Cassock dance
The heaven hangs low today, just above
the spire of the village church, which
is closed since the priest hung himself
in the vestry.
He drank, you see
lifted his cassock and danced
lost respect among the parishioners
he had humiliated them
the men in the bar gave him whisky to drink
and he danced like a drunken tart.
The bishop remonstrated with the fallen
who promised to do better
He was seen in prone before the cross
Pale and suffering, etched into his still
handsome face, women said he looked
Jesus, when the ladies of mercy took
him down and cleaned his wounds
Alas, the call from the bar grew louder
intolerable
a breeze from the open window
he danced the last waltz in the vestry
A huge room not denied luxury,
The rejected in it: Misery
Of fine glass up to the bookshelf:
If one was close to it saw oneself:
The weight of a thousand Christian Books
And at what the smart owner looks;
Glasses for whisky but no whisky:
To have whisky displayed risky:
"One can't defend in a voice husky
What surely makes the keeper frisky".
His callers would sit in a cushion
Owner of the room lives for true fashion:
Man can serve Lord God and some passions
And this not prompt long quizzing sessions...
The clean-shaven in a clean cassock
He had vowed he would never forsake.
Within the vast cathedral’s lofty walls
A cardinal delivered his address
From proud zucchetto perched upon his head
To buckled shoes, a picture of finesse.
His scarlet cassock swayed with regal pride
And eyes admired the purity of lace
Exquisitely displayed beneath a cape
Whose crimson tone bestowed a warm embrace.
The message, mouthed with clarity and force
Conflicted with a hollowness of heart
His faith, now but a withering mirage
His homilies, a time-perfected art.
Outside, the stain-glassed windows came alive
Resplendent as the sun began to shine
It kissed the petals of a blushing rose
Engendering a fragrance quite divine.
A simple rose, yet clothed exquisitely
In softest silk and crimson-petalled bloom
Implicitly a witness to God's love
Through silent language graced with sweet perfume.
(slight change to the final verse)
15.01.23
The Cardinal And The Rose Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish
Three Irishmen by a window in stare
At a building just over there
From their heads their eyes pop
Their mouths all agog
So close they all are to swear
"Would you look at that!" the first Irishman says
"I've never seen this in all my days"
The Methodist Pastor so near
Into the building disappears
"I don't think this is the place where he prays"
No sooner are the words from his lips
When a Rabbi appears from the slips
With a quick look around
He disappears without sound
From his cassock, they see is a whip
Lost for words so agape they now see
Their Catholic Priest in front of them three
With a knock on the door
Like he's done this before
Appears not a total mystery
"Ah, now dat's sad." says the third Irishman
"As usual they've allowed him to go in
"One of da girls must have died"
It's why they let him inside
Be Jesus, it's a brothel, he's never to sin
Now the Church Heads have finally disclosed
That their clergy's have been so exposed
No more their visitation
No more their titillation
That this place of ill repute's now closed
Dust motes dancing through glancing light,
refracted through stained glass windows, bright.
The smell of old pine and communion wine lingers,
wax polish and roses from grieving widows fingers.
A faint smell of incense, intense in it's nuance,
old hymn books weave their soporific fluence.
The imposing lectern, Gothic and glowering,
the Nave and Transepts, jaw dropping, towering.
The silence echoes in reverent tones,
so as not to disturb the pious bones
interred in alcoves and beneath stones
inscribed with the names of the chosen ones.
Hassock and cassock, pew, aisle and choir,
childish imaginings of brimstone and fire.
Quiet reflections in an old country church
then out to dappled sunlight through Yew, Oak and Birch.
The great change
I have a mask made of plestic glass covers the whole
face to avoid touching my face, of the type dogs, were
not to scratch their ears.
Surgical gloves are must when going to the shop, there
is nowhere else to go.
I don’t think the virus is going away this year or next
we have to ignore it and walk in the park.
Go to the beach swim a little and sit in the warm sand
drinking a beer and hotly kiss a girl.
Either that or sit naked on the terrace waving my cock around
no that it will scare anyone, fart and pee into the town.
I can sing “they are coming to take me away” until the police
knock down the door and take me away.
A smooth cell and no bloody mask “are you feeling better.”
Aa white-coated man asks, they now I’m diabetic and prone
to an angry outburst, but he has a needle for that.
Once there was a law not hiding your face in public, now
It is the other way around.
Many things have changed the padre stand in an empty
Church, there is not an altar boy to seduce, he lifts
up his cassock and masturbate in front of the statue of Christ.
For a man of the cloth, our dear vicar
is not very partial to clothes
He is almost allergic to trousers
and y-fronts get right up his nose.
