The Call From On High
Come into the Church, the Vicar said,
Otherwise you'll be standing in the flowerbed,
Because outside, there really is no space,
It's filled seemingly by the 'whole human race',
So into the Church I made my way,
To sit, to sing and maybe to pray.
The organ was playing loud and clear,
The volume well up, so easy to hear,
With the choir rendering a psalm or two,
I made my way into a pew,
And knelt in reverence as one should,
Feeling infinitely good.
And as I knelt there all alone,
A sudden noise, or should I say tone,
Came to my ear, a sound well known,
Dear Lord, it was my mobile phone.
I felt my body start to freeze,
Kneeling there upon my knees.
I switched it off with rapid speed,
Picked up a hymn book and began to read,
Trying to ignore the stares,
And even more than that, the glares,
Which penetrated my poor back,
Like I'd encountered a shower of flak.
I edged my way along the seat,
Hoping to make my escape complete,
But suddenly the pew was brimming over,
With aliens from another nova,
Who didn't seem to see my plight,
And that now I was turning rather white.
I had to sit the whole service through,
Well you see, what else could I do,
Stuck up against an embroidered banner,
Dedicated to someone called Hannah,
Who passed away in 1907,
And was guaranteed a place in heaven.
At last the Vicar gave his blessing,
My urge to leave was very pressing,
When were these neighbours going to budge,
It was very hard for me to judge
If they would join the growing queue,
To wish the Vicar 'fond adieu'.
By the time that they had all moved out,
I realised without a doubt,
That I was the very last one to stand,
And to have to shake the Vicar's hand,
Who asked me if my 'call' had come from 'on high',
Have you ever felt you wanted to die.
I tried to laugh it off as best I could,
'You'll come again'? he asked, I said I would,
But without my mobile next time, I think,
He smiled at me and gave a 'wink',
Actually I liked him, he was pretty okay,
So, Yes, I'll go there another day.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Reluctant Visitor
The Reverend Peter Porter Guys
Was a gentle man with anaemic eyes,
Pale blue, that watered wherever he went
From Epiphany, to the fasting of Lent.
He walked the villages of his flock
From door to door, from knock to knock,
And always he mentioned the Organ Fund
To the full of life, and the moribund.
He went from house to house with glee
Consuming hundreds of cups of tea,
And never noticed - and there's the rub,
That 'hubby' had gone to hide at the pub.
The ladies listened with wringing hands
To the trials of Job and the Lord's commands,
And simpered long in the hopes that he
Could give them a personal 'Heaven' key.
Forgive their sins, both now and then
Put in a word with the Lord for them,
Perhaps forgive them a future sin
Or two or three - like a lottery win!
His eyes then watered, the Reverend Guys
He gave no specials, he told no lies,
The road was narrow, the road was straight
With no back alleys to Heaven's Gate.
One day he went to visit the Dunns
They hadn't been to his service once,
Just newly moved from a house in town
They'd come to the country, settled down.
Now Peggy Dunn, she wanted to fit
With the country types of Nether Stitt,
She'd sworn to please, so she asked him in
And they sat in her bright solarium.
His eyes, they watered in there the most
As he talked of the passing Holy Ghost,
While Peggy shuddered and looked askance
At the pot containing her cannabis plant.
Her husband Don was an atheist,
Who didn't believe that gods exist,
'We all came down from a worm, ' he said,
'That turned to a monkey; then we bred! '
His wife was more of a nervous type
Who covered her bets 'til the time was ripe,
'What if he's up there, watching you?
Just keep your voice down, finish your stew! '
So Don had gone out the door at back
As the Vicar came in, a frontal attack,
He hid in the space between the trees
And cursed as the nettles stung his knees.
While Peggy went out to make the tea
The vicar, quite absent-mindedly
Picked off some buds from the cannabis plant
And chewed on them as a ruminant.
The tea was served in her Doulton fine
And the roses seemed to glow like wine,
'Such beautiful cups, ' said a voice in his head,
'Left over from grandma's estate, ' she said.
He looked up startled, could she see in
To the place where the voice spoke only to him?
The room was suddenly silent then,
As the minutes ticked, and the hours began.
He said, 'well maybe I'd better go...'
'Oh must you? ' Then he had answered, 'No! '
He didn't have anywhere else to be,
And telling a lie was a sin, you see.
He settled back in his easy seat
Looked out of the window, drank his tea
Then something caught at his feeble stare,
'There's a man in the bushes, look! Out there! '
'Oh, that's just Don, ' said Peggy Dunn
And glared at her husband to come on in,
He came, but not in the best of moods,
In fact, to the vicar, he was rude.
'Hi Rev, get out of the wrong side bed?
Your collar's on back to front, ' he said,
Then laughed, but the Reverend Peter Guys
Just sat and stared, and watered his eyes.
'Hey Peg, the Reverend needs a feed,
I hope you've asked him to stay to tea! '
What Peg had whispered I won't repeat,
But she said aloud, 'Oh vicar, please! '
'Of course, ' he mumbled, the room it spun,
He couldn't have stood for the Holy One,
Then Don had brought in a cookie plate,
'Get into them, Rev, before it's too late! '
They both ate cookies, and washed them down
With another cuppa in Royal Crown,
But Peggy had glared at Don, aghast,
The cookies were solidly filled with hash.
