Best Saint Poems
a carpenter chisels creativity ~ his son saves souls
[First of May: Here in Malta, apart from celebrating Labour Day,
we also celebrate the Feast of St. Joseph the Worker.]
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A Work Perspective Monoku Contest
containing alliteration.
Sponsored by Beata Agustin
© 5th May 2022
Saint Tropez is a summer town.
Smaller than it ought to be, really.
Like when you realize the French quarter,
in New Orleans, is just three blocks wide and long.
In the fall, there’s a feeling of disuse in Saint Tropez.
A turquoise bike leans haggard against a tree,
and summer leaves gather in gutters like trash.
Your appearance in a bar is treated like a surprise.
The wait staff gathers, like they might take your picture
and not your order - one brings napkins another the menu.
Summer memories are indistinct now, from disuse.
You aren’t sedated by sunlight and warm ocean airs.
Was summer some French, romantic, cinematic fantasy,
like "La Belle et la Bête" or "And God Created Woman"?
Or was it deliciously bright, seductive and real.
You find yourself saying, “In the summer, when the thyme,
lavender, rosemary, citrus and jasmine bloom, the aromas
are strong, actually physical, like going into an Ulta store,
where a thousand delicate perfumes vie for attention.”
But it’s like describing ghosts or deserts under glass.
You search for the words, like a poet or an actress, unable
to remember her lines - lines that would make it real,
invoke it, precious and immediate - like a spell.
The Saint Tropez of summer.
*Sung to the tune of Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” Intended to be taken
humorously.
“When are you gonna grow up?
It is in jail you will land
You’ll have to stay after class
And I’ll be talking to your old man”
“You know you can’t hold me forever
The last school bus is now due
You can’t rap my knuckles with your ruler now
Stand in my way and I’ll just run through
So nah, nah, nah…
“So goodbye, St. Joseph’s School
Where the ‘Sisters of Mercy’ were cruel
The Catholic school’s finally closing
The lunchroom’s stopped serving gruel
“I’m taking that bus, might never get off
Don’t want to face my Dad’s wrath
Oh, I’ve finally decided to free myself
And set out on my own path
So nah, nah, nah…”
“How can you earn a living?
You can’t even spell your name
You’ll be required to take some remedial courses
And stop playing silly head games”
“Maybe you’ll get a new convent
I hear there’s some room in Brazil
Students there might appreciate
A no-nonsense sister with a voice shrill
So nah, nah, nah…
“So goodbye, St. Joseph’s School
Where the ‘Sisters of Mercy’ were crude
The altar boys have been set free
The priests are no longer lewd
“I’d like to stay, watch them raze it
The site with torture imposed
Where skeletons still hide in the closets
Nevermore to be exposed
So nah, nah, nah…”
*For John Heck’s “Dear John” contest.
Those of us who attended St. Joseph’s just learned the school is being closed.
Although a good education was provided, some students were beaten there repeatedly.
I feel a good education was provided, but they went overboard with discipline.
Well bless me soul 'tis that time o' the year
To partake of corned beef, cabbage and beer
To meet at Flanagan's Pub
For socializin' and grub
Again to toast the Old Sod we hold dear!
Entry for Andrea Dietrich's "The Perfect Limerick" Contest
Saint Blackheart walks the Autumn streets and smiles with diamond eyes;
She's well-aware of what you think, but listens to your lies.
Confess your deepest fantasies or never look her way --
She's free with random kindness, though she won't have much to say.
Saint Blackheart seeks the shadows for the secrets they impart.
Her life's a patchwork puzzle made with jagged shards of art --
Impressionistic paintings on a canvas dipped in red;
She dances like a demon for the angels in her head.
Saint Blackheart loves the twilight and the elemental rain;
She'll stand and watch you suffer, yet she senses all your pain.
A soft, Franciscan echo making up a primal scream
Can hurtle from her crimson lips and dart from dream to dream.
Saint Blackheart lives in solitude among the ancient trees --
You'll find her there within the mist, but never on her knees.
Her hands will offer nothing which is not her own to give;
And though you wish to die in peace, she may just let you live.
Saint Blackheart will not weep with you or wipe away your tears,
Yet she may catch their crystal hue and treasure it for years.
She'll lay a little flower on a long-forgotten grave --
A tribute to the tortured soul she never tried to save.
Off, Seamus marched with a swagger,
Yet, soon, he slowed, that sly lagger.
Then, not very far,
He snuck to a bar:
By noon, his march was a stagger.
March 17, 2017
Luck of the Irish Limerick Contest
Kim Merryman, Sponsor
We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature-trees, flowers, grass-grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence…We need silence to be able to touch souls—Mother Teresa [Anjezë Gonxhe Bojaxhiu]
“But Jesus Himself would often slip away to the wilderness and pray.” (Luke 5:16)
In Silence
Her love--she speaks of silence,
without flaws or violence.
Calcutta’s poor whom she served,
this increasingly disturbed.
Simple, free from obsessions
These her only possessions,
a bucket and two saris,
is all she’ll own and carry.
While visiting Darjeeling,
by train saw poor suffering.
Saint Teresa heard the call,
solemn vows; provide for all.
