Profane words, poor things, scorned as contraband,
In contrast arraigned with words weighed as sane
That hold a moral firm ground-- for long grand.
Forbidden, they talk to us in words plain
But are powered by voltage of thunder clouds
Which, words that wear civil dress seldom can.
What beauty-- words raw, truthful, not in shrouds,
Honest if rude, can do free from restrain!
Not sure? Try stub your toe and mark your jibe:
Sage decorum nor yet homilies rife,
Nor vague philosophical diatribe,
Nor yet poetic prompt on fleeting life!!
Pain, no child of elegant etiquettes,
Spews words profane-- flood flooding past floodgates.
_________________________________
Sonnet (tongue-in-cheek) | 17.12.2025 | profane, sane, words
Note: The part - II follows.
From Wales or Suffolk, claims knowledge of literature,
looking at sheep is far from just being some easy cure;
ever heard of Dylan Thomas, of course - one of the best,
but you're nowhere near of passing such an erudite test.
Such ingratiating manner, just playing to the gallery,
why don't you just share your homilies with old Valerie;
I have no jealousy, rather, scornful of inaccurate claims,
it's amazing that you should aspire with gratuitous pains.
However, I still forgive you for your horizontal position,
perhaps in future you could give us something to rely on;
I'm glad I'm not from a 'devolved' unfortunate nation,
next you'll be telling us that autism is advantageous.
You're bright, don't like to be assisted, oh well let's laugh lol,
perhaps you can find in your heart to forgive a bitter troll.
NB. A worzel is a country bumpkin.
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
How beautiful is sky of setting dusk!
Why then the setting old age seems to tire?
Eve inspires to conclude unfinished dreams,
If so, why should the setting old age tire?
The setting sun inspires the search of self,
If only setting old age should not tire.
Gone dusk and dark night, there’s the light of dawn!
And still, why setting old age seems to tire?
From lifelong journey dawns dawn of wisdom,
Why still, the setting age should so much tire?
Joy and grief, two eternal truths of life!
Leave both aside and live and still retire.
Let flesh feel fatigued, never let your mind,
And tell me if the setting age still tires.
________________________________________
Musings | 05.09.2022 | Couplets
Poet’s note: You are as old as you think. Age is only a number… and with so many such homilies people try to soothe the old and aged. And still, one does feel old even after being careful nourishing body with good food, keeping it agile with exercises and games. And yet, perhaps the old fail to do enough for the mind.
Your First Breath
David J Walker
Should I try
To name and number
The nameless days and
Numberless nights
I am
Another beginning
A being
The alpha and omega of
Another day spent
Remembering each morning
Each new day forming
Less of sight
and more of scent
I am
Another descending
evening
Riding the tide
of another tonight
guarding the dwindling
visions of vestige
The mellifluous homilies
Ascribed to the bright
Colored lights
Of the moon
I am the nameless
you will never know
living and dying
believing and loving
fearing and toiling
long before you
have come to take
your first breath
To either family The Land is God’s Gift:
A Divine Portion plus Trophy to lift,
All trespassers to quit making it swift,
Another day to never towards it drift …
A Land The Talk of legal documents gone through
And newspapers armed with Truths mixed with The Untrue;
An entry into the tussle of a busy-body spend-thrift
Making it a plot about which death should be sniffed
And from which one could Man’s folly rift.
But they’re two uncaring families
Impatient for The Bitterest Rift
And for same cancelling their homilies
And appearances for Talks briefed …
Two family disputants over prized land
Not wanting to hear that it is mere sand.
With your teachings, tired tunes I’m tired,
Hauling its harsh import, I’m tired.
Not with my frugal fate, it’s fine,
Your rating jewels as jade, I’m tired.
By your discourse, a bit iffy,
Karmic fate of if-then, I’m tired.
By your sermons that seem dated,
Scolding, berating me, I’m tired.
Do deeds, expect no fruits, you say,
Of such tired homilies, I’m tired.
___________________________________
Ghazal |01.12.2021| despair
Poet’s note: There are numerous channels on television bombarding religious discourses, even a god channel, all heavy stuff, somehow making some listeners burdened with undue guilt. Here’s the desperate cry of one such man.
The foresight
When I look back on my life, which I seldom do
I think in my writing, I should be deeper; alas, my self-mockery gets in the way.
Why should I think I`m intellectual to have any worth to say?
It appears to me that many on Facebook feel important enough to enlightening us with their homilies?
If you live like this or that, you will find peace and happiness.
Balderdash!
Reading what philosophers said, is interesting but it does not change your mind.
Nor does reading the bible makes you a Christian.
Gladness is a gift and the place for village idiots who lack the ability
to reflect upon life.
speculated on what life is for is useless; the only cure is acceptance
that life is cruel, and if you live long enough, friends may drive you around
asking you about the old days, a time you rather forget.
No religion or philosophy will rescue you; you are on your own until death.
For God Did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world
but that the world might be saved through Him. John 3:17
In this season of penance
When we focus on our sins
It’s important to remember that the gospel is a Good News
It’s the news that God loves us
Calls us always to be closer
When I hear sermons
Homilies focusing on people’s shortcomings or flaws
I find myself wondering how many people listening actually
Spend most of their time logging themselves for their failings.
