Best The Virgin Poems
A surly old maid
had an urge to be laid
and bemoaned her virginal status
with life discontented
her plight she lamented:
"'tis not easy to live without coitus."
A scheme she invented
got polished and scented
tweaked her pointers to swing more voluptuous
with a rose-scented blanket
and aphrodisiac banquet
whisked her beau to the beach to be fructuous
Clad in scant mini
whence peeked her bikini
bent on bidding her cherry adieu
purred words mildly profane
wined him champagne
dined him fare with venereal value
To hone his libido
entrèed on baked avo
oysters, scallops and honey-glazed almond
lips enticingly luscious
sucked asparagus
sneaked a look if what matters had hardened
As was he, she became cocky:
ogled what was now stocky
with no inhibition she fussed and she flirted
our virgin opened her mouth
with one hand down south
loosened a knot and lay there unskirted
Decidedly heady
her lover was ready
to pick her rosebud unsoiled hitherto
her lush lips he fingered
where he lovingly lingered
to prepare for their kissing debut
With a bolt sat upright
said, his voice somewhat tight:
"Your mouth is a pit of infection.
I swear I was keen
but your mouth lacks hygiene
foul breath made me lose my ********."
Crowning the Virgin Mary
I was only six years old and was
chosen by the first grade nun,
To place a garland of roses on the
Vigin Mary in May.
It really was an honor and a blessing.
Mom had pictures made of this event.
As little girls, we all were so lovely.
Dressed in lovely dresses and real shoes.
We never dressed like boys.
I had to climb a rather tall ladder.
Sister Antoinette helped my unsteady
feet
I was so very frightened.
But~ it was quite ethereal to see
the Madonna's face.
Another nun played the piano for us.
They all sang as I was walking up the
stairs to heaven with a garland of roses for
Mary's head.
"Oh, Mary we crown thee with blossoms
today,
Queen of the Angels, Queen of the May."
Yes, those were the days,most unique.
God and the saints were allowed in school.
We were taught to live by the golden rule.
Our world,today, thick-headed as can be,
Slammed the door in God's face.
And ignorantly searches for peace in the
human race?
Worse, many have no idea of immortality.
Take a view of the news, you will find,
Great evil forever emphasized, over the
good men, do.
God's word never read,just words of fallible
mortal men.
Churches, synagogues our new killing fields?
Yes, that's the result we pay, for turning in
disobedience from God's most Holy face!
Panagiota Romios
5/3/2018
12:30am PST
I once saw the Virgin Mary
On a wall in San Francisco
Black marks on a stucco wall
I knew you by the streetlight
A vision of sanctifying grace
Then fussy on a tangled path
Far from my roots of origin
You spoke directly into me
Through my rough exterior
Reaching into the child in me
A mother caring for her baby
Forgiving before I even asked
In a whisper my voice told her
Bless me for always being less
Virgin Mary of the alley wall
Not judging me or hating me
For the person I pretend to be
Seeing us all as your children
A mother who understands us
Sharing your grace and beauty
So if you are gone in the morning
I ask you to keep your heart open
And to remember me here as I am
Three fennel seeds upon the snow
she sows upon St. Valentine's,
the virgin witch of Moulineaux.
A magic spell that love shall grow
in blood fresh pricked from rose's spines,
three fennel seeds upon the snow.
A kiss beneath the mistletoe,
on Yuletide eve his arm entwines
the virgin witch of Moulineaux.
But now where is her wayward beau?
Her hope lies there before the pines:
three fennel seeds upon the snow.
With lifted arms to call the Crow
she kneels to pray and make the signs,
the virgin witch of Moulineaux.
To win his love or it forego,
the stars shall judge how she aligns
three fennel seeds upon the snow,
the virgin witch of Moulineaux.
When first freed from mother's skirt, still arrayed in white,
dew kissed, peach sweet, blush cored, I dove into
love, Persephone pierced; where ox-eyed daisies grew
within a field abreast a Roman ... in daylight.
