For our sins God has created three enemies for us: mice in the house, the fox in the mountains, and a priest in our village.
South American proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Confessing Sins
when guilt is full
there comes a time when we think of
the possibility of confessing our sins,
the usual sins of omissions
more than our sins of commissions,
to a friend perhaps, but you doubt
for he has more sins than you have
and it might as well end
on the reverse, you the listening tree
and he the barking dog,
or perhaps to a religious group but
you shy away because of their number
and you might as well at the end be the
subject of their gossip
in town for a week or so,
and so you become a catholic again
on a Sunday before your parish priest
you kneel down and confess your sins,
and your dismay the priest says,
'
my son these are not sins anymore
under the new doctrines
with an ending, don't worry my boy
you'll do penance just the same
say three our fathers and three hail Mary's
and don't come back
your sins are the same as mine'
what comfort is this, when sins are confessed
to a person on the same misery and guilt as we are.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Maria's Lullaby
An extract from a poem written for my grandchildren to Brahms Lullaby
Sleep; little mice sleep
Mother will watch over you
Shut your eyes and don't peek
Tomorrow the skies will be blue
Sleep; little mice sleep.
Sleep; little mice sleep
No harm will come whilst I am here
The sun has gone down by the peak
When the day dawns it will appear
Sleep; little mice sleep.
Sleep; little mice sleep
Your father is watching the house
That no owl or cat dares to seek
Harm to creatures or mouse
Sleep; little mice sleep.
Sleep; little mice sleep
Tomorrow you run and play
Now is not time to speak
When you awake a new day
Sleep; little mice sleep.
Sleep; little mice sleep
Rest now for your own sake
Shut your eyes now be asleep
I will be here when you awake
Sleep; little mice sleep.
poem by Thomas Golding
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They do not want him in the village, he asks for the priest's house.
We Have Mice
We have mice in the bedroom,
the living room, kitchen and the loo.
I have even found one in the bathroom sink.
They come in all sorts of colours
red, green, purple, blue and pink.
They all belong to our cat family,
Arthur, Barney, Charlie and Daisy.
They leave them all over the house,
even hide them in our shoes and under the mats.
Sometimes they take them to bed
when they are lying on ours.
We have mice, mice and more mice,
ain’t life grand when your kitty winks have fun
and you suffer at their paws.
However, we would not be without them,
as all cat lovers know.
11 January 2011
poem by David Harris
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Our Sins
Our sins are leading us away from the truth!
Our sins are causing all the troubles in this world,
Our sins are bringing about all these wars around us,
Our sins have torn us apart from love! !
And, we now hate each other in this world.
Glabal warming! !
And, it is all because of our sins;
Our sins have really destroyed everything around us.
Just watch the news!
Just listen to your neihbour!
Just look around you!
Just see how much hatred is being expressed among us!
Our sins have torn us apart from love.
Scenes, sins!
Of the scenes of life full of many troubles;
All in the name of our sins.
The Creator, whose Original Name is Yahweh,
Created us all with true love in many colours;
But, our sins have led us to hate each other on this earth.
Famine, disaster, sickness, accident, drought!
And all the global warming seen around us;
Are all caused by our sins because,
We failed to follow the Laws of Yahweh.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Life of a Roman Catholic Priest
A priest is nearest Christ;
A priest is Christ at times;
A priest is almost Christ;
A priest is most divine.
A priest is God’s shepherd;
A priest must tend to flock;
A priest must be like ‘rock’;
A priest should ne’er defrock.
A priest communes with God;
A priest draws hope from Lord;
A priest shows love of Christ;
A priest carries His Cross!
A priest is tempted too;
A priest has falls in life;
A priest falters also;
A priest has strength from Christ.
A priestly job is tough;
A priest’s life can turn rough;
A priest has strife enough,
But has to smile and laugh!
A priest helps harvest souls;
A priest has many roles;
A priest has but one goal –
To drink from Christ’s own bowl!
Pray that more priests should come;
May priests curb their freedom;
May priest usher Kingdom;
A life for Christ’s welcome.
Fondly dedicated to Rev. Fr. Xavier Claudius,
Beloved Parish priest, ‘Holy Family Church, Perundurai
Copyright by Dr John Celes 25-7-2010
poem by John Celes
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O, Son of God!
“Make not my Father’s house
An house of merchandise”…
John- 2: 16
O Son of God!
Ever since thou left us,
We have made this world,
Thy Father’s house,
A house of merchandise!