We’ve all heard reprimanding preachers
Found it hard to believe that we’re worthy of being saved
This passage reminds us that God wants to save us all
When I reflect on salvation
I don’t think so much being saved as of being saved
I think that God sent His Son into the world
To apply a salved to our aching consciences
Flagging hearts to heal us
So take hope
God did not send His Son into the world to condemn us
Aileen O’Donoghue
Turned to Poetry: Jac R. M.
Poetry Form: Free Verse
Opening of borders
It deeply touches and bothers
When closed are a country’s borders:
Sealed, helpful channel of a trade
Of super grade.
They needlessly suffer,
Who chiefly feed from neighbour’s offer,
To their radios, a glued concerned ear,
Wanting to a different news hear.
Opening the borders
Is a time-and-again prayer request
Of my panicking brothers
Separated from the Best:
In homilies, giving God’s Angels orders
For intervening scissors on the wires across the borders,
Their knees getting balder
From longer genuflections,
Their faces older
From meditative reflections.
It’s now an active interest in incense
By previous haters of its smell:
A struggle, impressive, to contain a nonsense
And again, The Good, make well.
But opening the borders could be
Unbolting doors to a journeying plague
And vicious bee;
To a virus with a clothing decidedly vague
Or to some penetrative spies
Helping their mission with good lies.
Wrapping him in a blue blanket he hands him over to me
outside the snow is falling, as I gaze at him my hearts about to burst
all the pushing is over, now its time to receive his glee
bluest eyes I'd ever seen suckling at my breast with a quenching thirst
Yesterday was Debussy and Bach
lullabies of sweet by morning dawn
Today a baby cradle with gentle rock
"Oh my God, did you see that Ron !"
We named him Joseph, after his grandfather who was a great artist
homilies of love spoken truthfully, I cannot contain the joy
just given birth to a special boy and it feels like I've been kissed
my love leans in and whispers " we'll give him every toy!"
With a sacral dimple you can't miss
he looks like a hand carved ivory Angel
as I draw him close and feather him a kiss
he gurgles with laughter, "I'm your Angel"
October 8, 2020
They answer questions seldom asked
tend to the mundane, "lesser" tasks
their halos tilted scally caps
homilies of wilted raps
soulless homeless shooting craps
rattling unnumbered dice
you may win once, never twice.
These voices of the lesser god
bedeviled by a life unshod
still reach to touch the garments hem
of gods that turned away from them.
3/30/2020
Lungs that exhale lofty tones,
higher learning ... Mt. Olympus invocation
Elevated flung lightning bolts of linguistic illusion,
fancy worded dreams
floating ...
between
open cranial empty spaces
Diaphragm skywalkers
verbally illuminating prosthetic landscapes
of skin-deep lip topography
Giving interval beeps
of sonar, irregular equality
Maimed assumptions broken
and bent at the knees
Another Po’ Boy sandwich
pressed between two white bread homilies
Lifted up from the boot straps of society,
raising scrap expectations
not patron saint funded adequately
Pardon this underbelly pale naïveté —
Delusions of pauper eloquence
is negative sum ghetto certified positively
Battered rent conditions
feeling the po’ economic handicap pocket tease
Another Black Forest ham sandwich
pressed between
an upper and lower enamel sound byte squeeze
Green pasture illusion of freedom
does make for an idyllic graze docile situation
Delusions of fluent eloquence
be the rose cheeky flow of a grandiose nation
Senior citizens
Crated in old people’s homes
Discarded denizens
Wrinkled forms
Pivotal during heyday
Generating national growth
Beyond payday
Bestowing cloth
On backs of offspring
Pouring sweat day and night
Zip in their gait and spring
Delight and sunlight
In hearts of extended families
Fountains of love and generosity
Inspiration for hallowed homilies
Wellspring of wisdom in the city
Senior citizens houses built
From scratch
Committed to the hilt
From a rural hut with thatch
Where senior citizens originated
Trekking hundreds of kilometres
Sunshine baked and incinerated
Through bush path nanometers and metres
Feet aching
Parched tongues
Future taking
Mustangs
Searing heartache
When senior citizens forsaken
Monumental mistake
Faith shaken
Time
To reconsider
Importance of the dime
To consider
Values and beliefs
That pride of place accord to the aged
In kerchiefs and handkerchiefs
Rummaged and foraged
To honour the old
Held in high esteem
To withhold
Neglect in family fabric, team and stream.
We all retain, at heart, a love of squares –
the ones who wear pyjamas, say their prayers:
staid Ministers of Minuscule Affairs,
so sound at spouting homilies, splitting hairs,
the Fred Astaires who wound up Red Adairs –
you think the planet yours? It’s wholly theirs!
Those unabashed enthusiasts for flares
who spew soliloquies on stocks and shares,
and somehow swell and prosper, unawares!
Compliance officers, commissionaires –
not Taras Bulbas, more like Tony Blairs,
the sort who cook with Kerrygold, just for dares,
and read about invisible repairs.
Another thing about them – … oh, who cares?
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.