Dry merlot overcast the blooded spot on site
where passion flowered upon the box stitched blue
quilt Grandmother with constancy had imbued.
Yet, youth was not enough to make the man contrite.
An omen ran through red bee balm, a hound of black
long-limbed, loosed to pursue the brazen few who dared
to lay unabashed in sunlight, the farmer stared back
from the porch; he saw them run, saw yarrow in her hair.
Ill fated yes, but first love is honeyed and that is a fact;
nothing's sweeter than a maid undressed in open air.
Love Letter to God from the Virgin Mary. (You could sing this one, tune is "What am I living for...? sung by Clyde McPhadder, way back when.)
What are we fighting for?
Look at the sparkling sea,
So beautiful..
What are we fighting for?
Look at the snow-clad Alps,
So pristine,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the desert dawn,
So golden warm,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the valleys and lakes,
So serene and calm.
What are we fighting for?
Look at the tiny ant,
So perfectly small,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the human form,
So miraculous,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the clouds,
So fluff and moist,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the Planet Earth,
So bountiful,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the blazing stars,
So heavenly,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the Universe,
So infinitely large,
What are we fighting for?
Mary's Love letter to God,
What are we fighting for?
What are we fighting for?
THE BURYING OF THE VIRGIN
The gloom of death gone bad so near that night,
as circumstance played out a mournful tune,
and echoed through my brain, as if it might,
give credence to the shadows of full moon;
and buried I my virgin, thin and bare,
she bathed in lilac, head down to her toes;
I laid her sixteen feet, to keep her there,
and marked her with a name that no one knows.
Then lest the devil wolves, who loved her dear,
should get a sence of lilac in the night,
and smell their way from there to over here,
to raise her from her tomb, as sure they might!
I could not bear to end her chastity,
and so she died a virgin willingly!
She was an early purchase, just a child,
of seven years from gypsies passing by,
and in her eyes, the look, both free and wild,
yet of her bondage never questioned why.
All ladies saw her beauty, as she grew,
and changed from childhood to maturity,
to be more woman than they ever knew,
and virgin that she was, was due to me,
but at her end, her body was afire,
and yearning for the love I would not give,
lest I should lay to waste, in my desire,
the greatest beauty of this life I live!
So sleeps my virgin, as she'll always be,
unless my passion gets the best of me!
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
The Virgin Maid of Orleans, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s La Pucelle
To Robert Caze*
Even as the blaze crackled around the stake’s pyre,
Joan was deafened by the clergy’s brutal chanting,
Harsh eyes with hate from all the windows demeaning,
She felt her flesh quiver and her soul budge on fire.
And like lambs that resold to the butcher expire
The shepherd roamed with country airs whistling
She reflected in earnest on things and being
And met her lord who ungrateful did conspire.
« It’s wrong, gentle Bastard, sweet Charles*, good Xaintrailles,
To let the English take charge of her funeral
She who forced them to abandon the siege of Orleans. »
And as for Lorraine, the very thought of that injury,
While death clasped in its arms the non-believers,
Weary ! She cried out just as another creature formerly.
• Acc. to Yves-Alain Favre, a journalist (1853-1886), slain in a duel.
• Charles the VII, crowned King at Rheims on July 17, 1429, with the help of Joan of Arc who was then aged 15. It was thought Charles VII may not have been the son of his father, Charles VI, owing to an extra-marital affaire with a Bavarian monarch.
• © T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
undress her slowly
be gentle it's her first time
a temple yet unexplored
pain leads to pleasure
if only you take your time
yet young men can be anxious
moment ends prematurely
You are saving it for marriage because premarital sex is a sin.
But some people are making fun of you because you're a virgin.
I think what you're doing is very great indeed.
It's refreshing to see someone wait until they're married.
But those people keep making fun of you and they won't give you a break.
What they're doing is wrong, tell them to go jump in the lake.
