Best Rectory Poems
Quasimodo
Is tha' I gan't ta'k too good
Tha' keep me silent, not my mood
They thin' I brooding monstrosity
All thin' so, except, not she
I feel so shame when she look at me
I wish someway she see only heart of me
It sometime, seem somehow she do
Esmeralda, I play my bells for you
Her touch soft not like whip they use
When for sport they me abuse
Mob laugh to see me bleed
Quasimodo’s life is made of need
They eyes, like church, cold as stone
Poor Quasimodo feel alone
She gave me water
Gypsy lady gave me water
I deaf, ugly, half blind
Would that God were half so kind
She not see my awkward gait
She know, like me, inside, I straight
She dance like candle flames in the Rectory do
I glad to have just one eye, couldn’t stand such pretty if I had two
Her smile like melody. Like me, she wear no shoes
No pity me, but be's my friend. Like my bells do
Though I not hear, I feel them sway
My gargoyle friend speak to me someway
Inside my head I hear him say
Dear lady-inside-my-heart, that I will someday
When worthless life of me has passed
In heaven, with Angel's ears, hear you laugh
Oh Esmeralda, Until that day,
I will in shadows of the spire, love and play-
my lovely bells for only you…
He had no garments old or new
that didn’t have a hole burnt through
from sparks when he lit up his pipe
and nearly set himself alight.
Smoke rituals in his old car
began when we set off not far
to visit Truro’s small town charms
on Wednesdays when from all the farms
the ruddy faces and flat caps
descended on the town perhaps
to share a pint or tea with wives
as antidote to lonely lives.
He’d park the car in Lemon Street
at bottom where we’d have a treat
of cake and coffee laced with chat
about a future he hoped that
might see us settled close at hand
with the grandchildren he had planned,
yet though he knew I would away
to Cumbrian hills upon the day
I qualified children to teach
he put the means within my reach
of self belief and energy
to be the man that i would be.
Yet these foundations that he laid
had in them no contentment made
for him, who as a family man
was separated by a span
of tarmac miles the countries length
to sap his age diminished strength
on visits to those Northern climes
laden with tokens of his time
spent planning to express his joy
in one small fair haired little boy,
his first grandchild maintained the line
of thread connecting binding time.
So by degrees my first resolve
to as a mountain man evolve
became diluted by the pull
to holiday in Cornwall, full
of strengthened bond to sail and sea
and his love of my family.
In the rectory and its grounds
we tested new life to be found
where two small brother boys would know
and feel the care that he’d bestow,
new life on Cornwall's granite rock
aside the shepherd of our flock
He
travelled
far and wide,
studied Arabic :
A famous orientalist :
An Oxford scholar and doctor of Divinity.
Here
was
a man,
the Rector
of Childrey parish,
the Reverend Edward Pococke.
He
planted
in the year
sixteen forty two,
a cedar of Lebanon seed.
Now
the
oldest
cedar tree
in this pleasant land
still grows in the Old Rectory
in the delightful village of Childrey, Oxfordshire.
...such joyful company. I put my coat on and
was about to leave while still seeing my nun friend there with me when my pastor handed
me a book to read. I declined even though I knew by now that if he gave me a book to
read , I was meant to read it. Period.
But right now, I had this nun I didn’t know how to deal
with and anyway I had not finished the last book he had given me so I thanked him and
declined.
I left and as I went out and started my rig, the vision began to fade. As I drove down the hill
away from the rectory, the last I saw of her was her face with her lower lip protruding in a
make believe pout. I stopped, turned around and went back to the rectory.I rang the bell and
when my good friend the pastor answered, I told him that I thought that nun wanted me to
read the book he attempted to give me. He reached over on the table, gave it to me and we
bade each other good night. It was too dark to read the title so when I got home into the
light, I saw the title…. “ The Story of a Soul” by Sister Therese of Lisieux, the Little Flower of
Jesus. She was a Carmalite nun who died in eighteen ninety seven at age twenty four who
was since canonized by the Catholic church.
I no longer can see her but know beyond a doubt she is with me and anyone else who
wants her to help bring them closer to Jesus.
This, as Holy God is my witness, is a true story, told the best way I know how. Thank you
Lord. And thank you our friend Therese,... the little flower of Jesus.
