Best Vestment Poems
Cooling off in falling months, approaching dusk.
Coordinated chill and quilting of snow, brusque.
Cooking lots of soup, beating down dough,
as the wind whoops on a weeping willow.
The sky blue sheets aired out on the clothesline.
Coordinates of beauty in her decline.
Cooties shots on the medical menu…sigh.
Cooperation of dirge, the woe-filled cry.
Co-occurence of life and absence of fog
on the handheld mirror, down by the bog.
Cookout of fried boughs and its vestment.
This particular parish was not a good investment.
Autumn’s turning down the soil - leaves
storm in turmoil, slowing down what it believes.
The coos of despair…her ring rolls off finger.
Her dreams of love no longer linger.
Cool when Autumn clashes with Winter
and the clash of letters are placed by printer.
The clouds are snow white, they get the scoop.
Doves cry and hover - eyes droop.
Abbott Cat
—————————————(Dedicated to our unique cat Gnash)***.
*…..*****….*****…..
Know that Abbott Cat
Had the stride
Of the pure…placing:
Each step forward
With the slightest lift
of the upper ankle
So to set down his
Paws — first the toes,
Then the heels
As ballet dancers do,
In a gait of grace and
Blessed dignity…
Like the passing by
Of an acolyte — we
May nod our heads
In respect and
recognition
of the passing
Cross.
Abbott held, so
It felt, some
Secret knowledge,
Some gems requiring
A very regal posture.
To carry the inner
Cache of
Secrets of heaven;
Some wisdom
His mews
Could not share?
Still, his noble
Carriage and his
mystery held psalms
Giving lyrics to his
Every motion, with
A prefacing instant
Of a weightless rise.
And, Abbott
Welcomed
An open lap
To curl round upon:
His black, furry back’s
Cape and vestment-
muffler tail,
To be stroked
By a gentle hand,
Without precepts…
Over and again,
Like the redeemer’s
Promises, a gracing
Causing Abbott Cat’s
Spirit a wistful smile,
Plus a coded, grateful
Mew…
———————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 9/2021
Thanks be to God
VERSE I
she brushed across my shoulders
the bedroom light broke
a breasted scimitar—dancing thoracic throat
what I once outran—now presses my lips
she carried no black-wing omen
yet every breath drew near
purple velvet summons
Murdering me with Cashmere.
PRE-CHORUS I
kiss drawn, the walls slant inward
and rouge, the dark-root took shape—
as if her inborne blackwork
could make the night a colourless drape.
CHORUS I
Murdering me with Cashmere
tugging at my countless heartbeats
stripping me down to bare nerve
Murdering me with Cashmere
touch that lifted a ceiling curve
a birthright that denied me standing
VERSE II
the air lost a beat near her
piano shuttered its strings
her keratin ruled its hidden kingdoms
where songs outlived clipped-wings
one quick brush of softness
could tilt the atmosphere—
an unquestionable sovereign reign
Murdering me with Cashmere.
PRE-CHORUS II
marrow-sapped, my bones bleached white
and oooh, my will to power grew thin
her presence pressed antique velour
against my browning-paper skin
a blue-litracution mocked my manly core
CHORUS II
Murdering me with Cashmere
negating my defenses
melting my deep fear
Murdering me—only Cashmere
mist that would not recede
a spell that outlasted me
BRIDGE
she stood there—the verdict given
queen without a crown
her secrets a crashing thunder
hinged to pin me down
and I—
climbed, she was higher
and her hemlock closed in—too near
I fell into her ghast-lit shadow
Murdered soft by Cashmere.
FINAL CHORUS
Murdering me with Cashmere
kindness with a strangler’s grip
a calm that finished the work
Murdering me in Cashmere
queen in vestment of highness—
Lady Caledonia Blue— cyanotic.
OUTRO
she brushed across my shoulders
the world skipped a breath to grieve
softness that occluded on my lungs and stayed
refused to let me leave
her after-mint lodged in my vertebral mind
thorn in every flowing tear—
the night she claimed my arrhythmic heartbeat
Murdering me with Cashmere.
I replied to the beast, “ We are done!”
No longer will I be captive to your powder
of numb thought and emotion.
No longer will I need to have a special
cup, cotton, and spoon next to those
dirty syringes hidden in the vestment.
I will no longer be waking up sick,
scrunching in fits of pain and agony.
I refuse to be pale and thin anymore from lack
of sustenance. "O, Devil! I'm kicking you to the curb."
Today is the day that I am starting a new story.
I am turning my back on you, Morning Star!
With swift pride, I stomp you back to your unholy
glory where your pleasure is no longer my pain.
Don't think I am sorry as I am awakened from
misery. It is time now to find direction otherwise.