Sweet Prince of peace conceived in love
Born Of God and the Virgin Mary
And in the light of a star bright
Angels came saying: "Behold tonight
In the city of David a savior is born
Most holy, Born of God And The
Virgin Mary
And as the Shepherds who watched
Their flock on a faraway hill came to the
Manger so quiet and still and fell to their
Knees and praised the Lord
And as they slowly left the nativity they
Went spreading the word then people did
Come from all around from the lowly to the
Three kings to see the infant Emmanuel
And they also fell to their knees and
Worshiped the Lord
Sweet prince of glory conceived in love
Born Of God and the Virgin Mary
In the ancient city of Zion
Where Heaven gave birth on Earth
And in the light of a star bright
Angels came saying: "Behold tonight
In the city of Bethlehem a savior is born
Most holy, Born of God and the Virgin Mary
2000 and something years ago we were
Given one more second chance through the
Grace of the sacred Trinity when Jesus
Was born, Born of God and the Virgin Mary
Mothers Day Portugal 5/5/2013
Mary Blessed Mother I thank You for graced me with Life and allowing me with your tenderness and Fatherly nurture and care,
Splendorous Holy Spirit shinning through Your infinite glory and mercy,
Maternal intercession,
My Mother,
We,
Living image of Jesus, Living Holiness of the Creator whom we devote our Christian life in full measure and with eternal communion with The Blessed Trinity,
We implore in this Mother's Day for Medjugorje to be soon among the splendour of your divine graces,
I beg you with my personal consecration the conversion of all sinners,
AMEN.
Para a minha Mãe:
Conceição
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!13
Feliz Dia da Mãe!
The Virgin
The virgin was the daughter of a retired surgeon
Who enjoyed imported beer and catching sturgeon.
At a seedy hotel with no blinds and garbage bags
For the provision of relief from the sun
They entered by the will of an old desk hag
With a hairy chin and breasts that would sadly sag.
Her father's disbelief as he circled the town.
In his car, no story about the library accepted,
He went through her wardrobe and suspected.
Still as he drove around and search the sky, the street,
The windows of restaurants, and the ground
His precious dirty little was nowhere to be found.
An advert in the newspaper, $200 in bills, a hungry tongue
And she emptied her bank account, the act was her will.
She wanted a stranger, not a nice boy who told her to lie still.
A monstrous walrus of hard flesh from the shower
Though she knew she was the one with the power
And she had appreciated his arrival upon the hour.
She found his instrument shocking to the senses
As she rubbed and 'polished' him back and forth
Cantankerous, red, and alarming in size.
The virgin soon realized the pleasures of her demise
She could hardly keep her speculation in disguise
Reminiscent of sharks out of the water
Ready to devour the girl, as was her wish.
Her father kept looking around
But as she screamed in pleasure,
He found she was nowhere to be found.
The Cry of The Virgin
I am weak, I am naive and innocent,
Yet you marshal your deceitful might,
And mount yourself upon me,
To rob me of my innocence.
My cry for help calls for your humane attention,
But my plea for mercy is overridden
By your malicious act.
Why thrust your manhood upon me?
Why spew your filth and pollute my purity?
An eve of darkness hoists fear,
As I visualize your act.
The whispers of wind amplify my cry,
And God’s breath burns hot to curse your advance—
Yet you do not heed my voice.
Are you a father figure or my spouse?
Are you my guardian or my tormentor?
Are you my brother or my villain?
Are you my savior or an opportunist?
Stop the malicious touch.
Do not force a laugh upon me,
For this is my virgin cry.
Sweet song of the Virgin Mary,
Most magnificent story,
Heralding salvation’s message,
Good News for the ages.
Mother of the exalted Savior,
Held in God’s greatest favor,
By Miraculous Conception,
Brought near our redemption.
Chosen by the Father above,
Unconditional pure love,
The central theme of Advent time,
Unique new paradigm.
She obeyed yet was perplexed,
As told in the holy text,
In worshipful humility,
Mary yielded graciously.