By eight o'clock on that very night
The Vicar staggered up out of his seat,
'Maybe you'd like to watch TV? '
Don had roared, and the Rev. agreed.
'I would, I would, but I really just....'
'Sit in my chair? Oh please, you must! '
So Reverend Guys in utter despair
Had found himself in a smelly chair;
With cats' hair over each arm, he sat
And waited his chance like a cornered rat,
When Don, his sarcasm running to math
Said, 'wouldn't you like a shower, or a bath? '
Yes, he would, it was true, he cried
He felt unclean, since the cat had died
And left its fur on its master's chair
Who knew what disease was lurking there?
He staggered off like an old, old man
With Peggy holding his trembling hand,
She gave him a towel and a bar of soap
But what he would like was a length of rope.
The bathroom window was way too small
If he got outside he was bound to fall,
But given some rope and by using stealth
At least he could try to hang himself.
He came out dripping, and wearing a robe
Of Don's, the colour of heliotrope,
'You look like you're ready to sleep, ' he said,
'Is there any good reason you can't take my bed? '
The vicar replied a despairing 'No! '
He still couldn't lie - Please ask him to go!
But Don wasn't finished, his sarcasm rife,
'Have you any objections to sleep with my wife? '
The vicar lay snuggled right up to his chin
With a naked Peggy right next to him,
She figured that Don brought it all on himself...
(If he gave her a score out of ten - might as well!)
The Reverend hasn't been spotted of late,
It took him a week there to plan his escape,
He never drinks tea, and will visit no-one
Since causing the split between Peggy and Don.
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Burning Question
We have a Vicar from the south
Who preaches with his mouth
His sermon for the Day
Was to make the people stay
The darkness was too much
But being a Vicar that was silly
He burnt his hand on the tilly
By Derek Lewry aka Papa Bear
25 May 2008
Note: This poem was written about an incident that happened to me on Sunday by the Mayor of the Western Town I belong to, Papa Bear (Derek Lewery) .
I was lighting a Tilly lamp to lighten up my church as we have no electricity. The lamp went out and when I tried to relight it, the lamp looked like it was going to topple over so I reached to steady it and burnt the palm of my left hand. Instead of seeing the light I felt the pain. I did the service with my hand wrapped in a cold wet towel.
Please leave a comment on passing as all your comments will be passed on to Papa Bear.
David
poem by David Harris
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The Vicar Of Bray
In good King Charles's golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant;
A furious High-Church man I was,
And so I gain'd preferment.
Unto my flock I daily preach'd,
Kings are by God appointed,
And damn'd are those who dare resist,
Or touch the Lord's anointed.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
When Royal James possess'd the crown,
And popery grew in fashion;
The penal law I houted down,
And read the declaration:
The Church of Rome, I found would fit,
Full well my constitution,
And I had been a Jesuit,
But for the Revolution.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
When William our deliverer came,
To heal the nation's grievance,
I turned the cat in pan again,
And swore to him allegiance:
Old principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance,
Passive obedience is a joke,
A jest is non-resistance.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
When glorious Anne became our queen
The Church of England's glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional conformists base,
I damn'd, and moderation,
And thought the Church in danger was,
From such prevarication.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
When George in pudding time came o'er,
And moderate men looked big, sir,
My principles I chang'd once more,
And so became a Whig, sir:
And thus preferment I procur'd,
From our faith's great defender,
And almost every day abjur'd
The Pope, and the Pretender.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
The illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant succession,
To these I lustily will swear,
Whilst they can keep possession:
For in my faith, and loyalty,
I never once will falter,
George, my lawful king shall be,
Except the times should alter.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rose Across The Sea
For My Good Friend JoAnn McGrath
Not so long ago I was joking
with a young lady across sea.
I told her that I was a vicar,
or at least pretend one.
My name was Dodgy Dave the Vicar.
A little while later
she wrote a poem aptly named,
The Vicar Is Quicker.
Since then she has written
quite a number more.
I tell her a funny story about me.
No sooner do I tell her the story
it appear as a Dodgy Dave Poetry.
In the time I have known her
not once have, I wrote a poem for her,
that rose across the sea.
She thinks of me as her big brother.
I find that as a compliment you see,
as my own real sister
does not want to know me.
Therefore, I have an adopted one
far away from me,
a rose across the sea.
Therefore, Joann
this poem is just for you,
from your friend,
that Dodgy quicker vicar
who rhymes with liquor.
A substance he never touches,
but I will raise my cup of tea
and say again,
this poem is just for you,
my rose across the sea.
poem by David Harris
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My Lord Is Always Joking At Me
My lord is always joking at me.
When I asked for a bicycle
he gave me a car.
When I asked for a computer
he gave me a mobile phone.
When I asked for a book
he gave me a pen and a pad of paper.
When I ask for money
he gave me some trees.
When I asked for a bedroom
he gave me a house with a garden
that has many flowers....
My lord is always joking at me!
Though my lord is always joking at me
I know he loves me, anyway.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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The 'Poem A Day' Project - Day 16
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’m feeling all alone
I can’t connect with my friends out there
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I miss its ringing tone
I’ve searched for it everywhere
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’ve lost my mobile phone
And now I cannot roam
I must stay near in case it rings
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I do not wish to moan
It has numbers, dates and all kinds of things
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’ve lost my mobile phone
And now I guess I’m prone
To wander like a lost zombie
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’ve no mind of my own
Without it there to organise me
I’ve lost my mobile phone
poem by Flying Lemming
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Unconventional
The day was cold but she was not in point of fact she was too hot.
