Morning chapel
padre preaching
all new to me
came here for a natter
see what’s there to see
every hell has its angels
he don’t know ‘bout angels
how they fight
thrills of a motor bike
chariots o’fire
if he say he do, s’not true,
he aint read the manual
don’t know what a spanner’s for
he just know we threw it in
an’ it don’t work
I’d run out o’ booze
drunk as a lord
awake till morn
got no comfort
I ain’t weak
disinherited me
had nothin’ to give
always empty
it ain’t right
raised hungry an’ thirsty
plenty o’ scrapes
showed no mercy
weak for a tart
love n’ leave
that ain’t odd
yeah, was picked on
fight for me rights
they be-me-attitudes
an’ I’ll not change
bless ‘em they try
‘n they try
I’ll never change
if heaven is gained
through suffrin’
I’m in
man-ah never found
streets paved with bread
much less with gold
I looked for trouble
‘n found it
there ain’t no justice
tain’t no miracle
that’s why I’m here
tain’t no miracle
(For Langston Hughes)
1. Ain't Got No Shoes,Still Dancing'
Foots bare, street cold,
but mabebeza, we move,
we glide,-moonlight don't charge no fee
We hum our bread song,
clap our hands,forget the pain-
joy be free,you see?
2. Stellaland Blues
Cup o' tears, chile,
Stir it with dreams and honey-
Lord,make it taste right.
Mom hum soft tunes,
sayin',''rise tonight''
3. Minibus Taxi To Glory
Ride slow, Miss Zodwa, ride-
dreamin' o' silk and Paris
but ticket say ''Zone Three''
Still, she sit tall-tall,
chin up, proud as prophecy-
queen of Destiny.
4. He Done Left Again
Roy packed his rhythm bag,
said he's searching for a dream-
left me clutching his blues.
I kiss his shadow,
whisper to the dawn his name-
Love don't choose no truce.
5. Ouma Le Roux's Bible
Pages torn,still sing-
Joshua fit the battle,''hum,''
and the walls crash down!
Ouma's eyes on fire,
preachin' from a ragged crown-
heaven in her frown.
6. Freedom Don't Come Down
They say,''Be patient.''
We say,''Patient ain't bread,food!''
hunger make us shout
Sjambok still hum in in dreams,
but we break it,loud and proud-
freedom,hear us out!
My phone said,'' Pay your screen time's high!''
I said '' Dear Soso,prophets lie''
It buzzed again,''Repent,recharge!''
I blamed WI-FI,life at large.
It knows my heart,my cravings,my schemes,
My father's father, my memes.
I'd do anything to save my soul,
But how scroll to toward self-control?
Peachy it shall be,
Preaching beyond choirs devout,
Guide all souls to Light....
Many years ago, I visited a church. The Saint Osmund Church in London
In Barnes. Beautiful and imposing Catholic Home of God. Felt from the heart
Mass. This was an intimate afternoon. I have never been here before. Never
The believers waited silently for the voice of the bells. The calling voice rang out
Holy Mass had begun. The priest was an aristocratic character, an old man
Preaching was incredible. His thoughts soared, and his audience fell into a hypnotic state
This Mass left an eternal mark on my soul
This Mass burned into my soul. Forever
This Mass always accompanies me
This Mass always lives in me
It's an eternal inspiration
Never really know what part of Sunday’s
sermon my mind’s eye will lock hold
What portion of the Holy Story will
ignite passion as Pastor’s lucid homoly unfolds
“I DARE YOU TO PRAISE HIM CHURCH!”
and Good Lawd did that church explode
and I sat at the red light -Exposed.
Bill Marable
12-4-22
11:00 am
Shallow pool
Hairy wall
Rainy day
Rolls stacked tall
Unworthy grave
Where we'd stay
Emotional fool
Uncannily brave
Streams of dreams
Catch a star
New name new car
Lips like wine
We cry at times
Identify
With your cry
Overwhelm
Fill me up,
Throw me down
Proclamation of pain
From a smoking rift lain
No security
Lonely acts the cure of me
Embarrassed mess
Disheveled impress
Like timeout at recess
A ringing duress
It gets dark fast
And it will last
Longer than I thought
Longer than I want
Guess we're born to teach,
To the choirs we preach,
God's love we all reach.
A day will come—maybe not today,
Maybe not tomorrow,
But someday—
When the concept of religion will unfold before me.
Through the years, events unfold,
And always, they say, "We thank God."
I used to believe,
I heard of Him,
And so, I preached.
Perhaps one day, they'll hear from me,
Speaking of Him.
Today in church, they said, "We trust Him."
I want to trust,
I really do.
But questions linger within.
Maybe one day,
I'll tell you about Him.
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!
Some of my poems are truly inane.
Screeching, preaching, a run away train..
Impulsive poetry is to blame.
It's just my style. I'll sign my name.
It's never racist.
It doesn't seek to defame and
none of my musings would ever proclaim,
to "make America great again".
Poetry soup is a haven, a safe space.
It's certainly not a Presidential race..
If America wants a President with a.d.d.
and lots of extra energy.
Put my name on your ballot,
as I'll come with poetry..
I get my updates on the news
From certain magazines
And papers, which are quite in sync
With how my mindset leans.
Of course, their editorials
Make so much sense to me
That I can’t understand
How anyone could disagree.
However, there are outlets
For the news which do not jibe
With my beliefs, endorsing those
To whom I don’t subscribe.
I neither read nor listen to
These views, which I oppose
And likewise, they’ve no interest
In what my side might propose.
All those preaching to the choir
Know that time and time again,
They would trade the chance of open minds
To hear one more “Amen!”
croon,
of the
rooster, shakes
awake the town.
purple preaching of dawn, dibbling the dark.
bittersweet cockcrow sports orange-yellow,
scripts pantaloon
of pink sun.
thus God
winks.
curtain’s
breach of lace -
kaleidoscope,
drama’s brand new coat of diverse colors.
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.
Old teachers give humans lots of lines,
Preaching our messages in rhymes,
Try harder, friends, for our grail,
Or Peace on Earth will fail,
Wars and climate change,
All quite deranged,
Can unite,
I say,
Pray!
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