They do not know I name them—
the trees blackened by exhaust,
asthmatic, stoic gods lining
pedestrian bridges that never forget.
Each leaf is a reluctant confessor.
Each trunk remembers
how I once pressed my palm and thought:
You too are surviving this.
I walk past ads that scream at no one.
Past lovers who will never call again.
Even the sky here has bills to pay.
But I stay, because someone has to remember
the dust collecting on invisible altars.
Did you hear the latest dear
Gooey gossip hot off the press
Like a cold beer for your ear
But hold what you know close to vest
I hear that man is really a ma’am
Or it may be it is vise versa
The sports team is in a sham
No one willing to silver serve her
Well I’m told there’s no hope
For the pervert posing professor
He pretends to hold heart of gold
Till he caught red handed confessor
Well I hear another teal tale
Seems the woman lies to her mate
Aftermath is the dad bales
For she has lied about the father’s babe
What say you about the pew
Going to bust hell wide open
Of the few like me like you
Who gossip with tongues so golden
I say that if it is a fact
One can surely surrender to share
For no one is perfect as glass
Life is but a truth or dare
We share a truth and slanted news
Not always seeing the error of ways
Until the news is about you
Enjoy the gooey gossip of the day
Long hours spends with his blue Compressor
A fine automobile-turned oppressor,
With a mechanic still an aggressor;
Priced a poor Two Million by an assessor:
The cost of Tree’s Computer’s Processor…
A wife with cause to hate a Compressor
Just like the killing of Twins by a Slessor;
“Much changed my husband: A whole professor!”
“Demons fighting his car!” said confessor;
“Hence, machine you don’t leave for successor
But if you must, first seek Intercessor…
Turn into land that owner makes lessor.”
Wife soon swears to Husband cut like scissors!
Quite unlike Reader of Paul’s Ephesus,
For this is the sixth week she’s sex-starved
By a guy who’d had time for The Show carried.
S Such is our flesh, natural "man"
I In the language of Testaments, we plan
N Not only to enjoy our sins, but confess
sans decorum and plan
NOTE: Norman Grubb on TESTIMONY advises one ought to confess ones hates and lusts, but in general terms, notvso detailed that hearers and confessor, take delight in sin vicariously again. In the original New Testament, the Greek word METANOIA indicates an U - Turn from SIN, as in a 180 degree change of direction. The change is in a heart where God's spirit uses conscience & Scripture (WORD) in silent metamorphosis ( into the New Man Or Woman). Hallelujah
On entering the confessional we should kneel, make the sign of the Cross and say to the priest, Bless me Father; then add I confess to Almighty God and to you Father, that I have sinned
The first things we should tell the priest in the Confession are the time of your last confession, and whether he said the penance and went to Holy Communion
After telling the time of our last Confession and Communion we should confess all the mortal sins we have committed, and all the venial sins we may wish to mention
When the confessor asks us questions we must answer them truthfully and clearly
After telling our sins we should listen with attention to the advice which the confessor may think proper to give
We should end confession by saying I also accuse myself of all the sins of my past life, telling if we choose one or several of our past sins
While the priest is giving us absolution we should from our heart renew the act of contrition
Blow, blow, you unfeeling winter wind,
Cruel, wicked you are,
Numberless leaves you pluck so harshly,
Clothesless you make them unkindly,
As mercy is not enthroned in your heart,
Oh! How truthful you are,
You're inward alike as your outward shows,
Poisoned soul with devilish appearance,
You are not a deceiver but a revealer,
You hide none as a living soul does,
How living souls smile through the heart is poisoned,
How they speak gently though inside fury sparks,
How they laugh sweetly though sadness dwells beneat the chest,
Trying to impress others they live,
And in the graveyard they reach truth being unrevealed,
Oh! Humans try not wearing two faces.
The Failure
When I was bored with sea life
and walked ashore in Santiago
I could find no work except in house of ill repute
throwing out the rebellious and for some reason
became a father confessor to the women, not a good start
No one wanted a book- learned man who had read Nietzsche
so when the money was gone it was back to sea.
any ship would do as long as I was paid so I could leave and
try my luck. I got a job on a Liberia type ship that looks as
it was ready to sink – it did after I left- for some reason
the ship was going to Norway it is a mystery we got there.
After years of self-disgust, I had a heart attack and the state
gave me a sick benefit which was not enough to live on
in Norway so I want to Portugal and stayed, there deep in
the interior and spent my time walking or writing
alternative poetry with little success, which disappointed me
that not being knows, until I realized it didn`t matter
I had found my Shangri La and that in the end is my goal in life.
Monsignor Father Saez is mission priest,
and he's confessor priest to brothers both.
His mission's high on rise and faces east,
none better ever made his sacred oath.
For life man gave himself to bride betroth,
and combination fine put souls at ease.
