Oh, esteemed clergy, heed to the lament,
Of laity's voice saddled with virtues not lent.
So also grasp the virtues and never go askew,
We all misstep, but confront the truths you knew.
Pride is tacked with injustice and palls of deceit,
Assert no purity from a tongue of the same suit.
You preach of love, yet starving us of that light,
You assert faith that still craves a discerning sight.
This is not animosity, but a call to an upright quest,
So you would thrive in honesty away a worldly jest.
Truth waver not with altitude; retract the craving for affluence,
They seduce until shadow of death draws to a confluence.
Be converted to convert the laity with words of delight,
It's only when you're true that God heals our
plight.
Rights Reserved
The ____ sits on and beyond the edge of the limit of the minds ability to perceive time or distance.
Trod along—walk on—these trails are trials,
Thankful, faithful—for manna, for quails.
The books of law, of grace, of hymns,
Carried onward with praise like the seraphim’s.
Marching beyond where roads cease to lead,
Joy his pillow, praise the feast, souls to feed.
With a triumphant will—preach on! Hope is the sum
of decades endured—unwavering—a day will come.
Man enough to be man—humble to be of God,
In richer, in poorer, when all comes to naught.
Yet never forsaken—he sings songs of victory,
Held in the favor of the God of eternity.
The Stumble and Rise Poetry Contest
Back in my military days I was at chapel one Sunday morning and the Chaplain was really getting into his sermon, true story.
THE SERMON
The preacher preached with such passion,
his words he just didn't ration,
he exclaimed that's no s***,
upon realizing it,
recovered in clerical fashion!
God forgive me for being opinionated
For not all of us are fuchsia infactuated
With that young peacock preacher
Watch him puff up proud to lead her
To her denim despair
From the pulpit to satin’s pit
You see they had a ten year affair
Wow look at his ego glow
Neon on ions of black pride
She did a Facebook post
A tell all and then she cried
But her photos although damning
Were like spamming
The church will forgive him
But not her
He is a habitual fornicator
A loose lip ladies leech
Instead of removing him
They will only lift him up
And pray he keeps his gift of prophecy
Despite the hypocrisy
The money keeps flowing
Congregation keeps growing
He preaches with a heavy hand
laid upon the Word of God.
No need to be seated on a throne.
He’s at eye level with his congregants.
if he avoided their gaze, as if
his eyes shielded the sun,
and blathered on, as if nobody cared,
then they could let their eyes roll and yawn.
Firmly, he holds up that Word of old,
for this preacher cares, oh he cares
so deeply for their souls, so deeply
he will divide the wheat from the chaff.
I met a retired Soldier,
I met a retired Doctor,
I met a retired Teacher—
But I’ve never met a retired Preacher.
I learnt what respect truly means,
The weight of pain and quiet devotion,
The love behind being a soldier—
Dying for a nation that might forget you.
Even retiring feels like a battle won.
The Doctor too saves lives,
Sweating with a racing heart,
Carrying the hopes of a whole family,
Knowing they believe: “He will save them.”
And bearing the pain of saying,
“I’m sorry… we lost him.”
The Teacher was only loved
By the students inside the classroom.
Underrated by both government and community—
Yet holds the power to change them both.
Still, he shapes tomorrow with a parent's care.
The Preacher is like a debt collector.
His sainthood makes him almost divine.
He leads with calm and faithful words—
Gaining little bits here and there,
While the believer holds onto every promise.
So, I chose to learn.
To grow into a Teacher,
To be loved by my students,
To shape a world we all dream of.
And through the Preacher—
To learn how to give hope.
I am not a preacher!
I am not a preacher
Who preaches love and kindness
But when my pen and paper collide
They leave no stone unturned
And no life unchanged.
I am not a doctor
With a stethoscope dangling in the neck
But when words runs through my fingertips
They mend broken hearts
And heal wounded souls.
I am not a sergeant
With a badge of dazzling stars
I am not a soldier
With a precarious weapon on the shoulder
But a pen that scribes in bold
Let there be peace
I am not a pilot
But let the young men and women
Be inspired to fly high
For the only limit is the sky
I am not a preacher,
I say l am not a preacher
But l shall speak to the discourteous world
The ethos of life.