Ev’ry Sunday as he climbs in the pulpit
(where the choir boys are sitting below)
His meat and two veg are seen swinging
And it’s proof that he is commando
The ladies who bake and do flowers
don’t know if to scream or to peek
but Olga the Organist’s smiling
and she’s practising eight days a week!
At this year’s summer fete it was breezy
and the wind, I’m afraid, took its toll
His cassock blew up to his waistline
as he served up the last sausage roll
I've heard when he goes on vacation
He suns himself on a nudist beach
and his wife applies his sun lotion
to stop his tush looking like a ripe peach
03/14/20
Welcome into the world where I live
With the strength and fault
I care to share and give
To any soul who likes the vote
You need to nick
To win in the rat race
You kick and prick
Into the frownless face
You love to hate
Cos nonsense I can’t tweet
To date
The past I quit
Long ago
To step into the future
You choose to forgo
To embrace the catcall culture
You feel fulfills dreams
You dare to entertain
Alongside streams and reams
Of the nonsense you maintain and retain to sustain
The façade
I loathe
As sentiment salad
Sanity and dignity can’t breathe
Today or tomorrow
Not in the world
Where sorrow
Curled and unfurled
Own no iota of space
To wreak havoc
Deep or on the surface
Where a cassock
No longer features
In tiny doses
With literatures
Whose poses
Can’t detonate
The complacent bottom
Of society at the gate
Wherefrom
Sanity and insanity company part
In circumstances you detest
As from me insanity and indignity depart
When the reliability and validity of life test you waste.
In the river Jordan
you baptized the people,
some were brood of vipers:
pharisees, sadducees -
hey sanna hosanna,
king Herod you opposed.
You were his prisoner -
his servants cut your head.
In spirit you survived,
bashing black pharisees
even in red cassocks.
White cassock will not save
the one with black soul
and be it the vengeance,
hey sanna hosanna -
just punishment of God.
Latin Class
it is written all over him
in words of gesture
phrases of swagger and strut.
the swirl of his cassock, proud
as he flashes into the room
Latin books at the ready.
there is a smile
smouldering inwardly
for only he to see.
I am wanted, he thinks,
they do not know why.
his dark handsome eyes
survey a breathless room
the thorn in their girlish side.
it is safe to display illusive wares
for I am untouchable.
burning trees in midst of heat
invited cloud to rescue them
cloud rush digging its nose
deep into burning wild trees
but it had not carried water
its woolen dress caught fire
the legs and wings burned away
linen white cassock became soot
as cloud cried loudly for help
calling for re-enforcement
it perished in the struggle with
tears of blinding smoke in exit
He came and addressed us
in a priestly cassock and hood
eyes decorated with sage’s spectacles
shoes were those of a stage performer
and carried big diary of chairman
he talked in metaphors and ironies
and conclude his speech artistically
in parables of Christ in Mark’s gospel
pointing out,” Join the party of Christ”
Few day later I met him in a bar
“Reverend Father, thank so much.
You inspired us greatly”, I said
The sage looked me searchingly
and took off faster than he came!
Parrot the Catechist
preaches to the unconverted
talks in Latin to impress the ignorant
patiently listening to innocent souls
tells stories never has been heard
in tree-cathedral, wears spectacles
to look highly learned and respected
when priest comes in cassock
flies into hiding to save face
She left and from this point on, she new
that the crook priest Gurgul will not give back her monies.
When he was angry he resembled the raven
with his heavy, straight black hair and dark small eyes,
with his nose protruding little higher.
Especially when he wore black cassock and walked slowly
with his both hands in deep pockets of the cassock
as if he was making sure,
that the monies of old widow are still in his deep pockets.
When she left, the priest lacked the door to his condominium,
stood there listening if her shoes clunked on the stairs
and he was combing his hair,
up his forehead with forked fingers of his left hand.
Then still holding the doorknob with his right hand
he whispered to himself.
"These are the best kind of monies for there is no tax on them,
but why is it so hard on these people to let it go?
Don’t they give it to God?"
(Part 2 of Trilogy for My Father)
We stand on cemetery Astroturf
strategically placed to spare us the dread hole,
snow scaling the tops of our shoes
to compete with the ice in our hearts.
The old priest’s boots peek from beneath
a cassock that dangles below his parka.
He jokes gamely about the weather,
reading prayers for my father, a man he never met,
with shaking hands and chattering teeth.
He is a stranger recruited by the others lest someone
discover the shame of self-inflicted death.
Numb in every way it’s possible to be numb,
we await the blows of a grief that suicide denied us
and summon memories that refuse to respond
while, in their place, we have
Astroturf
and snow.
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