So she stripped off all of her clothes because she chose to I suppose
Her neighbours thought it rather quaint but only one raised a complaint
The vicar did not think she should do her gardening in the nude
But she replied acerbically that if he did not want to see
Then he should look the other way. She did not tell him how to pray
He should not tell her how she must dress. For all his show of piousness
She had seen him gazing lustfully when he was no one could see
Upon young school girls passing by from whom he could not tear his eye. What right has he to condemn me when I display quite openly
All that I have quite naturally with no false show of modesty
I’m not ashamed why should I be.I am the way that God made me
But he conceals his prurience behind an air of innocence
By advocating nudity at least I’m acting honestly.
I have no time for pious frauds who secretly gain their rewards
by using their imagination to enjoy what they would dearly like to do.
I told the vicar to his face I thought he was a black disgrace
He mumbled something in reply but could not look me in the eye.
He knew I had divined his lustfulness. He knew I knew no need to guess.
He thought it best to move away but where he went I cannot say.
We have a lady vicar now who does not try to tell me how
I ought to dress for gardening.content to let me do my own thing.
She says that sometimes she, wishes she could act as naturally.
26-Oct-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Time Has Come...
The vicar went to the valley,
A mountain on either side,
He built a small log cabin
To comfort his future bride,
The wind between the mountains
Brought echoes of far-off plains,
More often than not in the heart of the night,
Someone called his name.
The voice was sometimes muffled,
The voice, it sometimes screamed,
Whole sentences were chanted
Broke in on the vicar's dreams,
The sounds were like a mirage
Half heard from a distant town,
Whenever the wind would begin to rise
He heard the strangest sounds.
A tap-tap-tap in the morning,
A tap-tap-tap at night,
As if someone was typing
Up on the mountain's height,
The rhythm was pervasive
As it typed some ancient log,
He heard the words: 'The quick brown fox
Jumps over the lazy dog.'
He ran from out of the cabin
And scanned the dusty plain,
His trusty dog was lying
Asleep on the track again,
When out from the brittle bushes
Aside of the narrow track,
A quick brown fox with a startled look,
Jumped over his old Ridge-back.
The vicar ran to the cabin
And fell on his knees in prayer,
What are you trying to tell me, lord,
That you're really, really there?
I thought you were, but I wasn't sure,
It'll take some getting used to!
A voice intoned: 'England expects
Each man to do his duty! '
The vicar jumped up off his knees
And praised the lord again,
You've saved my very soul, my lord,
From Hell, and the pits of pain,
I'd thought that God was mine alone,
And not for everyone,
But now I find - and it blows my mind;
'God is an Englishman! '
The wind was slowly rising,
It whined and whooped and roared,
It swooped along the valley,
Came in at the cabin door,
The vicar, sleeping restlessly
Heard everything, hale and hearty:
'The time has come for all good men
To come to the aid of the party.'
The vicar's not been seen of late
He's busy, light and dark,
With hammer, nails, and canvas sails
He's building himself an Ark,
While in a tiny township that
Lies hidden in mountain haze,
A typing teacher has just locked up,
And gone on his holidays.
12 April 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
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An Angel's Touch
It was Wednesday morning service
in the church next to the school
and Helen sat next to you
in the old wooden pew
her eyes peering
behind her thick lens glasses
at you and she whispered
your mum's meeting my mum
in the street market after school
and then we're going to my house
for a cup of tea
and I can show you
my doll's house
that my dad made
out of an orange box
and it's got lights
and everything
you leaned your head
towards her and said
in a low voice
oh right yes that'll be good
hoping none of your mates
could hear
especially Cogan
who only the other week
threatened to bloody your nose
but he didn't show after school
and she smiled
and you looked at the altar
where the vicar
was lighting candles
and Mrs Murphy
was walking down the aisle
like an aging storm trooper
in her hand knitted cardigan
and brown pleated skirt
Helen whispered
and you can see
the tiny furniture
I've got too
that my mum bought
from a second hand shop
off the market
you looked at her
sitting there
in her grey jumper
and white blouse
and grey skirt
and her plaited hair
parted in the middle
and her bright eyes
magnified by the glass lens
and you said
I look forward to it
and she rubbed your hand
with hers
and then looked ahead
at the lighted candles
and sniffed in the incense
in the air and her hand
moved to pick up
a hymn book
and you sensed where
her hand had been
like some angel's touch
as if to bless
well that's what
it seemed like to you
more or less.
poem by Terry Collett
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My Legacy
My great aunt bequeathed me her wardrobe;
hand carved and made from oak.
It matched the chest of drawers my mother had,
which my ancestors had made bespoke.
We washed, cleaned, and wax polished it,
and placed it where our old one used to be.
It had a distinctive smell of moth balls,
but we were overwhelmed by its history.
My great aunt believed it to be sixteenth century,
and was built especially for the church.
Any further information that we could glean
would be well worthwhile search.
After the smell had gone I filled it with my clothes,
but then it began to smell of church incense.
It wasn’t bad enough to make the clothes smell,
but why it did, made no sense.
