Long Cassock Poems
Long Cassock Poems. Below are the most popular long Cassock by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cassock poems by poem length and keyword.
When the stomach of a child
Who has overfed rumbles, it is not
In memory of the empty hands of the past
Or what the future holds in hand
It is to mock hunger by saying all is well for now!
All is not well for tomorrow’s grinding hunger
When the Ministers of chronic poverty
Are the symptomatic children of gluttony.
The politicos eat their fill of the national cake
Down to their kin, while the dry crumbs
Are earmarked for poverty alleviation.
Today, like yesterday immemorial
They formulate policies, sign MOUs
Host conferences, organize seminars
Then publish readymadecopypaste reforms
Before the press and assembly
On how to terminate the gene (ration) of poverty.
But then, await aids, charities
Foreign loans, Sani and Diezani’s loots
Which are then looted again.
Only for the political meme
To procreate poverty, a social gene.
All is not well
When inflation drowns and hunger mounts.
You who eat until your every anatomy become fibroid
And then you say all is well.
Have you ever heard or felt
The roar and bite of empty stomachs
Or the crackling ribs of raving hunger?
And have you felt the hopelessness of trying
To perceive the aroma of tomorrow’s break of fast?
We cannot live by charities
Palliatives and crude empowerment alone
But from every sustainable development
Infrastructures and industrialization.
Our palms cannot always be spread under the sun
Awaiting bronze coin and silver manna.
No more nagging stomachs, colourless eyes
And furrowed brows
No more the darkness distributed by PHC
No more the public wealth shared by NASS
And their fellows, the contractors
No more business monopoly, hoarding and inflation
No more the love for foreign lands and goods
To the detriment of the homeland
No more insecurity, hate speech and division
No more fraud, immorality, tribalism and mediocrity
No more laziness, vain speech and promises
No more the birth of the almajirai and abandoned projects
No more the suit, cassock and agbada ministers of poverty!
I beseech thee to
answer
Is there still
hope???
Forgetting their
vows of chaste they
become lecherous
Fighting for power,
they become
ambitous.
Their actions make
people shock
For they forget why
they put on the
cassock.
Respect for God, our
clergies no longer
have
But so greedy with
the things they
have.
They make not,
benedictions to
empty pockets
But go for the rich
to enrich
themselves.
Churches are now
business centers for
money
Clergies bless only
those who make the
offertory box full.
SO BROTHER, IS THERE
STILL HOPE??
They stand as if
pious to duty
But pious are they,
to money.
They check not the
motor
But go for “500frs”
which is their
motto.
They can be seen
standing with zeal
Hands stretch, they
stand still
First, they stamp
After collecting
bribe, they champ
SO SISTER, IS THERE
STILL HOPE??
The rich live
mysteriously
And enjoy themselves
like angels
While the poor live
in mysery
And die because of
negligence.
TO YOU, IS THERE
STILL HOPE??
Embezzlement in
Cameroon is a virtue
It is practised in
all offices
Thieves go in broad
daylight unscathed
While the innocent
ones are caught and
they cant fight.
My country is said
to be democratic
But elections have
never been smooth
For a score and
ten, the president
has stayed in power
Using deceit and the
gun to rule.
IS THIS HOW IT
SHOULD BE??
Virgins have now
liquidated
themselves
They prefer being
ravishe.
Whores, they become
in quest for money;
My black girls don’t
like their colour
They strive to be
whites
Thus, monsters they
become in a bid to
peel their skin
Very few believe in
“black is beauty.”
Brothers copulate
sisters
While fathers
copulate daughters.
IS THERE STILL HOPE?
" 1st price, poetry
contest,
poemsclub.com,
April 2014"
How melancholic was the silent Saint Peter's Basilica
without a melody played by the bearded deacon,
priest of the Camelites who died in sea-washed Licata;
there, the Viol was played by Angelic of Jerusalem!
For years, it was covered in dust and fallen into oblivion:
it missed the Gregorian music sang with sheer enthusiasm!
A humble pilgrim expressed his faith in terms of miles:
he traveled far in search of spiritual enlightenment...
not knowing how close to him was the resurrected Christ!
The Parishers with drab faces waited for his return,
they missed his soothing music that delighted their smiles:
they believed that Jerusalem was a city of little concern!
Jerusalem wasn't Rome embellished with marbles and bricks,
not churches built with white limestone found in the highlands,
those same hills where Jesus preached on the Mount of Olives,
and amid Jewish rabbis and Orthodox priests with long sakkos,
Angelic blended well and continued his pilgrimage despite dangers...
nobody knew his whereabouts that increased their unfounded fears!
Finally, a letter was delivered to the archbishop of Rome;
Pope Pius II in white choir cassock trembling opened it,
and read it to the teary Parishers wishing he had returned home!
" I have knelt in front of Christ's sepulcher and prayed,
I will remain in Jerusalem and finish what I've started."
Profound silence dominated in the Basilica illuminated by sunset!
Jesus, I saw you hanging there alone
Like truth that needs neither props nor supports
Deserted by your studiously chosen apostles and
Disowned by Peter, James and his brother, the approved inner circle
Jesus, I saw you hanging on the cross
Like a slaughtered goat for public sale
Condemned by the elders who induced the masses to ‘crucify’
Convicted by Annas and Caiphas the diligent chief priests!
