Best Sainthood Poems
The crazy neighbor down the street from me,
always had her multi colored polka dotted curtains open for all to see.
Music is playing very loud,
there was a wonderful beat to that crazy sound.
This neighborhood is going to the dogs,
barking and croaking like the frogs.
House #1530 dresses her dog for a walk in a stroller,
instead of walking they go like a steamroller.
House #1515 has lost her mind,
bright colors don't match and could make you go blind.
The neighborhood has changed so much,
petting frogs is a common touch. House #1518 goes out dressed from her toes to the top of her head,
with huge pretty flowers on her hat made out of bread.
What can I say about my neighborhood, we sure are not ready for sainthood. We are one in a million, or maybe that is one in a zillion.
Stop on by,
for a laugh and a sandwich on rye.
Date Written: 9/19/2021
1 Place
Neighborhood
''N'' Poems, New or Old Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Constance La France
I thought I couldn't make it, I thought, there's no-need in trying to fake it. I thought I
couldn't make it, couldn't even if I tried. One thing I had going for me was the strength
of prayer, the desire too try and shake it. The enemy use to laught at me, probably threw
party after partie's, had me the object of an pitifull degree. But like I said earlier, prayer's
are the commodity that give's giddy preference when one has given-up, still defying all the
obstacle's, treating life with stupidity. Many if not all people, do and will fall, fall-down the
ladder of life, the censentsus of marriages(why problems occur) and with no answer coming
in a timely fashion, and if one or all began to doubt the sainthood of the prosturity of trust
and surity. I thought I couldn't defy all the obstacle's, my selfishness lead to a private war,
predicated to a underscribable spell, and as I sank deeper and deeper(lump un throat) one
day with gun in hand, suicide became a source of a beginning instead of an ending (so I tho-
ught). My hand was trembling fuseily, to kill, steal your joy of life, the enemy must have been
smiling that dreadfull day, the day I thought to end it all. Tear's running down my face-out of
nowhere, a disturbing noise of siren's outside startle me, I later learn they were there for me.
Someone care enought to call when I didn't answer the phone, I had mention earlier--when
life had seem empty and blue, "that I no longer desire to live". So they prayed-and then the
authoritie's was call, arriving just at the nick of time. How could I allow things to get so bad.
It was so sad(so I thought) many times the God of yesterday, today, and tomorrow, he didn't
hear me, nor did I thought of love and peace for my sorrow.
"I defy all the obstacle's", the enemy tried to stored in my head. Now I know the reason for
life is the oddity of hate and the present of fate. That prayer's are the life-line that show's
him where is your faith, that you can carry to him, all the hardship one if not all shall face.
"The author of creation teaches love eternally is the essence that signified all that's difficult
when facing that (monster) always remember." "I defy all the obstacle's" :
December 26 Relationship to God Bible Meditations Based on Revelation 13-14
Key Verse – Revelation 14:13 And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them.
LORD GOD, YOU ARE MY LABOUR AND WORK REWARDER
Lord God, You are my labour and work Rewarder,
asserting Your supreme authority
Thank You that You sustain me for my faith’s stability
With Your power over death’s infirmity…
Let me praise You with all my sincerity.
Lord God, You are my labour and work Rewarder,
affirming Your abundant grace
Thank You that You invite me to come to You without doubt’s trace
With Your leadership of eternal foundation-brace…
Let me honour You with my stewardship along Christian race.
Lord God, You are my labour and work Rewarder,
ascertaining Your revival fire
Thank You that You uphold me in my virtuous desire for which I aspire
With Your mercy and might that cannot retire…
Let me trust You along reliance You require.
Lord God, You are my labour and work Rewarder,
attesting Your loving fatherhood
Thank You that You keep me in Your redemption against religion’s falsehood
With Your precious seal for my sainthood…
Let me follow You as proof of my servanthood.
Lord God, You are my labour and work Rewarder,
accentuating Your perfect role
Thank You that You freed me from sinfulness-goal
With Your compassion toward eternal heavenly pole…
Let me worship You with all my being’s whole.
Lord God, You are my labour and work Rewarder,
acclaiming Your glorious presence
Thank You that You bless me along disciple’s license
With Your commandment’s incense…
Let me pray to You, beholding Your favour’s iridescense.
Lord God, You are my labour and work Rewarder,
articulating Your fruitful harvest
Thank You that You build me up for reaching-out zest
With Your commission toward ministerial crest…
Let me abide You and enjoy in Your fellowship’s nest.
December 26, 2023
One does not earn
sainthood. Often
the most unlikely
of men considered --
as with St. Paul, an
early persecutor,
murderer of Christians
on the road to Damascus
struck blind --
when it
is time, God's time,
He chooses~ smacks
oblivious soul upside
the head...his first conscious reaction
is that of awesome dread~ startling revelation
one really not having liberty to debate
nor decline
Like water into wine
as hands-on
carpenter, son transformed
to Blessed Soul Cleansing
Sacrificial Son Divine.