A few weeks later whilst I was sleeping
the sound of church bells woke me up.
This was most unusual for the time of night,
so I opened the window to take a look.
By the time I’d looked out of the window
the bells had stopped, so I got into bed.
I had no trouble getting back off to sleep,
and the bells went out of my head.
The next night the same thing happened,
the church bells rang out loud and clear.
This time I realised they weren’t outside,
they were somewhere else quite near.
The ringing was coming from the wardrobe,
so nervously I slowly opened the door.
I sort of expected to see a portal to a church,
but there was only the clothes I wore.
The bells became a common occurrence,
so much so, they didn’t wake me up,
but when I began to hear an organ playing,
my wife and I, had to take a look.
Again there was nothing out of place
except for the music which continued to play.
We couldn’t understand what was happening,
and this was happening everyday.
No harm was coming from the wardrobe,
so I accepted our unusual legacy.
I didn’t discuss it to the family, or anyone,
in the fear of them laughing at me.
Throughout the weeks the sounds became varied,
singing choirs of a gone by age.
Church services spoken entirely in Latin,
and sermons delivered with rage.
Weddings, Christenings, Funerals, and Communions,
and every Christian festival and feast.
This was without doubt an insight of the past,
but now it was affecting our sleep.
One night when a service had ended,
the wardrobe began to shake on the floor.
Noises of movement came from within,
and suddenly there opened a door.
I jumped out of bed rather quickly
and had a look around inside.
Cassocks were hanging upon the rail,
and my clothes had been cast aside.
This situation had now become intolerable,
something had to be done without delay.
I dismantling the whole of the wardrobe,
and burned it the very next day.
I never saw my missing clothes again,
and when my family asked about my legacy,
I told them everything about the wardrobe,
and how it grew into a frightening mystery.
Now that I’m able to talk and write about it,
some people smile, and don’t believe a thing.
But if they care to spend a night in my bedroom,
they will still hear the church bells ring!
poem by Orlando Belo
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The Demon under the Altar Stone
As a boy in a ruff and a surplice, gown,
I sang in the choir of a country town,
Under the eye of the Reverend Burr
In a church that had stood for a thousand years.
A church so old that it reeked of damp
From the days of an Anglo-Saxon camp,
They'd built their Church on a Druid site
To banish the wailing ghosts at night!
The Romans had slaughtered the Druid priests
In a river of blood at a Druid Feast,
And still their cries could be heard on nights
When the moon gleamed red by the altar lights.
The beams streamed in through the leadlight glass
With an eerie glow that was overcast,
Illumined the ancient altar stone
That covered the Bishop of Cædmon's bones.
The slab that lay on the floor was lipp'd
As it covered the age-old church's crypt,
And there was a crack, an inch around
Through to the crypt there, under the ground.
From where I sat in the old oak pew
I could see the back of the altar, too,
And through a gap where the floor was bare
Were moving shadows that shouldn't be there!
The crypt had been sealed, eight hundred years
Since the Normans had taken the Saxon Reeves,
Imprisoned them down in the crypt for good
Then walled them in - (so I understood!)
And there they suffered and there they died
The Shire Reeves of the countryside,
And no-one had ever been down there since,
Or disturbed their bones... for the merest glimpse.
The Reverend Burr was hellfire bent,
His sermons called to the sinners, 'Repent! '
He ranted and raved of a jealous God,
And asked why nobody reck'd his rod.
The smell of sulphur hung in the air
After a sermon by Reverend Burr,
And brimstone caught in my nostrils so
That I almost gagged at the horror below.
One Sunday, kneeling at evensong
I stared at the ancient altar stone,
And there I saw, and to my surprise,
A glow that appeared to be two red eyes!
They glowed bright red, and they stared at me
As if I were alone in the gallery,
My mind was full of the vicar's gall,
And I felt that a demon had pawned my soul.
The eyes dropped down in the crypt instead
And shadows moved, to my mounting dread,
So after the service I hurried on home,
As far as I could from that altar stone!
A week went by, and I thought of things,
Convinced they must be imaginings,
So off I went to the choir again,
But just to be safe, I whispered, 'Ben! '
'You see the crack in the altar stone,
Just tell me if I'm the only one,
I saw two eyes in that crack last week,
They scared me so much that I couldn't speak! '
The vicar stood by the altar there
With his bulging eyes and his crazy hair
And he roared and he pounded his fist on down
'Til it shook and it rattled the altar stone.
He spoke of torment and endless grief,
For the sin of pride, and the skulking thief,
For the lover of all material things,
The women who covered their hands with rings!
Adulterers were the scourge of God
And would fall in the cracks of the earth, he said,
While those who harboured an impure thought,
Their hopes of heaven were set at naught.
(But all the while it was widely known
That the vicar had been with the widow Rowan,
She'd visited him at the rectory,
And breakfasted in the Refectory) .
His voice rose up and the altar stone
Began to rumble and then to groan,
I felt Ben tense at the side of me
As the eyes rose up, as red as could be!
The eyes rose up and peered from the gloom
Of the crypt, long cursed by a Druid Moon,
The more the vicar harangued and roared,
The more that it rumbled under the floor.
The doors blew open, the wind blew in
Like a storm raised up from the depths of sin,
The people ran for the path outside,
'You've raised the devil, ' the people cried.