To appease our weapon interests
We created belligerence
Built distrust fought wars
Sold hatred in exchange
Of doves of peace
When dost thou come down?
Once again amongst us
To demolish this temple this body
Where greed presides,
Just as thou destroyed
Thy body on cross
Along with all our sins!
When dost thou come down?
To rebuild a house of no hate
Just as thou proved thy words that
Thou wilt raise it up in three days
And just as thou resurrected
As thou promised!
18th December 2009
poem by Kesav Venkat Easwaran
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Yes Yes
when God created love he didn't help most
when God created dogs He didn't help dogs
when God created plants that was average
when God created hate we had a standard utility
when God created me He created me
when God created the monkey He was asleep
when He created the giraffe He was drunk
when He created narcotics He was high
and when He created suicide He was low
when He created you lying in bed
He knew what He was doing
He was drunk and He was high
and He created the mountians and the sea and fire at the same time
He made some mistakes
but when He created you lying in bed
He came all over His Blessed Universe.
Submitted by .eve.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Complicated Lifestyle.
a man's life is simple.
he has a routine, like this: house, office, house.
he gets bored, adds another place,
like house, office, park, mall, house,
waste of money, but a little interesting, he adds more
a friend's house, another house where he can be intimate with someone,
then sex, and games and romance and betrayal and use and sue and
lots of booze,
he retreats back to house, office, house,
but it is not the same again.
he sins, feels so broke, and
to a certain extent
attempts at suicide.
sad, but it can happen to you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Three blind mice
Three blind mice, three blind mice,
See how they run!
They all run after the farmer's wife,
And she cut off their tails with a carving knife,
Did ever you see such a thing in your life
As three blind mice!
poem by Beatrix Potter
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Hymn 61
Christ our High Priest and King.
Rev. 1:5-7.
Now to the Lord, that makes us know
The wonders of his dying love,
Be humble honors paid below,
And strains of nobler praise above.
'Twas he that cleansed our foulest sins,
And washed us in his richest blood;
'Tis he that makes us priests and kings,
And brings us rebels near to God.
To Jesus, our atoning Priest,
To Jesus, our superior King,
Be everlasting power confessed,
And every tongue his glory sing.
Behold, on flying clouds he comes,
And every eye shall see him move;
Though with our sins we pierced him once,
Then he displays his pard'ning love.
The unbelieving world shall wail,
While we rejoice to see the day:
Come, Lord; nor let thy promise fail,
Nor let thy chariots long delay.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Three Mice Who Hoped
Six mice stared out their door.
The Cat was crouching there.
“Have hope! ” one cried.
“The Dog will come and scare it away! ”
But one mouse ran out, gave up.
In the jaws of Cat he died.
Five mice stared out their door.
Still the feline purred.
“Have hope! ” one cried.
”The Dog will be here soon! ”
But one mouse could wait no more.
In the jaws of Cat she died.
Four mice stared out their door.
The Cat was waiting for them, too.
“Have… hope…” one said.
But one mouse snapped and darted out.
And soon, in jaws of Cat, was dead.
Three mice stared out their door.
The Cat sat ready, claws extended.
“Have… h-hope…” one said.
But one mouse squealed and started –
The one who’d spoken held her down.
“Have hope! ”
For hours more the three mice sat.
The watched, trembling, the mighty Cat.
But still: “Have hope! ” they cried.
Then came the Dog.
The Cat scurried away to hide.
The mice were free at last.
poem by Sophia White
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Never Empty
Do you ever muse what houses do
while you're at work, the kids at school,
how the traffic roars as it rolls on by
and the telephone rings with no reply.
The refrigerator sings its refrigerator tune
and the gas man calls in the afternoon.
How rain pours through that hole in the roof
and the ants infest all the children's shoes.
Have you ever thought on that dear folk,
when you're out all day and the front door's locked.
When the spiders dance and crickets chirp
with their clod hopper feet on the skirting boards,
making merriment while you're away,
assuming the house is empty all day.
Have you ever looked under old floor boards
where the mice all run when the cat's at play
and the spiders return at the break of day.
Only the house knows what goes on,
only its walls see the spiders run
and the crickets dance and the mice at play,
only the house when you're all away
except for the clock on the kitchen wall
with its heart ever beating the time of day.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Playing in the praying church
Who loves playing in the house of God?
Am I a catholic?
No, I am a protestant
Am I a Baptist?
No, I am a Pentecostal
All praying in the house of God
Am I a priest?
No, I am a pastor
Am I a Bishop?
No, I am a prophet
Are they all praying in the house of God?