Jesus, I saw you hanging at Golgotha, the place of sculls
Like a criminal with no legal practitioners to defend
Beaten with cruel hands, legs and whips
Belittled with filthy motions, petitions and abuses
Jesus, I saw you hanging outside the gate with your cassock missing
Like an un-ordained ordinary layman
Accused by both religious and secular powers that wish to stand apart
Avenged by Herod, the foxy culprit, and Pilate, the cautiously benevolent
Jesus, I saw the truth hanging there alone
With neither props nor supports to ease her suffering
Jesus, I saw truth hanging on the cross
Forsaken by both the elites and the masses
When truth didn’t profit them
Jesus, I saw truth hanging at Golgotha,
The meeting place for sacred and secular
Abandoned by ministers of Church and State
While truth disturbed the status quo
Jesus, I saw truth hanging outside the gate
Humiliated and defeated, ready for burial
Because truth refused to compromise
dropping annie at the church
has become a habit now
every early morning
while we drive
i just look at the magnificence
of the rising sun then she talks about
trials troubles and tribulations
women are made to talk, i notice
she is beautiful though
i like the splendour
of the church
the golden altar,chalice
the gold and red embroidery of
the cassock of the withering priest
with too much hair colour
beautiful perfect saints in glass cages
madonna ,innocent alter boys in red and white
jesus on cross and in meditation
in the garden
is life a cross, nailed suffering
vague vibrations of the imprisoned
spider,faint morning songs of the little birds
morning caress of the infant sun
glowing the painted glass window
where jesus is falling with the cross
for the third and final time
the sudden noise of the bell at the alter
wakes me out of an unfinished trans
then i kneel down may be disturbing others
the old ladies
i should say not so old ladies,turning
piercing eyes of annie stares
i close my eyes then like
like a cat and pretend
i was breaking the decorum of the church
continuously unaware lost in stupid dreams
then she relegates me to stay in the car for
a while before readmitting me for the grace
of the almighty god to repent for our sins taught
by them i like to stay in the car and observe
the subtle variations of the sun
Form:
Many many moons ago
leaving the porch
of a south-facing canyon,
I hiked to a place
where the foothills
narrowed,
Where the asphalt road
ran astride the reservoir lake
into which kingfishers
dived at will,
and Great Horned owls
hooted at passerby,
And crickets chirped
in the castor bean
in the broom grass,
in the sumac and sorrel
and the scrub oak
and the sage,
I walked with gathering dusk
upslope to the ridge
where one lone bat
in diving approach,
plunged to air
as kingfisher to lake,
As owl to moon
or as moon to owl
or as owl to owl,
two owls upon the perch
fated couple
to a lifelong mate.
At this very place
I saw my mission unfold
in ceremony of solemn joining
in deepest respect
this wedded pair
framed aside starlight,
Framed within angles
of better aspect
placing male to left
female to right,
then married them there
till death do they part,
He in a cassock of feathers
all attention to duty
she with a blink
of a solitary eye,
I with a wave
of the official hand,
"I decree thee man and wife"
I the chaparral poet of authority
captain on this ship
I do wed thee,
witnessed by bat and kingfisher
cricket and castor bean.
And so my sudden voice
startled both to flight
he with wings to eclipse
the moon, the sky
she in silence
winged forever to his side.
[4TH CONTINUATION]
I was in front of BEELZEBUB, my father-
My tender father, how tender!
He was smiling at me, smiling-
He was the famed LUCIFER. Sweet father so smiling.
1
He is the leader of the revolution against HEAVEN
He who wants to restore the bond between heaven and hell so fervent-
Else we shall continue to deceive the earth and HUMANITY
And continue making man God's enemy.
GOD: That is not a new thing son, of the famed Beelzebub.
Here I was in the Kingdom oh hell,
A twin thousand of years old which no human could tell-
And on my head was my crown of FATE of good size-
And around my head was my AUREOLE, a copy from that of the weakling, CHRIST.
There is none as beautiful as dad
And as transparent and divine as his friendship so fat
Which Heaven so foolishly refuses to accept.
He is handsome without a thing as except-
GOD: His beauty is a curse from Me THE SUPREME DEITY
He is a beauty to the eyes of the evil.
Go on DAIMON. We are growing impatient.
The Tale merits many a talent.
I was in a black cassock, with black sandals on,
Cassock of the Luciferian home. I was his son.
Father is a huge Man with a handsome tail and a head with vipers-
Red-eyed, deep-voiced, and with four delicate arms with hair like spikes for THOMAS.
LUCIFER:
[CONTINUES..]
A Cry to the Vicar of Christ
On the eighth of May—
in the year the world was wounded—
white smoke rose,
and the Spirit whispered:
Leo XIV.
Not a crown,
but a cross.
Not glory—
but Gethsemane.
Go now,
Holy Father,
to Gaza,
where God bleeds quietly
under shattered mosques.
A child cries without sound.
A mother digs without grave.
Hope is ash.
Peace is myth.
And still—
your hands are clean.
Go to the sons of empire—
tell them:
No more prayers dipped in petrol.
No more justice from jets.
No more peace purchased with pain.
And to Israel,
tell Benjamin:
God is not your sword.
He is your witness.
Every Palestinian child
is a gospel we’ve burned.
Every mother,
a Madonna without her Christ.
Go also to Congo. Sudan. Libya. Ukraine.
Do not wave.
Do not preach.
Walk.
Bleed.
Kneel.
Did you not hear Romero,
when the soil sang blood in El Salvador?
The Church was never meant
to hide behind stained glass.
Let the Vatican strip gold from its bones.
Let the cassock gather dust.
Let the Pope
become a man.
For when Pope Francis passed,
he whispered:
“Reality is more than ideas.”
And Gaza is real.
God weeps there still.
Let history write,
not of sermons,
but of a man in white
who saved God
in Gaza.
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
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.