And then the floor it had opened up
Where the vicar stood, he had said enough!
Just for a moment we caught a glimpse
Of the thing in the crypt that we've not seen since!
An evil demon with blood-red eyes,
With hands like hooks of a monstrous size,
And teeth that grinned in the fading gloom,
The vicar fell into that terrible room.
We heard him scream just once down there
The sound of a sinner beyond despair,
And then the demon went down with a drone,
Covered the hole with the altar stone!
That church stood empty, unused for years,
They said that it carried a Druid curse,
But who would go down to the crypt alone,
Or think to disturb the altar stone?
29 June 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Harmony restored for M lady Ernestine
The vicar, such a nice old gent.
Sees both sides of the argument.
But there is little he can do.
He will not choose between the two.
Maintains a strict neutrality
and prays for guidance reverently
The Sabbath should pass peacefully,
quite free from all hostility.
But Oh Dear Me it isn’t so
the organist will have to go.
So we regain tranquillity
and hear the choir properly.
The organist will take offence.
But we must act in self defence.
The vicar acts reluctantly
and grants the choirmaster’s plea.
The organist just has to go.
He played far too fortissimo.
05/11/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Vicar's Coming To Tea
Eh?
What's that you said?
Oh dearie me,
You told me the vicar's coming to tea.
What shall I wear, what shall we eat?
I'll have to go shopping down the village street.
What shall we say to him?
Think on it do!
He's more intellectual
Than me and than you.
Though wait just a moment,
I'm giving some thought
As to why we lament,
Just as if we know nought.
For we are all different.
Thank goodness for that!
Don't let's be diffident,
Or feel we are prats.
All humans have something
To offer you see.
The things we are good at
Will be different to he.
So I'm now looking forward
To taking his hat,
And sitting with vicar enjoying a chat.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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Drunken Peace Within
he gave up his faith in the LORD above
turned his back on the ones he loved.
he felt that the walls were closing in on him
then turned to a bottle of gin.
he always drank himself into a stupor
and he fell down and cut his eyes.
the doctors said he may go blind.
now at a point that he could not see
he turned to his family.
they told him that he allowed himself
to get to this point in life
turned his back on GOD, family, wife.
now if he really needed help
then to pray to the LORD above
for his guidance and his love.
he fell to his knees alongside his bed
and started to pray
and asked the LORD to change his way.
as he knelt there in prayer
his eyes started to clear.
he saw a vision standing there
dressed completly in white
to him it was the most beautiful sight.
he saw hands that reached out to him
and touched his head
as he knelt alongside his bed.
'it said' you have been put through trial and error
and from this day forward, your life will be better.
believe in GOD, as you had done before
and peace and happiness will find you forever more.
and as the vision disappeared
he knew his life he would no longer fear.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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After 'To Joanna
In his company Joanna laughed:
Clear she thought that he was daft
When he heard the mountains laughing
In his ravishment of mind.
Now the vicar who'd upbraided him
For carving in the rock
Upon whose meditation
The ravishment occurred,
Instead of laughing loudly
At his loftiness of word,
Smiled and looked astonished
Thinking, 'Jackass of a bird.'
Realising that he'd lost him
The poet came to earth,
Told the vicar in plain language
Of Joanna's certain anguish
As she drew into his side
For fear of something that she heard
But to which could put no word.
Now she's gone back to the city,
I miss her laughter, that's the pity.
That's why 'JOANNA'S ROCK'
Is what he's chiseled,
This jackass of a bird.
I wrote this in October-November 2011 mainly in my bed in Adelaide
after reading Wordsworth's
'To Joanna'. The thought about the jackass (kookaburra) I put into
the mind of the vicar comes from an
experience in which I was camping with a friend. Our tent blew in on us one
night and we couldn't be bothered getting out to re-erect it. Instead my friend
laughed hysterically all night. Next morning I overheard the man in the
nearby caravan muttering that if he'd had an axe he'd have killed that
laughing jackass last night.
My friend was like the poet, I was like Joanna, amused by rapture, and
the guy in the caravan was the vicar.
poem by Douglas Scotney
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Little Pierre's Song
In a humble room in London sat a pretty little boy,
By the bedside of his sick mother her only joy,
Who was called Little Pierre, and who's father was dead;
There he sat poor boy, hungry and crying for bread.
There he sat humming a little song, which was his own,
But to the world it was entirely unknown,
And as he sang the song he felt heartsick,
But he resolved to get Madame Malibran to sing his song in public
Then he paused for a moment and clasped his hands,
And running to the looking-glass before it he stands,
Then he smoothed his yellow curls without delay,
And from a tin box takes a scroll of paper worn and grey.
Then he gave one fond eager glance at his mother,
Trying hard brave boy his grief to smother,
As he gazed on the bed where she lay,
But he resolved to see Madame Malibran without delay.
Then he kissed his mother while she slept,
And stealthily from the house he crept,
And direct to Madame Malibran's house he goes,
Resolved to see her no matter who did him oppose.
And when he reached the door he knocked like a brave gallant
And the door was answered by her lady servant,
Then he told the servant Madame Malibran he wished to see
And the servant said, oh yes, I'll tell her immediately.
Then away the servant goes quite confident,
And told her a little boy wished to see her just one moment
Oh! well, said Madame Malibran, with a smile,
Fetch in the little boy he will divert me a while.
