Long Clergyman Poems
Long Clergyman Poems. Below are the most popular long Clergyman by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clergyman poems by poem length and keyword.
THE KING OF THE HOUSE
In Vallelado, Segovia, to a woman from quarter
God gaves his grace: she just had seven daughters
And she was about to give birth
Without knowing if it would be son or daughter.
The day of nativity play revealed the difference
And the village people said "that impossible"
They could not believe it
After being born so much females
That they should come and see him.
They came to meet him and see if he was a boy.
They congratulated the father and mother
Worshiping the child as a king.
Little girls, when they saw him, said smiling:
"The Little sailor stand out
And his two ships loaded with gold and silver”.
They say that pigeons peeked out their window
And the bells of the parish church
Played with joy alone
And Sacristan said: "Not for less."
The medieval clergyman
Who came with his concubine
Exclaimed: "A good combine harvester
For the Village."
The mountains engulf and embrace me,
Like the sun shining through a window,
Pulverising the darkness and gloom,
With hopefulness and truth,
Making me aware of my possibilities,
Not numerous but few -
Allowing me to choose between two.
I prioritise, and focus just on one goal,
Resolve to achieve my ambition,
Find in myself my actions and am spurred on,
To proportion the gulf which stares up at me:
The chasm flees when normal people interact;
The unsaid but spoken disappears instantly,
Providing me with care constantly.
The view exists as humankind exists,
But while many people beg to differ with one another,
Nature eats up those who can't be edified -
Those who augment it with a god to trace,
Whatever is said, whatever is done,
Mustn’t be normal, easy - natural,
But rather should be contrived and conventional.
That we evolved is dear and liberating,
As a lover who wets her beholder’s cheek:
Faithful relationships soothe our spirits,
Connecting us with nature and public;
I know I came from the mountains and the hills,
From which I take courage, vigour and have duty,
From rugged, sheer beauty.
Is this beauty crude, or does it manage,
The looks of my accusers who bare me?
It dismisses them with assumptive glare,
Kindness gently certifies their stabbing buzz,
Until heaven and hell are constructs waiting to touch:
Which, but for the inside’s surmise, will indeed myself mar,
And but for my silent thoughts, which do the spartans bar.
The view also relinquishes flightiness for me to pour,
Over the collars of the parallel and the same:
Marched in by sociopathers, the directors of freedom;
I receive from naturalism’s stance, it's posit,
Billowing amounts of heart, drive and chance,
And decide to accept the opportunities which will embrace -
In concern - with well-being, affection and grace.
My suspicions, intentions and instincts see the complex,
How it should be deconstructed, with pleasure,
Out with the validated by a clergyman or Christian leader,
Who evince as harder and more boring than nails;
What entails then stimulates on into waving meadows,
And so, not silenced by the silence I sit in having cried -
Feeling accepted and taken - I'm respected to them deride.
Labyrinthia P. Babineaux …………… The White Witch of the Lower 9th Ward
Papa Babineaux …………………………… The Father, an honest apothecary
Algebra Babineaux ……………………… The even-tempered Mother
Bumblebee Babineaux ………………… The precocious younger Sister
Gnat Babineaux …………………………… The curious little Brother
Cabernet Babineaux …………………… The distant Cousin
Ulysses “Zully” Kowolski ……………… The world-weary Sailorman
Nikita Something ………………………… The learned Creole Seer
Mitchell Hollywood ………………………. The adulterous Inn Keeper
Tom Sickley …………………………………… The disingenuous Feather Merchant
Fr. Marcus Paternoster ……………...... The lecherous Clergyman
Steve Merkin ………………………………… The unscrupulous Accountant
Vince Fettish ………………………………… The nefarious Fantasy Man
Xerxes the Great …………………………… The Emperor of Persia and Media
Dante Foolhardy …………………………... The Stultifying Court Jester
John Travailleur, Esq. …………………… Just another John
Plus … townspeople, pirates, Indians, street musicians and beggars, Cajuns, swamp rats, women, young ladies, and girls.
