from war
When allies forced a German retreat; they aimed a bridge too far
North Brabant lies beneath southern skies, a friendly place where life is good
Before Lent with carnival spent round old Saint John, is where, my cradle once stood
Limburg land of promise, of fresh fruit flans and singing nightingales,
Where clear streams cascade through oaken forests and silence prevails
Flevoland, the last, where fishing boats of Urk once sailed the Southern Sea
Now reclaimed land doth arise as each polder dries, thanks to the vision of Lely
Fatherland, motherland, though far away now, if truth be told
A warm place in my heart, “Je maintiendrai”; I will uphold
I can still recall the past,
replete with wounded memories;
questions and issues spilled over
and beyond those bounds which made me down.
They may be deep in reality
but, they taught me how to be strong and faithful.
for they’re means to metaphorical connections
that my journey must go on.
Those twists and turns that life takes me
those trials and tribulations that come along
they’re experiences that define myself
like the Latin phrase,”ad viros faciendos’.
When things get tough as I tread through,
I grapple and decide what to do.
The flurry of choice enables me
to remain unscathed and be true.
Individual road on a different path
takes me often to the world of parochial life.
More relationship to form and define
like a gift, a historical occurrence;
that bring new insights to my life.
During those moments of difficulties
I ask the grace to savor the taste of my afflictions.
though I may be weak and bogged down
at least I’m not making a mountain out of a molehill.
Autopilot tired
broken wings
sore in soaring flight
fluttering, down-spiral
clouds streaming beyond fog
drowsy
then,
three barrel rolls
swirling through silver light
simulcast storm shakes black topsoil
mineral enriched,
vitamins collide,
seep through porous skin
providing synthesized eruptions
cataclysmic spasms drop knowledge undetected by erudition
Thick walls wobble, crack, then begin to close in on the thin skull
a metaphysical transformation manifests
three!
three!
threes permeate
preserving Oblivion...
Earth, moon, stars
proton, neutron, electron,
mother, father, child
Fertile land dissolves for the horizon
turquoise soaks toes
and so
an enigmatic awakening
idle imagination swiftly shifts gears here
from stationary stone
to being thrown through the moon
effervescent agitation bubbling oceans strewn
triggering intensity
tridimensional trepidation
sleet sheets pelt clipper ships
Parochial, no longer the vision
mood scoots through sinister to happy-go-lucky
three grim blankets lift from melodramatic souls
This mighty universe revolves
aflame with AGAPE...
(*sappy to sophisticated)
The final oscillation
©2014 ~JSL PoetTreez Publishing
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
gap-toothed, gray suit
lacy socks, haircut by mom
— parochial pics
6/3/2018
Do not count the times my truant tongue spoke
As though counting spring lambs high on the hill!
Can a fire rage aflame with ash and oak
And not yield it's embers to the dawn's chill?
A sabre’s errant challenge to confront
With parochial Envy at its root
Now presented again, both dull and blunt
That turns, by parried defense, to be moot.
Again, with mirth, I engage thine outrage,
Though tire from its false theme of affront
As rote as the actor’s lines from his stage,
No more to win than the fox in the hunt.
Rest thy rage, it to mellow by the morn
To soften thy brow, no longer forlorn.
Over eighty years ago, my father
made a miniature Model T Ford
from scratch to scale out of
paper, paint, cardboard, wire and glue.
He could cradle it in his palm
the size of a small teapot,
half globe used like a cake cover,
glossy black chassis, red trim,
a circular base of green felt.
Posing like a shiny eight ball
waiting to be struck by
our pent up kid hands.
We pined to push it across
the basement linoleum floor.
But never could.
Keeping us back was the glassy globe
and Grandmother Lil's wary warning,
"Children, look but don't touch".
Same stern voice our mother heard
many times growing up,
we knew she meant business.
So when arriving at Grandmother's,
we'd march to its stately shelf
in parochial school procession
fascinated with this classic in glass.
As little more than toddlers,
we knew nothing of the "Tin Lizzie" saga.