So Little Pierre was broght in with his hat under his arm
And in his hand a scroll of paper, thinking it no harm,
Then walked straight up to Madame Malibran without dread
And said, dear lady my mother is sick and in want of bread.
And I have called to see if you would sing my little song,
At someof your grand concerts, Ah! Say before long,
Or perhaps you could sell it to a publisher for a small sum,
Then I could buy food for my mother and with it would run.
Then Madame Malibran rose from her seat most costly and grand
And took the scroll of paper from Pierre's hand
And hummed his little song, to a plaintive air,
Then said, your song is soul stirring I do declare.
Dear child did you compose the words she asked Pierre,
Oh yes my dear lady just as you see,
Well my dear boy I will sing your song to-night,
And you shall have a seat near me on the right.
Then Pierre, said, Oh! lady I cannot leave my mother,
But my dear boy, as for her you need not bother,
So dear child don't be the least cast down,
And in the meantime here is a crown.
And for your mother you can buy food and medicine,
So run away and be at the concert to-night in time
Then away he ran and bought many little necessary things
And while doing so his little song he hums and sings.
Then home to his poor sick mother he quickly ran,
And told her of his success with Madame Malibran,
Then his mother cried, Oh! Pierre, you are a very good boy,
And to hear of your success my heart is full of joy.
Dear mother, I am going to the concert hall to-night,
To hear Madame Malibran, which will my heart delight,
Oh! well said his mother, God speed you my little man,
I hope you will be delighted to hear Madame Malibran.
So to the concert hall he goes, and found a seat there,
And the lights and flashing of diamonds made him stare,
And caused a joyous smile to play upon his face,
For never had he been in so grand a place.
There the brave boy sat and Madame Malibran came at last
And with his eyes rivetted on her he sared aghast,
And to hear her sing, Oh! how he did long,
And he wondered if the lady would really sing his song.
At last the great singer commenced his little song,
And many a heart was moved and the plaudits loud and long
And as she sang it Pierre clapped his hands for joy.
That he felt as if it were free from the world's annoy.
When the concert was over his heart felt as light as the air
And as for money now he didn't seem to care,
Since the great singer in Europe had sung his little song,
But he hoped that dame fortune would smile on him ere long
The next day he was frightened by a visit from Madame Malibran
And turning to his mother, she said your little boy Madame
Will make a fortune for himself and you before long,
Because I've been offered a large sum for his little song.
And Madame thank God you have such a gifted son,
But dear Madame heavens will must be done,
Then Pierre knelt and prayed that God would the lady bless
For helping them in the time of their distress.
And the memory of Pierre's prayer made the singer do more good
By visiting the poor and giving them clothing and food
And Pierre lightened her last moments ere her soul fled away
And he came to be one of the most talented composers of the day.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Vicar In A Tutu
I was minding my business
I was lifting some lead off
The roof of the holy name church
It was worthwhile living a laughable life
Just to set my eyes on the blistering sight
Of a vicar in a tutu
He's not strange
He just wants to live his life this way
A scanty bit of a thing
With a decorative ring
That wouldn't cover the head of a child
As rose collects the money in the cannister
Who comes sliding down the bannister ?
The vicar in a tutu
He's not strange
He just wants to live his life this way
Oh, the monkish monsignor
With a head full of plaster
Said : "my man, get your vile soul dry-cleaned"
As rose collects the money from the cannister
As natural as rain
He dances again
My god !
The vicar in a tutu
Oh yeah
Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Oh ...
The vicar in a tutu
Oh yeah
Oh ...
The next day in the pulpit
With freedom and ease
Combatting ignorance, dust, and disease
As rose counts the money in the cannister
As natural as rain
He dances again and again and again
In the fabric of a tutu
Any man could get used to
And i am the living sign
I'm a living sign
I am a living sign
I'm a living sign
I am a living sign
I'm a living sign
Sign ...
I am a living sign
Oh ...
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heavenly Soldier
The soldier who died fighting
Now stood at Heavens gate
Would the Lord embrace him?
He waited for his fate
God now asked the soldier
Do you deserve a place
Here with these good people
From the human race?
The soldier thinks awhile
Then tells God his thought
No Lord I'm not perfect
But for my fellow man I fought
I carried a gun, I opened fire,
I threw a hand grenade
I didn't want to kill him
I knelt by him and prayed
I did all this in the call of duty
Killing was not my choice
The army called me up to fight
Me, and many boys
See dear lord I am not bad
For my country I had to serve
I stood shaking, terrified
But I couldn't lose my nerve
The Lord by now had heard enough
His judgement he had made
Come in my son walk through here
Come join the heavenly parade
So now the soldier marches on
Burdens taken from his shoulders
Happy in Heaven serving God
With other fallen soldiers
All trains stop here
All trains stop here and come to an abrupt halt
We call it cardiac arrest or near heart stop
No time at disposal for things to arrange
No grace period allowed for orderly manage
All must understand the essence of philosophy
Route to heavenly abode for collection of trophy
Paths is destined for sure and no choice or way
Body may remain motionless in ground to lay,
Small indicator within may give little glow,
Final preparation or ideas may suddenly flow.
High winds and air make big sound and blow,
Unnatural happenings will difinately grow,
Who knows better what is lying in store?