Banker was known as a righteous man
First at the bank and last to go home
Many trusted his lucrative plans
Emptied the vault and left to parts unknown
O, you impeccable liar
Null and void of honesty
Full of evil and dark desire
And malignant depravity
Man in church spoke of marital tie
Respected by all the brotherhood
Asked his wife to stand by her true guy
The preacher passed out when three women stood
O, you impeccable liar
Null and void of honesty
Full of evil and dark desire
And malignant depravity
Judge on bench for twenty years plus nine
Dude in court who was an old comrade
There for shooting man in head three times
Judge threw it out on grounds of suicide
O, you impeccable liar
Null and void of honesty
Full of evil and dark desire
And malignant depravity
Honored preacher in big megachurch
All said he walked upon holy ground
But news got out after deep research
Was caught swindling the church’s funds and left town
O, you impeccable liar
Null and void of honesty
Full of evil and dark desire
And malignant depravity
a cool spring Midwestern morning
the preacher started his sermon
a guest preacher known for fire and brimstone
the little country church was filled
censuring the flock about their sins
claiming to be sin free himself
he said he was perfect like Jesus Christ
and that's when it happened
two large front doors blew open
gust of wind raced down the aisle
happened so fast and ended so quick
the little country church was dumbfounded
his hair a mess his papers scattered about
with Bible in hand and rumpled suit
he walked down the aisle and out the door
the little country church sat in silence
he sought them and taught them,
leaving hearts excited
by the need for love that believes
in the life beyond the night,
the life that is grace’s gift,
the life – eternal life
he was wise, shrewder than sin,
stirring up their prayers,
causing them to answer to Him,
the One who needs only this…
the heart who trusts in His Son,
the soul who listens to love,
the wonder of a sincere believer,
following Him through every season.
he sought them and taught them,
there is One who bought them,
with His gift of grace, all it takes is faith,
to save, yes, save…
forever, they make their way,
to the alter, where they’ll pray,
for the hope that lives to this day!
I walked into biology class and there was a gingerbread man.
Take a seat! He said sternly “whenever you can.”
Some of us were stunned. Where was our teacher?
That is my business, he said, reading our minds. My name is Preacher.
Preacher! What kind of name is that for a teacher?
I began to snicker, but even smiling is an overreach-er.
If you have a stern sub like this fellow, Mr. Preacher.
Who in no way resembled our instructor, the teacher.
I venture out
For the first time in a while
And am met by a sight:
A Saturday Street Preacher,
His altar an upturned crate,
Voice amplified by a tinny megaphone.
He reads not from the Good Book,
But shames those who are not like him.
He calls their lifestyle sinful,
Their existence a contradiction.
His congregation is
The cacophony of furious, raised voices
Arguing against his every word.
Is it a perversion of faith
To force teachings onto the unwilling?
To twist the words
For your own bigoted narrative?
Saturday Street Preacher,
You are more akin to a pariah
Than the bargain-bin Messiah
You think you are.
You cannot hide your true feelings
In the pages of sacred scripture
And claim them to be gospel.
Saturday Street Preacher,
He dresses for his sermons in
Jeans and a t-shirt,
Bible brandished as a weapon
And that weakened upturned crate
Beneath his weary feet.
He performs his midday mass
To the masses who
Scream their retaliation in return.
His Sermon on the Mount
Is muffled shouting
In a busy city centre.
There was once a young soul I’ll call Jordan
He was a little on the wild side, a rebellious child
Most expected he’d someday know the warden
The one he’d answer to before being reconciled
Freedom, it seems, we often take it for granted
Like Jordan, I sometimes disregarded the rules
It took some time for me to grow where I was planted
I could be stubborn and obstinate, like the mules
But, like Jordan, who became a regular light in the end
I learned to live a life of kindness, caring about hearts
Thanks to the love that I carry with me, the forever friend
Who makes a way for Jordan and me, with grace off the charts…
Jordan became a preacher, the leader of many people
He carries hope inside his soul, a hope that grows and grows
Because of that long ago bible school beneath the church steeple,
He is a light to many who live in the dark – his love always shows…
Jesus is the One friend we can carry with us through every fear
Thanks to His love, there is grace beyond what we comprehend
It is grace that takes away our sin, wipes away every single tear
Reveals joy from believing in Him, the One who did ascend
The child of a certain perception,
Among your kinfolks poor reception,
You just can’t endure irritation:
It could make you leave your own nation,
White men’s world declare your new station,
Face the challenge of imitation…
Then, it’s all yours: A quick migration,
Your legs not swollen for gyration;
On foot you cross waiting borders,
Dumping your unreceptive brothers!
For those with no more trusts in their world,
Now, fully sure elsewhere they’re being called.
Poor rating at home has their hearts galled;
They’re bleeding guys beasts have mauled…
Really, the future of stark dreamers,
With hopes to play to the hilt schemers,
As a first step they arrange a flight,
In their countries tired of the fight:
A will to understand a new clime,
Note their guiltless actions now a crime!
Still, migrants to keep in mind Swallow
Foreign life they can’t continue to hallow
Some might question “What sort of fellow?
For life to a foreigner “Hello!
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