So impressionable was I in the 1950s,
could there be a secret world in there?
I wanted to go in. But never could.
Didn't lift that glass till my mid-forties.
By then, the model was too fragile to touch.
Like an old, dried leaf ready to crumble.
It reminded me of those snowflake globes,
if turned upside down, snow scatters.
The wonderment of my dad's deft hands,
his piercing blue eyes focused on crafting -
bending, cutting, painting, gluing each part.
Thinking of what he was thinking then.
Concentrating more, I feel his essence -
his scent, his voice, his humor, his breath.
Today, when I recall the car in the globe,
I see a tiny cosmos, a bubble much like
the one I create to protect my privilege now.
Grasping for solace in other worlds is
a childish ambition only achieved in delusion.
Through the globe, my father still speaks.
Sometimes my eyes get glassy to think of it.
2/27/20 written
A Tender Moment From Childhood
Sponsor: Malaika Ray Choudhury
Merciful Deceased Mother - Father T'will See Thee Anon
Atheism underscores bedrock
schema Holy Toledo
encompassing mine secular humanistic credo
simultaneously tricking elusive illusion, sans
supernal radiant quintessence
blasting damn ming the torpedo
didst alight kindle linkedin skepticism,
asper this son kissed faith no more,
(nor e'er didst I believe)
with irrefutably blinding albedo.
Though both parents
predecessors theology, included prayer
purportedly distilled within
Eastern European Jewry, where
without bonafied definite
certainty doubts to square
lee dismiss, this mortal
forced to conjecture dare
ring declaratively, while
sitting in thinking chair
(bet my bottom dollar to air)
course, I take leap of faith here
me forebears most likely
modus operandi did adhere
practiced, skewed, premised
Semitic virtue and vice
towed toward theistic obeisance suffice
hath to claim parochial paradigms mice
self attests little doubt,
(no matter scant rice
sized grain genealogical details posit,
one granule pepper, or
other old World spice)
supposed speculative precepts
akin to bing as loose as lice
sen shuss behavior
precepts prevails precise
lee predicated on
(at the minimum Reformed) price
less cherished Jewish,
traditions as device
ordering existence, (perhaps Judeo Christian)
principled tenets to whit
and mention above sit
chew waited at down
chronological arc soon to quit
final chapter of life, though
near ninety year old papa will visit
death be not proud realm
after he doth exhaust limit
of his mortal tenure, I admit
he gives nary a fig,
his meager profit
will not be deeded to any church,
and this sole son
expects (dentured teeth to grit
tight and eyes teary)
to reed only commendable
comments asper his obit,
where spirit of Harriet Harris fuses
with that of Boyce Harris as one unit
Tarry yon forever!
Treatise of love suborn
Of feelings, desires shorn
With parochial aspirations born
On ritual wings bourne
Romance brokered forlorn
On christening morn, personal
license torn
Deeded by title; underwritten
with scorn
Parceled with dowry; with
annuities adorn
Liabilities, a fitted mantle
charitably worn
Oh, how my initiative has flustered,
for I assumed of years before we separate
I sigh through dear retirement of a beloved pastor.
What stinginess imposed no access to Fish Fries and the classes?
In retrospect, I think this showed the sum that I could pay.
Oh, how my initiative has flustered.
If in the face-to-face responsiveness, I could not be active,
During his parochial presence,I may have considered exchanging ideations within the electronic mail.
I sigh through dear retirement of a beloved pastor.
Ah, to attend the Conversational coffee, which followed early Wednesday masses,
I strongly desire that in temporal asset my mind provided doability in willing myself awake.
Oh, how my initiative has flustered.
Perhaps, my sleeping rhythm could truly mould to donut Sundays,
and not corporeal nourishment but interactions would satiate.
I sigh through dear retirement of a beloved pastor.
I drown in upset without the known legal right of correspondence.
The prospect of mutual familiarity would permit messages had I done the actions strengthen my regrets.
Oh, how my initiative has flustered.
I sigh through dear retirement of a beloved pastor.