Assigned to other mission priest would loath.
Such opportune chance he would never seize.
Now Jose, Dona Rose have daughter grown,
her name is Margarita May Elaine.
Skin's white, lips ruby, tresses ebon tone.
To know fair maid is pleasure great to gain.
In chapel's nave all eyes on her do strain.
With Margarita's Jose, Dona Rose.
All take Mass late in nave this day with rain,
because of rain, soon chapel doors will close
Just believe you will still be here
When I will be here too.
That I will heal sufficiently,
To see you come right back to me.
I want to be with you.
Don't leave me all alone, I fear
A life without your laugh.
I want us wheeze in unison,
No end while we have just begun...
I know, I am no seer.
Nor am I healer, or confessor,
I'm just this loving kid,
That crossed your path one day,
No bigger, but smaller, lesser.
Had no idea we'd fit
Like fingers in a glove.
Please say:
"I'll be here when you return,
I'll stroke your back, I'll kiss you,
I'll be here because I yearn,
Because I love...
I love you".
Just believe you will still be here,
Because you want to be with me.
I'll smoothe the creases in your brow,
Wipe away your fear.
If only please...
Promise you will be here,
That when I wake you'll be near.
My virtual arms can hold us,
We both fit there so nicely,
Be here, for you, for me.
***
March 21, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
I'm so proud of my poem
It's literally perfect
I read it over and over again
To savor every aspect
Oh, the cleverness the wit!
I truly amaze me!!!
Even this poem excels
In its delivery
Rain in the rain forest
My talent pours down
Soaking everyone
And everything that's around
I won't show it to my professor
He'll ruin it
My humility is grand enough
And my pride won't benefit
So if you're looking for brilliance
You've come to the right place
I will take your breath away
With expert skill and grace
Just enjoy my delight
As a transparent confessor
And make sure you don't show
This to my professor
Obscured by curtains in a squalid room,
Ignored and trampled on by those above,
The slighted artist has no place to bloom
And no confessor for his need of love.
He roams the streets at night in search of friends
Who might remind him of a brighter day.
At last he turns around, goes home, and spends
His time in flights of fancy far away.
At day his torpid mind is irked and bored;
He finds himself the subject of half-witted thoughts
And he would rather be avoided and ignored
By men whose dreams by vanity are fraught.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
Confessor and Predecessor
A President who is the other's predecessor
Must make her old one be a confessor
Hardest problems to tackle what they are
And going with Congress just how far.
Water running through Congress is stagnant
How can you ever obtain their consent
When over and over we have been told
They are acting like a five year old.
Down path again as usual we were led
Hearing all the things that Trump said
If President would probably need a gaff
So we could remove all of his terrible staff.
Hillary has done it all and also been there
And looks like she absorbed Lion's share
Now all of finally know what she meant
Is present by God sent to be next President.
James Serious Mysterious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Confessor bare your soul to me
Unburden with alacrity
I see your sorrow does ensnare
My calling is to help and care
I make no gain, there is no fee
Confessor bare your soul to me
As you lie prostrate on the floor
A maelstrom storm beats at your door
Face yourself to enlightenment
This is no dream you have dreamt
Confessor bare your soul to me
Brave consequences, do not flee
Innocent lives have been taken
In anger your control shaken
Your life now forfeited I see
Confessor bare your soul to me.
In rememberance of the suffering of
martyred church officials
in Elizabethan and Stuart times.
The poor lad was sixteen when they kidnapped him
They took him from England to Ireland but the boy did not sin.
His father was a Deacon and his grandfather was a Priest
Who would have thought this would have started
The St Patrick’s Day’s once yearly feast.
A feast back in tradition that was of bacon and beans
Not only has that changed, but the colour has from blue to green
Patrick did escape his capture; he said God told him he must.
He returned to England where he took his confessor into his trust.
He studied to be a priest and then set back off to Ireland
He was a clever man; he taught and held up in his hand…
A piece of shamrock, to us the three leafed clover
A teaching for the trinity and he won lots of them over.
Upon his death on Patrick’s day the feasting and drinking does begin
The wearing of the green and there is a little bit of sin
The pubs were closed at one time, to stop the Irish fun
But now it has spread worldwide so Happy St Patrick’s everyone.
© 06/02/2013
Contest entry for: An Irish Poem
Wrapped in some linen appearing as drab;
Beneath a saber of menace that constantly stabs.
It’s a mother of vengeance with words spat from vile;
It’s a thing of deceptions that has charmed and beguiled.
A possessor of titles with a venomous charm
But not a confessor of doings that harm.
Surrounded by circles disguised by a maze;
Seeing only reflections from a sight that is glazed
In a cave with a fire its creator does watch;
It’s a pleasure exquisite that flows from its crotch.
Is it human or demon as for me I don’t know;
But I know that I’ve heard it where ever I go.
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