Trans PORT Station
a hard look in side at how power is misused no one can glide upon rusty shells they tiptoe on the path well meaning people do wrong to innocents in the name of prevention we nip this sort of thing in the bud is what they say to all the kings horses got back together and then worry is a form of communication to a thief a man can give the location away of his riches he pats his pockets a good thief can find the way inside and take it all away the fortune plays for him he has the worlds repsect but not his own he frowns down his nose at all the peers in Rome they have this to a science they teach pickpocketing at Church the pews are lined with rows upon rows near the rectory office sits an alcove with a small work bench upon the bench is found a looking glass it is cracked down the middle on the side of the mirror is some pearls of wisdom found the person using the cracked mirror comes around to religious way of thinking fill the bank with more money make the people give you money add money to the till get money from the will money on a cheque money cash in hand money any way you can you can become saved in the Sanctuary then they will work you in the Bairn they will teach you heap your riches up inside the Lectern we will all be rich from Labor is the Key to money to work to be poor is to be dirt it is hard to eat with strangers what is in the soup will it be enough to go around the room how many bread to pass among the crowd the rich loathes will do how did you get here we drove we rode we flew the poor man walked into the mission bell was never ringing they do not ever seem to call the people to attention at the mission there is no ringing bell calling people to the Church is near the soup kitchen where they keep the money in the Vault away from all of you the money is not true but robbed of tithes and offerings in the plate today the Priest looked down and found the Mirror there intact the Gold and Pearls all told the poor in Heaven now you see them now you d’ont
calling all mistreated jugglers
and wretches of condemned madhouses
bewitched by fingers of freak fame
the spindly fingers of trickster twins
that open the floodgates to occult caverns
unleashing the brusque wraiths
the brittle symmetry of her glacial eyes
cast down from the empyrean skies
as a sanctified abyss from ancient past
eyes as candlelit rectory windows
shining bright like voluptuous pyre
and ferryman’s lantern on turbid nights
calling all gritty peyote coyotes
gargoyles of noxious mind germination
whistling by the graves of stars
in the form of ravenous black holes
so vexed by the self-immolation of lovers
the musicality of their hearty asphyxia
tantalized through thick and thin
falling in cascade down the wailing well
how do we always end up vampirized
singing the longeval sardonic litanies
outliving the meteoric tremors
as monuments of the past tumble down
calling all incorporeal beasts
to swing the fate’s pendulum in effigie
and mourn the motheaten grandeur
of lofty and aged Victorian ancestry
within the reach of eternity’s gate
disemburdened and lost to the ether
melting at last in the muse’s embrace
eclipsed by the fading night gyrations
there’s no excuse not to leave in rapture
one last rainy walk by the derelict wharf
ready to fall down the fissures en masse
into the ruptures of our narcotic glossary
Crimson robed closed eyes
in the Holy See
that don’t say
Upper chamber veiled deceit —
A wizard wand wave
in the Sistine Chapel cache cave
Young boys’ virgin olive oil innocence
sacrificed on the sunken altar
of concupiscence
Lust incense burning
the foul odor of debauched decadence
Nothing done before, nothing much done since
Hence the revered rosary silence
Abominable sexual disorientation initiations
Unspeakable
pagan rituals performed
behind a violate abbey veil
C2 Official Oz omission,
as rectory revealed
by cloaked wizards of fake contrition
Crimson robed closed eyes
in the Holy See
that don’t say
Scarlet epistle letter of lewd villainy,
piously disguised
by the pompous, pentagram pinnacle up high
Upper room naked transgression,
done with libidinous indiscretion
C2O foul emissions: Poisonous omissions,
now covered by staged admissions
Tainted confessions,
false tear atonements accepted
with mock grace
Calculated filthy lucre decisions
made by craven Kraken, cardinal sin closed eyes
in the Unholy Sea
that do prey
Cursed creatures of the UnHoly See,
who serpentine sway ...
Wavy paper algae
laundered movements of sorcery integrity
Ecumenical wizard necromancy;
triple digit last rites,
cadaver chants for
mint marked dead idolaters descending
Headed towards that bottomless valley —
the bane, barren Potter’s field ...
where all the lascivious Judas priests be
The first son inherited by right
The second,off with his king to fight;
Ab third in a rectory might dwell
The youngest was to marr well..
Family coffers...more to swell.
Fresh from Pentecost, our celebration
moved to lunch in the Rectory garden,
with views to the coast, for inspiration.
Spread on tablecloths we'd hardly begun
the quiche, ham, tomatoes, salad, or pies
when a westerly gust lifted our fare –
cloths and paper plates with lettuce and fries.
We reached out to grab our lunch from the air!
So rising to the challenge we gathered
and ate as fast as we could, in laughter
sharing fragments of what had been scattered,
at one as we'd been before the Altar.
Such was the tease of the Holy Spirit
to which we responded I felt with credit.
Some pondered ways
to pep-up the pulpit and pew,
but disinterest and ennui won the day.
The clergy went away to get help
and never came back.
Eventually, thunder and sleet
cracked stone, spire, and gable;
neglect, and the cold winds of time
nibbled at arch and buttress.
Where once was a stained-glass light,
weeds and mildew weathered to a moldy rot.
Where once the hems of cassocks swept
now mice and spiders rest or nest,
and baby bats roost in the rectory.
There In a dusty belfry
owls hoot and solemnly perch.
Walls crumbling to niche and cranny.
Amid all this spacy ruin
jackdaws lay their speckled eggs,
while in the misty moonlight
homeless angels fan dance
upon feather-light, slinky legs.