Whether for sure to reach safely a shore
Urge to finish work as soon as possible
Grief suddenly takes over, making it imposible
All living beings know it is for sure,
It is hard reality and no body can cure,
Only smooth passage you must ensure,
Hands jhould join for prayers making doubly sure
I have my mission fulfilled and complete
All good accounts retained and bad ones deleted
Rest must be left for others to judge,
you must stand ground well and should not budge
These feeling emerge for noble and pious man
Who may prayed sincerely for cause common,
Never thought of leaving or abandon,
Not asked for excuses but bowed for pardon,
Who ever has come here had to leave,
With clear hearts and bonds to weave,
Dear friends and relations may loudly cry,
Knowing fully well but still ask why?
World was very beautiful to live in,
Make amends and no curse within,
Lines were drawn clear and thin,
Options were clear where and how to lean,
Junction may bear deserted look,
You may get your seat with assured book,
Occupy the seat and close the eyes,
No time will be left to say good byes,
All feelings run high at this very juncture,
Before you find that life has puncture,
Must behave and take it sing of bless,
No time will be allowed for simple guess,
Lucky ones may have orderly end,
life fulfilled with ways amend,
chances more for heavenly abode,
angels may takes you from any mode,
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Three Graves. A Fragment Of A Sexton's Tale
The grapes upon the Vicar's wall
Were ripe as ripe could be;
And yellow leaves in sun and wind
Were falling from the tree.
On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane
Still swung the spikes of corn:
Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday--
Young Edward's marriage-morn.
Up through that wood behind the church,
There leads from Edward's door
A mossy track, all over boughed,
For half a mile or more.
And from their house-door by that track
The bride and bridegroom went;
Sweet Mary, though she was not gay,
Seemed cheerful and content.
But when they to the church-yard came,
I've heard poor Mary say,
As soon as she stepped into the sun,
Her heart it died away.
And when the Vicar join'd their hands,
Her limbs did creep and freeze;
But when they prayed, she thought she saw
Her mother on her knees.
And o'er the church-path they returned--
I saw poor Mary's back,
Just as she stepped beneath the boughs
Into the mossy track.
Her feet upon the mossy track
The married maiden set:
That moment--I have heard her say--
She wished she could forget.
The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat--
Then came a chill like death:
And when the merry bells rang out,
They seemed to stop her breath.
Beneath the foulest mother's curse
No child could ever thrive:
A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.
So five months passed: the mother still
Would never heal the strife;
But Edward was a loving man,
And Mary a fond wife.
'My sister may not visit us,
My mother says her nay:
O Edward! you are all to me,
I wish for your sake I could be
More lifesome and more gay.
'I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed
I know I have no reason!
Perhaps I am not well in health,
And 'tis a gloomy season.'
'Twas a drizzly time--no ice, no snow!
And on the few fine days
She stirred not out, lest she might meet
Her mother in the ways.
But Ellen, spite of miry ways
And weather dark and dreary,
Trudged every day to Edward's house,
And made them all more cheery.
Oh! Ellen was a faithful friend,
More dear than any sister!
As cheerful too as singing lark;
And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark,
And then they always missed her.
And now Ash-Wednesday came-that day
But few to church repair:
For on that day you know we read
The Commination prayer.
Our late old Vicar, a kind man,
Once, Sir, he said to me,
He wished that service was clean out
Of our good Liturgy.
The mother walked into the church--
To Ellen's seat she went:
Though Ellen always kept her church
All church-days during Lent.
And gentle Ellen welcomed her
With courteous looks and mild:
Thought she, 'What if her heart should melt,
And all be reconciled!'
The day was scarcely like a day--
The clouds were black outright:
And many a night, with half a moon,
I've seen the church more light.
The wind was wild; against the glass
The rain did beat and bicker;
The church-tower swinging over head,
You scarce could hear the Vicar!
And then and there the mother knelt,
And audibly she cried-
'Oh! may a clinging curse consume
This woman by my side!
'O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven,
Although you take my life--
O curse this woman, at whose house
Young Edward woo'd his wife.
'By night and day, in bed and bower,
O let her cursed be!!! '
So having prayed, steady and slow,
She rose up from her knee!
And left the church, nor e'er again
The church-door entered she.
I saw poor Ellen kneeling still,
So pale! I guessed not why:
When she stood up, there plainly was
A trouble in her eye.
And when the prayers were done, we all
Came round and asked her why:
Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was
A trouble in her eye.
But ere she from the church-door stepped
She smiled and told us why:
'It was a wicked woman's curse,'
Quoth she, 'and what care I?'
She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off
Ere from the door she stept--
But all agree it would have been
Much better had she wept.
And if her heart was not at ease,
This was her constant cry--
'It was a wicked woman's curse--
God's good, and what care I?'
There was a hurry in her looks,
Her struggles she redoubled:
'It was a wicked woman's curse,
And why should I be troubled?'
These tears will come--I dandled her
When 'twas the merest fairy--
Good creature! and she hid it all:
She told it not to Mary.
But Mary heard the tale: her arms
Round Ellen's neck she threw;
'O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me,
And now she hath cursed you!'
I saw young Edward by himself
Stalk fast adown the lee,
He snatched a stick from every fence,
A twig from every tree.
He snapped them still with hand or knee,
And then away they flew!