Snakes in loose tongues
Proclaim one message, doing the opposite
When lie bangs and sty clangs
Identify and typify the hypocrite
Who declares faith in one moment
Swims in seas of sin
Inviting the ferment of torment
The hypocrite in his din
Can’t shove away
Despite claims to sainthood
That conscience can’t slay
As sin neighbourhood
Captures and raptures pretence
Leaving in the shell of loose tongues a yawning gap
In every single sentence
That in a loose tongue traces the map
In need of prayers
To bring about greater understanding deep within
That faith lies not in pretence layers
Concealed in a thin
Façade bereft of true faith
Where the chasm between light and darkness
Needs to lose its strength
To make a way clear to the meekness
In which faith lives
In both form and substance
Although in the end God forgives
Hypocrites whose loose tongue pleads for silence
As salvation sought
Salvation granted
For Jesus bought
Salvation for all even for tongues loosely slanted.
Would it gladden your heart to know God loved a poem
You wrote; that your thought lends its grace to the music He hears,
Though you doubt He's aware of your joy or your tears!
Would you hide if you could that you're naked as Adam,
As Eve was in Garden of Eden, preceding their Fall?
Do you dream of a day you might once hear His call
When He lives for your heart's drum, taps fingers to waves
Known to penetrate jungle! Magnetical flux lines
Trap curtains of light at your poles He supplies for the warp.
Its threads hang from the sky like the strings of a harp
As our woof barks the colors that dance from loom's sidelines.
Are poets more flavored when God tastes us all in the end?
Do our works or our faith count toward Sainthood, my friend?
Rest in faith, live in certainty! 'Blood of Christ' saves!
Long Tooth
June 19th of 2019
History books are filled with men’s escapades
Are women’s accomplishments seen as charades?
Joan of Arc had visions of saints leading her
to save France from Britain’s tyrannical cur.
Rosa Parks refused to give up her bus seat --
defending rights, she’d not succumb to defeat
Mary Magdalene had historians confused;
she watched Christ die, though apostles refused.
Eleanor Roosevelt was the eyes and ears
of FDR; she stood behind him through the years.
Marie Curie, first female to win the Nobel Prize,
joined her husband in efforts to save human lives.
Indira Gandhi ruled India two decades --
first woman leader killed when the Sikhs did invade.
Princess Di’s royal wedding seemed filled with joy.
Her death: an accident or a royal ploy?
But it’s Mary Shelley who seems most ignored.
Men said Percy wrote “Frankenstein”; Mary they abhorred.
Mother Theresa spent years serving the poor.
Sainthood come fast, by many she was adored.
These women claim their rightful place in history;
why others were ignored seems a mystery.
Women fought successfully for the right to vote.
Countless mothers to children their lives they devote.
Eve bit the apple, but all women bear the stain
of being weak, frail -- a concept I disdain.
*Entry for the “Tell Us of Women” contest
Mother Teresa, I salute thee!
Thou art,a pious soul and
Indeed God's chosen messenger
and harbinger of hope to millions
of suffering downtrodden -
destitute women,orphaned children
Sick men and women and lepers
whom the society hated to see even;
The gentle touch of thine hands
healed their sufferings and gave them
A ray of hope to live and self-assurance;
And indeed you've performed miracles
Which the Pope has recognized, and of
which in your noble life time
You never even spoke or mentioned
And that speak volumes of your humility;
And you lived a glorious life of selfless service
To the uncared for poor and innocent humans
And I look forward to the day
The great church of God bestows
Sainthood on thee so that the world
would soon remember thee as Saint Theresa
God's chosen soul and saint of the twentieth century
I salute thee Mother Teresa!
She was Joan of Arc, the very essence of bravery
who, from humble beginnings. made a place in history.
And, inspired by God, with strong and grand visions
was convinced of her calling, and went on her mission.
Joan left her small village, and went to assist
Charles VII, to help save France from England's grip.
So captivating was her zeal and charisma
that Joan soon was consulted for military wisdom.
She was sought to help lead the armies of France
with the battle of Orleans, there would be a chance
of success, thus achieved, in as little as nine days
which brought new hope, they gave Joan great praise.
Brave young Joan did not mind to travel to war
carrying banner, sword, and wore clothes that men wore.
The strength Joan displayed during battle and after
increased French morale, until she was captured.
The year, 1430, was spent in prison to await
a trial of heresy, where Joan attempted to escape.
But, alas, unsuccessful, to trial she did go
and was falsely accused, France did suffer a blow.
When, in 1431, like a martyr, Joan was burned at the stake
She did it for God and for country, her spirit did not break.