Our attendance is a mere formality, a routine unconnected to the hearts
We sing, but not to the True God,
We pray with wondering Hearts
Even Prayers are dead, it is a mere routine of minutes
The fervency is gone, we know it from our hearts
We are just socializing
The men are now old who tore our hearts in years gone by
They are tired by age or backslidden,
We only remember their gone by exploits
And the new ones are distracted by social media and the world
In our Dead Church
There are no secret prayers,
No heart-searching sermons,
The choristers are desperately seeking applauds
They import songs from the other side
and characteristics of the unregenerate
Our dead church
Now have special seats in front differentiating men from men
We are no longer brethren, Pride ekes outs
We have become Ichabod
We tell stories of yesteryears and hoped the days will come again
In our Dead church, we worship men
Mere mortals, we fight or hate those who oppose them
They like it so, unlike Jesus who recognized the spirit
In our dead Church, things have become mechanical
Messages are no longer divine, they are from the internet
Our love is conditional
Our hypocrisy is loud
Our head is full, our hearts are empty
We are Christians in church but sinners at home
Don’t judge me is our lyrics in defence
In our Dead church, we have sent The Master out
We have become masters as we swindle the people through tithes and offering
Our old clergyman still keeps his office
Even when he ought to be silent so we can repent
In our dead church
The new Pastor never witnessed revival; he knows nothing about it
Our hearts are dead, our soul is panting and yearning for the church of Acts
Where Jesus was enthroned above man and mundane things of earth
We are back to Rome
Where are the Luther?
Where are the Zwingli?
Who will bring Jesus to His throne (our hearts)
Keats’ Nightingale
The romantic poets were too early to postulate total atheism,
And so freshened up the church by aligning god with nature,
And I believe they had a preference for nature over god or theism,
Because they never posit him as social with high, tall stature.
Keats says that the nightingale exemplifies nature as active,
As bestowing upon all human beings meaning, sense and worth,
Since the bird’s song objectifies how nature truly is effective,
Fulfilled by happiness, and aimed at contentment and rebirth.
Nature triggers in us thoughts and words to settle and allure,
Offers us our language to dispel pain and find the cure,
And Keats contends that poetry, the credibility of its form,
Epitomises what nature proffers, a receptacle rather warm.
When you feel awkwardly suicidal with nowhere else to turn,
Nature lullabies you into your own sense, one you can rip and burn;
No controlled access freeways, no road signs for your safety,
Only soft, quiet communication that's never guilty of brevity.
Just as nature is beautiful, so Keats claims people as beautiful too,
As he uses the word beauty right in the middle of his nature exposé;
He referred to flora, the moon, the stars, the forest and what seems true,
Tnat song of the nightingale that's for anyone, as this bird is not choosey.
He suggests that light or positivity in nature means movement,
That the soft breeze dispels the gloom and mossy pavement;
Quantum physics does reduce matter back down to interactive particles,
In which kinetic energy can be mistaken for minuscule, motionless articles.
His mentor is the nightingale as part of nature’s whole,
No minister or clergyman to advise him on his soul,
Stillness and bird song scent his poisoned air surrounding,
And it is all but for the silence of that beauteous music, astounding.
Nature does not irritate him when he surmises and introspects,
But upholds itself in majestic grandeur with unquestionable prospects;
It speaks about life, your life, your daily happenings and exotic dreams,
And forever exists for us when sense is just not within our means.
She was just a girl yet hurting so;
In a school where he worked;
She was full of fear and doubt;
So scared to try to figure it out;
~
She was just a young girl;
Fragile and frail just 12 years old;
Ever so beautiful yet her life was in turmoil;
She being ever so fearful abnormal;
~
So he went to the store you see he cared about her little soul;
He bought her a book that you see, not just any book
The Man purchased her "a Bible"
Yes a...
B
I
B
L
E
~
Hopeless and scared no witnesses here;
Alone afraid in our heart;
She was a little beaten child a little malnutrition girl;
Mistreated child in tattered clothes she wore;
~
Hair messy and often undone eyes bright glittering for hope;
Often the bun accrual humor and bad jokes;
You see this kind man couldn't stand it, so I brought her a book;
A book of forgiveness, history, love and hope;
The name of this book, a King James Bible;
A book about" God's words" peace, joy and love offerings;
A book about God's words, history of humanity purposes,
rules and laws we should follow:
This book giveth hope!
This book finds the peace and love!
This book explains humanity sinful actions;
~
He was a Godly man (a clergyman)
A Godly friend; (humanitarian)
Wanted nothing from her the girl,
Nothing more than for her;
Just to be happy, whole and pure,
With a saved soul
Than to be unhurt, unharmed, have a saved soul;
But to help "God's daughter "and her wounded body and soul;
He gave her a book ;
He gave her a book ;
He gave her the Book!