Where are you, oh God?
poem by Doris Dzameshie
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Bag Of Mice
I dreamt your suicide note
was scrawled in pencil on a brown paperbag,
& in the bag were six baby mice. The bag
opened into darkness,
smoldering
from the top down. The mice,
huddled at the bottom, scurried the bag
across a shorn field. I stood over it
& as the burning reached each carbon letter
of what you'd written
your voice released into the night
like a song, & the mice
grew wilder.
poem by Nick Flynn
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7 Deadly Sins
7 seven deadly sins
Thats how the world begins
Watch out when you step in
For seven deadly sins
Seven deadly sins
Thats when the fun begins
(seven deadly sins)
(sin number one) was when you left me
(sin number two) you said goodbye
(sin number three) was when you told me a little white lie
Seven deadly sins
Once it starts, it never ends (seven deadly sins)
Watch out aroung the bend (seven deadly sins)
A seven deadly sins (seven deadly sins)
(sin number four) was when you looked my way
(sin number five) was when you smiled
(sin number six) was when you let me stay
Sin number seven was when you touched me and told me why
Seven deadly sins
So many rules to bend
Time and time again
Seven deadly sins
Seven deadly sins
(seven deadly sins)
(seven deadly sins)
(seven deadly sins)
Seven deadly sins
Thats how the world begins (seven deadly sins)
Watch out when you step in (seven deadly sins)
For seven deadly sins
Seven (seven) seven (seven) seven (seven) seven (deadly sins)
song performed by by George Harrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sugar And Spice And Fourteen Blind Mice
Sugar and Spice and fourteen blind mice
sat in a room way up in the barn.
the name of the cat was Sugar and Spice
fourteen blind mice, they were spinning a yarn.
As you can picture, the odds were unfair,
though none of the mice had been overly wise
a mad starving hunter to sit there and stare
planning the strategy of a surprise.
How can a cat catch so many at once?
Only with claws and a growling old gut
cats do not utilise swords, spears and guns
this one just sat on her soft furry butt.
The night was soon over and all things were the same
all the mice had been snoozing, unaware of the foe
in the cold of the morning now the cat sought to aim
its formidable powers like a young feline pro.
But a god now took mercy and he told all the mice
that united you stand and divided you fall,
so they jumped on the cat, and they squeezed like a vise
and the end of the frenzy wasn't pretty at all.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Transitions....
at first the house is one kind of a party
more friends are coming
you even let the mailman to have a drink
and stay for a while
though he has nothing to say just like
the masons and some carpenters
then the house was almost burned
there was so much panic that day
the whole village talked about it for weeks
of course, the house as usual is silent like
most rocks
to regain its solidity
it listens to the refreshes of the sea breeze
it resumes its pacific nature
facing the sea and learning from the past storms
then something so horrible happens
but no one in the house is telling about it
the pillars shook and some walls gave in
a part of the roof was taken by the hurricane
but the house is still in tact
changes come into play
the gates are closed
the mailman is having a hard time pressing the door bell
the mail box is broken
and some thieves are anticipating that someday
they can get in and make their presence felt
perhaps to take
what is essential
what they did not know is that
no one lives in this house anymore
all the memories are put into boxes and kept in the cellars
the house has become one mummified pharaoh
a pyramid that points to the sun
the village only talks about the built-in mysteries
it is one kind of a cadaver surrounded by flowers
whose heart has been removed a few days ago
and then the talk stops
and that was only when the last prayer was said.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Global Village
Global village
Though we are all human
we are made to be different
by forces beyond our clout
Yet they want remake us
in a new image of their choice
in a village too big to be safe
The world they now call
a single village in the globe
with a big brother to match
As long as we are second class
within that large village fashioned
we would be subjected to
someone’s standards
someone’s culture
someone’s technology
someone’s understanding
someone’s world view
someone’s theories and concepts
They try hard in harder ways
to make us part of that village
but we know we are different
and shall strive to leave outside
that fashioned unsafe village
poem by Yusuf Adamu
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At The Confessional Box...
there is this boy
who looks like me when i was once a boy like him
who as taught by the priests
of the catholic schools have to be on a regular confession
inside that box where the priests
listens....
(Father i have sinned, i have not gone to confession
for a week and these are my sins...repeat, repeat, repeat,
and the priest, perhaps tired and
bored says...
my little son, say three hail marys, five our fathers, and 2 glory bes
and if you have time
write a poem) .
and so the poems since then were written.
the boy did not stop to live within that confessional box
the priest died
earlier than expected.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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