As the years passed, Joan of Arc was well honored
as the patron of France, and for sainthood, rewarded.
Joan of Arc's virtues, her honesty and simplicity
were remembered and revered throughout history.
From humble beginnings, and with God by her side
Joan of Arc left a legacy that can never be denied.
Written on 8/27/2015
Once there was a man called witch-saint
balanced in witchcraft and sainthood
some say he is a good witch
some say he is a bad saint
bloody fellow could be from heavenhell
As she bleeds, she heals
As she pleads, she feels
As she breastfeeds, she builds
As she hugs, she guides
As she nags, she teaches
As she nurses, she nurtures
As she cleans, she cares
As she cooks, she raises
She raises newborns into childhood
She raises daughters into womanhood
She raises sons into manhood
She raises women into motherhood
She raises men into fatherhood
She raises parents into parenthood
She raises sisters into sisterhood
She raises brothers into brotherhood
As she is a rock, she is strong
As she is woman, she is never wrong
As she is mother, she cries
As she is vulnerable, she protects
As she is peace, she loves
As she is intuitive, she plans
As she is beautiful, she attracts
As she is powerful, she leads
She leads children into adulthood
She leads adults into grandparenthood
She leads priests into priesthood
She leads bishops into sainthood
She leads angels into godhood
She leads kings into kinghood
She leads neighbours into a neighbourhood
She leads nations into nationhood
Whenever in the company of his trusted friends
St. Paul Lafargue had always said:
"I sure hope I never get a sainthood someday
- That would be supremely lame for an atheist
In any day and age."
The man was modestly honest - If not honestly modest
So I did everything I possibly could
To make sure we would celebrate his feast day,
Every-single-friggin-day!
I ran all the way straight to Vatican City,
Where I skinned all which remains
Of my horrendously disfigured knees
After tripping over my own two feet and half a sheet of LSD
- That's when I said: "Serves me right for not taking it easy."
"Jesus I'm witty!" I was nervously thinking,
as I picked broken grass
and bubble gum
Out from under
My gaping wounds - "My God,
I don't have any time for this modern-day humdrum!"
I defiantly said as I proceeded ahead
Demonstrating little more concern
For my previously acquired gangrene
Than I did for my recently sustained ruptured spleen...
...So to make a long-story painlessly short
And to keep all threats of (comedic) violence
Condensed to a marginal fault,
All that I really had to say was this:
"So; How about it? What do ya say?"
- After smashing up the whole place
With a couple of my favorite teamsters
- And that was just about that!
Paul Lafargue had been canonized
All for a philosophical laugh!
- I must've cracked every single situational gag
His Holiness had been expecting to be pulled
Straight outta my brimstone hat!
I guess it's true what I hear everybody say:
The Pope is behaving far too liberal these days.
So the next time the stupid boss comically asks:
"Why is you writin'?! - Why ain't 'cha workin'?!"
Tell them as many times over as it may take
Until it fully absorbs into their tyrannical brain:
"I refuse to work when I don't really wanna;
It comes on like a hunger, sometime, after lunchtime."
Every day is a page to write a new story.
It doesn't matter how many typos there
are in your story. History has a lot of typos
not only done by hap hazard folks,
but also people who were deified and given
sainthood. It doesn't matter what writing
style you use; John Lennon, Nelson Mandela,
Mahatma Gandhi....all had their own styles.
Blessed with a new day to live each sunrise,
is a moment to write a new story. A page
has to be written something....
Freedom
a delicate thing
dancing between
oxygen and carbon
will it give us a life
or suffocate
we're stuck in that reptile stage of uprising experiment
but they didn't count on our soul
small amount of energy which owns us
should have been included in equation
no one is winning
became universal scripture
no one is winning
neither plates from Sinai
nor book older than a prophet
or 'chosen people' exclusive label
no one is winning
sweep demons aside
and avoid your mirrors
stamped with that 21 gram
we are all hostages
living in Stockholm's delusion
October firmly sits
awaiting the imminent arrival
of Hallows Eve. It creeps
ever closer, and so too my ghosts.
Skeletons long packed away
play percussion solos with my coat hangers.
The closed door muffles its cacophony,
but soon others may notice the bus for freedom.
Pandora’s box has nothing on my closet!
Phantom images haunt my sleep.
Though once I worshiped you,
you never achieved sainthood
despite the ephemeral nature of your love.
Your corporeal tastes are definitely earthy,
even if we glimpsed Heaven.
Be gone, Damn Thoughts!
Drift away on the autumn zephyrs;
find another house to haunt
another marriage to taunt.
You are no longer welcome here.
The porch light is turned off;
the candy dish is empty.
Take your treats and
go trick someone else.
Join the parade of ghouls
trailing away down the street.
One more spectre won't be noticed
in the Halloween crowd, so
Take your memories, and
get the f**k out!