Now known as “Mother” served us
of India for Jesus.
Inner conscience she had sought,
spoke Bengali where she taught.
This a tactical gambit,
chose a white sari habit
with a double blue border,
this she wore for the order.
Touching souls of lives her quest,
without silence there’s unrest.
As stars shine in alliance,
may the wind come in silence.
Her Presence always was a quiet glow,
A morning all the day, and through the night.
And, while she slept, white radiance did show
Uplifted from the earth, her form grown light.
Like her, Spring spills forth waking on all things,
On sleeping hills, on nascent pomegranate,
On curling bear-cub, everything that sings!
And curled-up leaves, yawn, stretch, embrace bright planet!
There is an Allness, newly on the air
That lacked before... a Presence of Christ rises
And wicked things come over, once laid bare
To new humility, which small things prizes.
Like her, Spring gently calls a man, 'Awake!'
Who always let her sleep, for Love's sweet sake.
My halo has small crack that no one else can see...
Its my little secret that stays below and never shall fly free...
I hold a door and tip my hat ,but an angel that's not me...
If I pull out a chair or give up my seat its what I want to be...
Saints and sinners I sit between like a branch in a tree...
I'll do best and not to shake the fruit or take a bite from Eve...
His soul was calloused from being hidden, protected, defended. His voice lacked the listen harder whisper of the preacher’s temptations. He claimed to be just another “foul-mouthed saint” unraveling the mystery of life’s implications. Yet he possessed a charm, a beguiling attitude that invited interest, an aura of “something” you just couldn’t get a handle on. He could talk or he could listen – as required. He taught the nuances of the game, the touch pass, how to throw an elbow (when necessary), how to play the game…of life. He would teach you to play to win…but never let you win…until you did.
Somehow you knew he believed in you and shared that belief with you. Oh, he was loud!! He yelled…not at you, but to encourage you…and you heard him. His voice would echo through your life in a more resounding tone than the echoed reverberations of the chapel preachers. His voice was that of the moment, the streets, the family, the spirit of life. It was the voice of “another foul-mouthed saint”.
A confusing sound
A man laughing at himself
Spiritual joy
5/14/2021
Saint of Lust
Release these chains of tortured deeds
Along a sculpted veering hedge
Upon this path where darkness feeds
Of jagged cliff so near the edge
For one false move, beware ahead
Beneath the agony now shown
Within these eyes and lips of red
Sit heartless wishes winged and thrown
So find from me a hand so born
You maiden fair this summered breeze
To greet thy heart within this storm
Unshackle those in motioned ease
To lie with me of feathered dreams
And take of this, my soul can bare
Your beauty comes of all it seems
In flesh that I do long to share
For of thy skin my mouth does long
Aroused in pleasured flitting feast
Rose petal soft, magnolia strong
To sooth the yearnings of this beast
O’er endless days to hold you near
Pure love doth conquer moistened loins
Melodic whispers call thy ear
Eternally we shall be joined
For I am called the Saint of Lust
Come taste the flavor’s scented mist
Young soul now lost, misguided trust
As I partake your orphaned kiss
As evening whets this appetite
And shadows stand beyond the crest
My kingdom beckons of thy sight
O’ crowning jewel to quell my quest
Divine Lord, Father Christ
Please send Archangel St. Raphael
To walk with me in figuring out my/our goal
Profession
What minor and major I/we will pursue
To have abundant blessings
I understand that I have to toil
Work extremely hard
To achieve the best version of myself/ourselves
Archangel St. Raphael please be with me/us in my/our struggles
As we labor the lists of things I/we will do
To accomplish the most desirable type of Line/puzzle/exam/act/dance/song/hymn/play/game/make/speech/lesson/…
… I/we will partake to triumph
Achieve success
Acquire joy forever and ever
Amen
youth’s stem
broken-bent
appearance
of beautiful
in half of her face
in
a
m o m e n t of i m p a c t
acid torch of saint lily
I’ve hurt some people in my life
That didn’t deserve the pain
I often didn’t truly realize
The suffering they’d obtain
I’ve done some things that I regret
Sins that were terrible to name
But I know that God gives grace
In spite of all that seems insane
I’ve admitted that I don’t know how
To mend the fences I’ve beaten down
Or how to carve out of the past
A friend who doesn’t still frown
It wasn’t that I was such a bad person
I gave all I had to my beloved one
But I just didn’t think about affecting others
With sins that would weigh a ton
It wasn’t that I ever intended to hurt another
I honestly didn’t want to do any harm
But I was selfish and only thought of my own
For some people that seemed to charm
I made a lot of mistakes in my lifetime
And I regret the worst ones I’ve known
They don’t let me forget my past some days
But always remind me that I’ve grown
Today I reach out for the grace of God
With assurance that He forgives it all
From the worst sins to times I contend
He reminds me that I’m a little like St. Paul
Beautiful Short Poem A Saint By ARK
O saint o star let yourself shine
Don't look for praises yourself alone in fine
Assist seekers don't ignore their needs
You must become a beacon full of good deeds
Be a beacon of hope for seekers
Clear your conscience and become one of them who are keepers.
Abad Ur Rehman Khan Poet Of Pakistan