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.
PRIEST AGAINST MY TASTE
My parents thought I was a saint
Because, when I pooped, I would pray:
“Virgin of the Pillar, let me poop.”
A prayer my mother had taught me
And which worked wonders on my bowels.
They didn't know that
When I locked myself
In my decorated room
With pictures of every saint there was
I didn't pray or meditate
And even less did I study
But I played with wheat and flour
That I tried to get
From my erect and raised little .
One day, when they saw me from behind
Through the half-open door
They went crazy with joy
Because they saw what looked
Like a priest's Crown on my head
Which was nothing more than a sperm
That had flown there.
I heard them say happily:
-This boy is going to be a good priest.
Let's take him to the Seminary or Convent.
They took me by the hand
And led me to the Seminary of Segovia.
-Good morning, Father.
Here we bring you our son, Proculus
So that you may make him a good priest
Who will serve the community
For the God’s love.
"Good morning to you all."
We will do so with divine grace
And the Virgin Mary’s love.
As soon as Proculus entered the Seminary
They hung a black cassock on him
So that nothing could be seen
But his feet
With a raised point
Below his waist.
Another superior who saw him
Approached him and said:
-I liked you the moment I saw you.
From today you will be my assistant
And I will help you pass
All your subjects
Especially Religion, Greek, and Latin.
The only thing you will have to do
Is make my bed
And take care of a bird I have
That sings Gregorian chant.
One morning
After the eight o'clock mass
The priest who greeted him at the door
Aapproached him, saying:
-Good morning, Proculus.
-Good morning to you.
-The spiritual father you serve
Is very angry with you
Because you didn't make his bed yesterday.
-And I'm not going to make it for him again
Because he pulls his little bird out of his crotch
And wants me to play with it
Or, better yet, pull out my little one
So it can play with his.
-My dear son, Proculus
This spiritual father of yours
Is on the wrong path:
The holy Bible that guides him is wrong.
Stick it between the pages
Of the Song of Songs
Like a sausage
Until he comes with joy.
-Stick it, Father
In the Bible or up your own arsehole.
Or do as I do
Which sticks it in my own hole
For it is the Way of Perfection.
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"
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
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
As every cassock is enough to tell
You are a minister
Either a chorister or a pastor
To grace well and impel
Is seeing you become only God's toastmaker
Every sunset gives us one day less to live
Count your seeds of the spirit
Spread through undaunted love
And not the course of service's bigot
But testimonies of brethren who enjoy your patency
But every sunrise give us one day more to hope
Most time making all observations dumbstruck
Replying each and every with a thunderstruck
It is no near to count a botch
If its effects work like a troche
Hope for the best for we are all human
Flaws are inevitable but can be abandon
No one has ever achieve chancery with God
That has ever live on earth a slipshod being
But clinching His dictates can make you ratherish well-bred
Good Luck
Get strong
Beefing do suck
Flee off wrong
It gets growth abating
Be the David's type Shepherd
Familiar with the said story
Not needed to be re-established
Failure needs no sorry
Be up and doing...
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
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!
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!
PRIEST AGAINST MY TASTE
My parents thought I was a saint
Because, when I pooped, I would pray:
“Virgin of the Pillar, let me poop.”
A prayer my mother had taught me
And which worked wonders on my bowels.
They didn't know that
When I locked myself
In my decorated room
With pictures of every saint there was
I didn't pray or meditate
And even less did I study
But I played with wheat and flour
That I tried to get
From my erect and raised little .
One day, when they saw me from behind
Through the half-open door
They went crazy with joy
Because they saw what looked
Like a priest's Crown on my head
Which was nothing more than a sperm
That had flown there.
I heard them say happily:
-This boy is going to be a good priest.
Let's take him to the Seminary or Convent.
They took me by the hand
And led me to the Seminary of Segovia.
-Good morning, Father.
Here we bring you our son, Proculus
So that you may make him a good priest
Who will serve the community
For the God’s love.
"Good morning to you all."
We will do so with divine grace
And the Virgin Mary’s love.
As soon as Proculus entered the Seminary
They hung a black cassock on him
So that nothing could be seen
But his feet
With a raised point
Below his waist.
Another superior who saw him
Approached him and said:
-I liked you the moment I saw you.
From today you will be my assistant
And I will help you pass
All your subjects
Especially Religion, Greek, and Latin.
The only thing you will have to do
Is make my bed
And take care of a bird I have
That sings Gregorian chant.
One morning
After the eight o'clock mass
The priest who greeted him at the door
Aapproached him, saying:
-Good morning, Proculus.
-Good morning to you.
-The spiritual father you serve
Is very angry with you
Because you didn't make his bed yesterday.
-And I'm not going to make it for him again
Because he pulls his little bird out of his crotch
And wants me to play with it
Or, better yet, pull out my little one
So it can play with his.
-My dear son, Proculus
This spiritual father of yours
Is on the wrong path:
The holy Bible that guides him is wrong.
Stick it between the pages
Of the Song of Songs
Like a sausage
Until he comes with joy.
-Stick it, Father
In the Bible or up your own arsehole.
Or do as I do
Which sticks it in my own hole
For it is the Way of Perfection.
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