5/21/21--©2021
For Contest He Gave Her A Book
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
I don't know about Archbishop Justin Timberlake,
He’s jazzing up the church,
Making Jesus controversial,
Leaving life in the lurch.
It’s fine to have excitement,
About any religious thing or assumption,
But when you poke at liberal creeds,
You’re with the discontentment presumption.
The liturgy does not gel with Sankey hymns,
Which parishioners should not be made to sing;
Fundamentalism is on the way out,
Of Christianity’s credibility wing.
It is emotionally abusive,
To atheistic in-house kids who want to aspire,
To tell of the insanities,
Such tunnel vision requires.
Although I am glad of his enthronement -
It lets evangelicalism out the bag,
I hope to return to a more liberal clergyman,
For the future church ‘mag’.
Fundamentalists won’t admit to the speeches,
Given to their kids who are silent prey;
It’s not fair to live in a society,
Which allows only the understood to convey.
Pluralism is the glasses by which we all see,
Humanism, atheism, religion, and irreligion too,
And the Archbishop is therefore acceptable,
As a beacon of what fundamentalists do.
Freedom of speech and expression,
For some, will only come when we know such acts,
Societal change comes simply from people,
Who’s concepts and ideas become assumed facts.
He was not that successful at decking Wonga,
Anglicans can't quite compete,
With open market transactions,
Which have seemed to withstand the heat.
I don't validate high-interest lenders,
But the church should stick to God,
It should be more into caring,
For the elderly, all on their tod.
About the Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby, UK
WHERE ARE YOU GOING?
Where are you going? You ask the politician.
The politician answers:
-To cheat and steal.
-Where are you going? a sinful woman asks the priest.
The priest answers:
-You haven't given me the meat yet
And you already want absolution?
-Where are you going? the boy or girl asks the instructor.
The instructor answers:
To the clergyman and the trout
Your divine little ass searches.
-Where are you going? the wife asks the husband who is a nurse.
-To buy tobacco
And raise the skirt of the Whore
From the Country House
And give her the Covid injection.
-Where are you going, Patron? the worker asks the boss.
The Patron, potbellied and sick, replies:
-To see how the girls work.
The worker followed the boss with his eyes
Seeing how to a working girl
He was riding on his horn.
Soon after, she yelled:
-Oh God, let my master run.
The worker, thus seeing his master
He told to a coworker
That worked right next to him:
-Little brunette of my eyes
Just looking at you
You burn and burn me
Taking out of her fly a kind of black pudding
Showing it to the girl
Telling her:
-If you want, put it to roast in your warm breast.
She replied:
-She is good in good faith.
But put it in your mother ing.
The quote, "Now comes the mystery,"
American clergyman and social reformer
Henry Ward Beecher, 1813-1887.
"His final words reflect a philosophical and contemplative
attitude toward death and the afterlife.” Google
His deathbed holds the endless mystery
of where or what will truly happen next;
not what he'd learned from books or history
or what he taught at church as sacred text.
But from his deepest feeling there within,
he knew that death is not the simple end.
And so, his hopeful soul stayed clear of sin;
God's power, love, and mercy did defend.
Surely, he knew that Heaven was his goal-
perhaps imagined it a certain way;
But as a preacher, it is quite a toll
to understand what's real beyond his stay.
He knew the sacred mystery death holds-
but not the where or when of victory.
But at that last-breath moment, it unfolds;
his deathbed quote, “Now comes the mystery,”
Gone almost half a millennium ago,
Here comes one of your kind;
A mind ever ridden by the chariots of Muse
And who rest never can find
Until he ceases to refuse
And empties the weight of pen.
Your great grandchildren still love your art
And so dear you shall forever remain in my heart,
Each day I read your eloquent verse
When low moments I want to pass.
' To His coy Mistress' methinks was your best
written under Muse's forceful behest,
For no mortal can such a nugget craft,
Unless they intoxicate the throes of superior art.
If I were the Giver of breath to the fallen,
Andrew, I would resurrect your noble soul;
But your shall remain forever stolen
By the quiet and bliss of the tomb,
Perhaps till the congregation of the chosen few
Who include repentant gurus of letters like you.
Now two things we share in common,
That were to me recently known:
That your father was a honored clergyman,
And mine a revered reverend who served his turn;
The second thing we both love the beauty
And the dazzling splendor of art's alacrity.
Now, rest in peace and in undisturbed bliss
And let your offspring's rhyme your spirit please!