As if with his uneasy limbs
He knew not what to do!
You see, good Sir! that single hill?
His farm lies underneath:
He heard it there, he heard it all,
And only gnashed his teeth.
Now Ellen was a darling love
In all his joys and cares:
And Ellen's name and Mary's name
Fast-linked they both together came,
Whene'er he said his prayers.
And in the moment of his prayers
He loved them both alike:
Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy
Upon his heart did strike!
He reach'd his home, and by his looks
They saw his inward strife:
And they clung round him with their arms,
Both Ellen and his wife.
And Mary could not check her tears,
So on his breast she bowed;
Then frenzy melted into grief,
And Edward wept aloud.
Dear Ellen did not weep at all,
But closelier did she cling,
And turned her face and looked as if
She saw some frightful thing.
PART II.
To see a man tread over graves
I hold it no good mark;
'Tis wicked in the sun and moon,
And bad luck in the dark!
You see that grave? The Lord he gives,
The Lord, he takes away:
O Sir! the child of my old age
Lies there as cold as clay.
Except that grave, you scarce see one
That was not dug by me;
I'd rather dance upon 'em all
Than tread upon these three!
'Aye, Sexton!'tis a touching tale.'
You, Sir! are but a lad;
This month I'm in my seventieth year,
And still it makes me sad.
And Mary's sister told it me,
For three good hours and more;
Though I had heard it, in the main,
From Edward's self, before.
Well! it passed off! the gentle Ellen
Did well nigh dote on Mary;
And she went oftener than before,
And Mary loved her more and more:
She managed all the dairy.
To market she on market-days,
To church on Sundays came;
All seemed the same: all seemed so, Sir!
But all was not the same!
Had Ellen lost her mirth? Oh! no!
But she was seldom cheerful;
And Edward look'd as if he thought
That Ellen's mirth was fearful.
When by herself, she to herself
Must sing some merry rhyme;
She could not now be glad for hours,
Yet silent all the time.
And when she soothed her friend, through all
Her soothing words 'twas plain
She had a sore grief of her own,
A haunting in her brain.
And oft she said, I'm not grown thin!
And then her wrist she spanned;
And once when Mary was down-cast,
She took her by the hand,
And gazed upon her, and at first
She gently pressed her hand;
Then harder, till her grasp at length
Did gripe like a convulsion!
'Alas!' said she, 'we ne'er can be
Made happy by compulsion!'
And once her both arms suddenly
Round Mary's neck she flung,
And her heart panted, and she felt
The words upon her tongue.
She felt them coming, but no power
Had she the words to smother;
And with a kind of shriek she cried,
'Oh Christ! you're like your mother!'
So gentle Ellen now no more
Could make this sad house cheery;
And Mary's melancholy ways
Drove Edward wild and weary.
Lingering he raised his latch at eve,
Though tired in heart and limb:
He loved no other place, and yet
Home was no home to him.
One evening he took up a book,
And nothing in it read;
Then flung it down, and groaning cried,
'O! Heaven! that I were dead.'
Mary looked up into his face,
And nothing to him said;
She tried to smile, and on his arm
Mournfully leaned her head.
And he burst into tears, and fell
Upon his knees in prayer:
'Her heart is broke! O God! my grief,
It is too great to bear!'
'Twas such a foggy time as makes
Old sextons, Sir! like me,
Rest on their spades to cough; the spring
Was late uncommonly.
And then the hot days, all at once,
They came, we knew not how:
You looked about for shade, when scarce
A leaf was on a bough.
It happened then ('twas in the bower,
A furlong up the wood:
Perhaps you know the place, and yet
I scarce know how you should,)
No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh
To any pasture-plot;
But clustered near the chattering brook,
Lone hollies marked the spot.
Those hollies of themselves a shape
As of an arbour took,
A close, round arbour; and it stands
Not three strides from a brook.
Within this arbour, which was still
With scarlet berries hung,
Were these three friends, one Sunday morn,
Just as the first bell rung.
'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet
To hear the Sabbath-bell,
'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,
Deep in a woody dell.
His limbs along the moss, his head
Upon a mossy heap,
With shut-up senses, Edward lay:
That brook e'en on a working day
Might chatter one to sleep.
And he had passed a restless night,
And was not well in health;
The women sat down by his side,
And talked as 'twere by stealth.
'The Sun peeps through the close thick leaves,
See, dearest Ellen! see!
'Tis in the leaves, a little sun,
No bigger than your ee;
'A tiny sun, and it has got
A perfect glory too;
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,
Make up a glory gay and bright
Round that small orb, so blue.'
And then they argued of those rays,
What colour they might be;
Says this, 'They're mostly green'; says that,
'They're amber-like to me.'
So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts
Were troubling Edward's rest;
But soon they heard his hard quick pants,
And the thumping in his breast.
'A mother too!' these self-same words
Did Edward mutter plain;
His face was drawn back on itself,
With horror and huge pain.
Both groan'd at once, for both knew well
What thoughts were in his mind;
When he waked up, and stared like one
That hath been just struck blind.
He sat upright; and ere the dream
Had had time to depart,
'O God, forgive me!' (he exclaimed)
'I have torn out her heart.'
Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst
Into ungentle laughter;
And Mary shivered, where she sat,
And never she smiled after.
Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow!----
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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