Today, O Devil, I take back reign of this
chaotic life mess I have created!
Today I will be strong, as you have tormented me
so long. No longer shall I be off track for today,
I am taking my life back!
Bursting free from these chains;
I am on the way to conquering the flames!
Flakes cascade downward
God's angels pillow fighting....
Earth dons chilled feathers
A courier of peace; a coupon of hope
Your cost, though, I have been made alien,
Your fruitfulness I heartily grope.
But the lashed back in servitude asks, “WHEN”?
A befitting vestment on servitude
A plague in the metropolis,
Like the Gulliver in Lilliput.
Amass not, thou in bit she seeks.
Though thou enjoyed none methinks,
‘Cos denied is she, much she denies ye.
But let that which we sought be unclink
An ointment on our contuse, we pr’ythee.
And should denial tend your way,
At wrath, me be spared, I pray.
Naija police
Political partisan
Soul as tattered as vestment
Lost in country confusion
Kill to eat
Cannibalism of self
beaten and broken
bruised and battered
brutalized and bare
bandaged and braised
bashed and butchered
bold and brave
Anguished
Slayed and silenced
slaughtered and seduced
strong-armed to surrender
squeezed and squashed
bleeding hearts
clad in elephant vestment
with an eternal spirit,
pugnacious against
the system from the walls of prison,
sentenced for a crime they didn’t commit
cogently grilling them to submit.
They have hearts of a lion,
Giving their own for a million
That is what it takes for freedom
To be in our hands.
Their courageous bodies lay like garland
on the sandy shores of Normandy,
Their duty there well defined.
Fearless of every returning home
And with their dying breath's they whispered
For God, Country and the Flag
Let Freedom Ring, Let Freedom Ring
With their last full measure of loyalty
and impeccable divine gratitude.
Honor now their vestment!
Their deaths filled with Integrity!
They sacrificed their lives
Not for "Honor or Glory!"
For "The Stars and Stripes!"
Known as "Old Glory!"
Off to grandmother’s cottage we go,
past snow covered pines all in a row,
to a cozy home with old fashion charm,
standing beside it the red painted barn.
Inside a crackling fire- nothing to compare.
mesmerizing flames flicker in the air,
each tiny flicker casting a hypnotic spell
up the chimney the smoke bid’s its farewell.
Scented smells drifting about the house,
grandma wearing her colorful blouse,
grandpa asleep in his comfy old chair,
in a plaid wool shirt and a head with no hair.
Outside freshly fallen snow- a winter wonderland,
joyous young children with mitten on hands
playing with vigor in the freshly fallen snow
their rosy red cheeks fully aglow.
Along the snow covered street
people wearing a smile -to greet
sleigh bells are jingling
and people are singing.
smell of chestnuts roasting fill the air
a wave here and a wave there
the chapel steeple reaching toward the sky
a wonderful symbol to the faithful eye.
Inside the chapel with lights so bright
a beacon to the people on this solemn night
rich harmony voice beginning to sing
geese fly with the moon on their wing.
A parson adorned in modest vestment
the choir singing- a worthy testament
The feeling outside is silent, still and calm
the congregation seeking the Savior's healing balm
Cheerful hearts with gratitude they bring
patiently waiting to celebrate the birth of their king.
It came upon a mid night clear
that voices raised for the Lord to hear.
In a small cottage on a snowy Christmas Eve
Billy, Tommy, Freddy and Steve
warmly snuggled in their bed
waiting for Santa in his sled.
A glass of milk and cookies to dine
next to the fireplace for Santa to find.
Sally and Sue unable to sleep
waiting for Santa to get a sneak peek.
Christmas Tree lights blink with a fury
the children waiting for Santa to hurry
with mom and dad quietly sitting
and grandma in her rocker doing her knitting.
Decorated socks hang from the fireplace
Sally’s adored with red and white lace
photos of grandchildren who grew up too fast
filled with memories of Christmases past.
Sacrificial, the non-closure of gecko eyes, and counts the lines
Drawn of rain and neon on my window’s negative plate;
In restless turpitude, nervous sanction, switch flicked
The jumpstart at the cone of shadows,
And, lost, reminisce of never talking to strangers,
Or walking miles in crooked execute.
Time is marked and futile redemption sought
And crucified without a smile.
Displeasure, shop-soiled at the morning light; deeper disdain at
The eventide collapse, dislike implicit of anything at all.
The emptiness, chill and hollow skin scratched the
Lowest fibre as it started to creep and crawl..
Nothing, never, ever can reach me in the back of beyond,
The dead chrome washer of my broken heart.
The point at which the dark phallus violates daylight
Is the crippling point at which I start.