The Christmas tree is lit in the rectory.
There is a glow of Jesus all over the church
We are dressed in our Christmas finery.
The little kids are up front, out-singing Mrs. McGill.
I am one of the loudest and proudest
Knowing the words to Joy to the World, my favorite carol.
My mother is sitting in the front row with my brother who is two.
I am pleased with myself, knowing I look darling in my Christmas dress.
There are rows and rows of rickrack, and lace. It has a pinafore.
In green and red. I am wearing my lacy socks, and I know everyone.
The congregation is doing what so many others do on Christmas Eve.
Celebrating Jesus, celebrating the JOY that HE brings to the world.
I am resolute in my faith; there is nothing more important than this moment.
Goodness and enthusiasm flood through my veins.
I am invincible, I am convinced, I am His.
I stare past the Christmas tree to the Jesus painting on the wall.
He is standing at a door, wearing a stripe of purple.
His hair is long, and He has the kindest face.
I remember this day, when I was nine, and knew He had me.
Every time I hear Joy to the World.
It brings me back instantly to that church, that night,
And Mrs. McGill who could not out-sing a determined nine –year-old girl.
In a free fall i can feel the sky,
Getting thicker as it rushes by,
Though its easier to take a breath,
I can barely fill the space that's left...
It's so turbulent it rushes in,
And I heard it as it burned my skin,
Just the sound it makes during my fall,
Is so profound it fakes an eagles call...
As I open up my mouth to yell,
Getting closer to an earthly smell,
All the people that are looking high,
Think a bird of prey is passing by...
If I'm fast enough then they won't see,
The approach as my velocity,
Shakes the steeples of the rectory,
As it changes my trajectory...
So if you hear the church bell ring,
Turn around before the choir sings,
And then watch the skyline touch the ground,
As it burn's a path as I come down...
Alive today, gone tomorrow
Tenants of time
Rejoicing one moment, recoiling unexpectedly in sorrow
When dark times come calling to climb
The steep slope
Death steers into the trajectory
Crafted with hope
In a rectory whose directory
Leaves us baffled
Seeking clear cut explanations
In voices muffled
Bouncing on mute walls of consternations
As we ask why a beloved friend
From our midst should depart
In circumstances that can't mend
Aching hearts that smart
At the loss we suffer
Although to God we turn in faith
Pleading for providence to offer
Us fortitude and renewed breath
To bear the searing void
The demise opens in our lives
Left reeling, broken but not totally forsaken although we ache, we avoid
Loss of hope when pain as though brought about by sharp death knives
Hurt us at our most sensitive
But as believers we dare not totally despair
Despite our inquisitive
Minds seeking and demanding immediate repair
Ask tough questions to which only God provides
Succour and relief when with time passage
We heal while providence skill chides
The pain in the lugubrious message
Death delivers
But with God on our side
Hope slivers
Slowly into our lives slide back to stem in gradations our deep pain's tide.
An ailing confrere moans in his bed,
helpless and willing to be at peace;
ready to go far beyond this world
and be with his Maker – all that he needs.
He struggles with his failing health,
unable to speak and share his sentiments;
his remaining thread of strength
attempts to impart his faith
invoking the blessing and power beyond
a source of grace, reliance on his compassion.
As he enters the last hours of his life,
breathing becomes so strong –
perhaps God and His angels
take him around in His spiritual presence
inexplicable, a mystery to recall.
While Medieval painters depict the soul,
with a smoke that comes from the mouths
of a dying person; he’s restless.
It seems the howling of dogs hover
in the neighborhood across the rectory;
like a musical background, gritty -
scary and frightening to an individual
an eerie night that seeks
to be nearer to God.
This just in from our local news team:
A nun was detained by two students after class and forced
to drink a dry martini.
The students, John Peterson and Shirley Kemper
(who wish to remain anonymous) said they began to ask the nun,
Sister Alowiscious ( known on the inside as Sister Mary Sunshine),
about rumors of wild events at the Convent of Holy Pain.
As Sister Mary sipped, the following was revealed.
She spoke of bubble bath parties and dancing conga lines. She
then spilled the tea on clandestine sleepovers and secret
wine tastings. The nuns devised a plan to smuggle bottles
from the nearby rectory in wine bags fastened by rosary beads
attached to the sash under their habits.
She related one instance when wine was obtained at bingo.
A local liquor store had donated a prize basket of cheer.
Sister Benedictate called the numbers on a “ fill-the-card “game
and claimed nobody won, as a ball marked “free space”
had not been drawn from the machine .
She kept the basket amidst boos and jeers from the disgruntled
senior citizens leaving the room.
As if these revelations weren’t enough, Sister Sunshine then
teased that an even more shocking story was forthcoming -
(involving a certain “Sister Superior” and a bake sale!)-
only on condition that she receive a second martini
( with extra olives)!
Stay tuned for more updates from this developing story…..