God, for it was He, saw me angelically wrecked, and trod
My sure-fire halo in the dirt of indecision, of swampland.
And I, sickened by absolution, wanting to tear, split,
Shred, splinter apart the vestment of my soul and reject
Understanding, love, for brimstone and bygones suit me just fine.
Still, boiling in the heart of darkness, pearls cast before
Swine, my unfathomable superficial waters run surface deep
And it seems only the Devil and I may never sleep.
Can we put a man on the moon?
Just asking, hope not too soon..
We've built him a rocket
In the shape of a bed
With nice fluffy pillows
For his white fluffy head
Powered by electrickery
With buttons and dials
It's sure to be comfy
For those final few miles
Can we put a man on the moon?
Not so gender exclusive
It's just time is short
And our volunteer effusive
We have oxygen prepped
With fire safety assessment
All the food is prepared
Every cover and vestment
Has been guilded with love
And we've washed up the dishes
Now a hareem of beauty
To attend to his wishes
It's an easier challenge
Than a rocket and booster
If the attendees can wake up
Without the aid of a rooster
A launch date is looming
So the countdown is clicking
It's weather dependent
And that red button keeps sticking
Not the end of his journey
But the start of another
This spaceman is ready..
Leaving me and my brother
Can we put a man on the moon?
It's an easier ask
But saying goodbye..
That's the heart-wrenching task
Funeral in 1963
Beveled dusty cracked glass shielding Mother Mary enthroned,
Amidst flying angelic devotions atop whipped clouds of icy air,
Enslaved by an antique miracle made manifest in stained blood,
With silent invisible memorized prayers uttered in ancient Latin refrains,
Bowed before upright holy statues and a gold-encrusted grand altar,
He stood back-turned under a dead Jesus hiding his whispering sanctified face,
And the mysterious movements of his ten pious anointing fingers;
As with an airy fountain, he hosed Unction’s graces to the stone seekers,
Bestowing divine mercies by sealed envelope and a black vestment,
The lofty partial indulgences, the immaculate plenary indulgences,
Abundantly delivered and received using withy baskets and black beads.
Hollow dry penances offered up in a confessing private darkness of sorrow,
Within the squeezing superior stares of the priestly knot and the white Alb,
Altar boys on knees beckoning the impulsive turning of the holy human heart;
The struggled speaking of final toxic words on a red bleeding gurney;
Unsaid rosaries and scapular penances finding rusted, grinding precisions;
Broken trust and scarred faith wilting within clay idols and bloody crosses.
There is imminent death in the still waiting, there is red agony without the pain.
Black funeral wallowing within the hushed bereaved church at noon tide in 1963,
Sunken gray corpse of a woman serene, reposing waxlike in her beige groping coffin;
Grieving-suited witnesses and black-devouring shades standing wooden in dreadful silence,
Wondering when it will be their turn, their moment, to jump from this terrified earth,
These undead survivors, these breathing refugees of Unction’s graces,
Remembering now, their concealed matinee kissing games at the seedy Pillbox.
It was a Day
He wore his cocoa-brown shirt
not silk sort-of
sort-of splayed with sinewy
filamented palm trees in
green fibrilangulared leaves
no coconuts; draping to him
like a cosy vestment tucked
deeply beneath...
St. Bernard de Clairvaux,
Oh, this sunny Sunday Morn.
to know beatitude, of a place
traveled stone by stone
stone upon stone remade
for It's Image imparvenue,
about the nave, there
a photo-snapping Song and Stepping
Borne with the Smile of Day
East to West they children
in a Rhyme... Sublime...
Alas, now,
The Day apass
from East to West
His vestmeant for cocoaed-brown
draped to him
like a cere-cloth, & tucked beneath deeply
recalls to the Day-nearly
(8.21.1153)
and the Massacre of the Troubadour, &
a felo-de-se, en Masse!
H.e.m.
7.21.MMvii.
("MWABD")
A silver spider spied a golden fly,
and to it most amorously did sigh:
"O most glorious of flies!
What fine wings you have, what eyes!
No earthly thing shows beauty more.
I shall weave in silver thread
a garb for you, a vestment fair,
that we be forever wed,
a common destiny to share.
I in you, and you in me,
O how happy we shall be.
You shall be my metaphor.
To you I'll pose reality."
"I'm sure what moves you is benign,"
the fly replied in dulcet tone.
"Yet I regretfully decline
your offer of a common home.
My gold is - like your silver - pure,
and may such purity endure,
for purity, if once alloyed,
as sure as fate must be destroyed.
To sun and moon it was decreed
not fusion but duality
should constitute reality.
Cohabitation I debar!
I shall admire you - from afar!"