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August Night

August Night

Black, starless late August sky, a sliver of moon,
golden scythe mowing down the old, harvest
time. They had forgotten to close windows and
chill will settle in old lungs, spitting of blood.

Church bells toll the day is hot and gives nothing
away, the old priest is still on holiday, the new
one is clumsy, hasn’t had a bath and a shave for
days; unspoken murmur of discontent.

The cleric sweats, there is a smell of brandy, one
of the church’s rejects? But they do take care of
their own. This isn’t swine flu, nothing to report,
just old people dying as they must.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Sonnet. Written In Disgust Of Vulgar Superstition

The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some black spell; seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crown'd.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,--
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp;
That 'tis their sighing, wailing ere they go
Into oblivion; -- that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.

poem by John Keats
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Some Have Steeples. Some Don't

What do I think of church?

'Yes! '

Church?
Like in 'church' church?

'Yes! '

Well...
Some have steeples.
Some don't.
Some have people.
Some wont.

Some are religiously political.
And some are politically religious.

My vehicle is my church.
And that's all I care about.

'Oh?
So your 'car' is your church? '

Oh.
No no!
My 'body' is my church.
It is my sanctuary.

Now...
Keep in mind,
I am not devoted to keep it as pure,
As it should be.
But I do the best I can,
Not to be led away by temptation.

But everyday I pray to be forgiven,
Of those 'sins' I know I should not enjoy!
However...
You can find me anytime,
Self righteously defending...
My point of view.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sex & The Church

Though the idea of compassion
Is said to be
The union of christ
And his bride, the christian
Its all very puzzling
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
All the great mystic religions
Put strong emphasis, on
Redeame this spiritual qualities
Of sex of sex
Chrstianity
Has been pretty modern
About sex
Of sex of sex of sex of sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
I think there is a union
Between the flesh and the spirit
Its sex and the church
Sex and the church
All religions mother
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex

song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Written on a Summer Evening

The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More harkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some blind spell: seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crowned.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp, -
That 'tis their sighing, wailing, ere they go
Into oblivion -that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.

poem by John Keats
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The Call

(France, August first, 1914)

Far and near, high and clear,
Hark to the call of War!
Over the gorse and the golden dells,
Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells,
Praying and saying of wild farewells:
War! War! War!

High and low, all must go:
Hark to the shout of War!
Leave to the women the harvest yield;
Gird ye, men, for the sinister field;
A sabre instead of a scythe to wield:
War! Red War!

Rich and poor, lord and boor,
Hark to the blast of War!
Tinker and tailor and millionaire,
Actor in triumph and priest in prayer,
Comrades now in the hell out there,
Sweep to the fire of War!

Prince and page, sot and sage,
Hark to the roar of War!
Poet, professor and circus clown,
Chimney-sweeper and fop o' the town,
Into the pot and be melted down:
Into the pot of War!

Women all, hear the call,
The pitiless call of War!
Look your last on your dearest ones,
Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons:
Swift they go to the ravenous guns,
The gluttonous guns of War.

Everywhere thrill the air
The maniac bells of War.
There will be little of sleeping to-night;
There will be wailing and weeping to-night;
Death's red sickle is reaping to-night:
War! War! War!

poem by Robert William Service
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Bredon Hill

In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
A happy noise to hear.

Here of a Sunday morning
My love and I would lie,
And see the coloured counties,
And hear the larks so high
About us in the sky.

The bells would ring to call her
In valleys miles away:
'Come all to church, good people;
Good people, come and pray.
But here my love would stay.

And I would turn and answer
Among the springing thyme,
'Oh, peal upon our wedding,
And we will hear the chime,
And come to church in time.

But when the snows at Christmas
On Bredon top were strewn,
My love rose up so early
And stole out unbeknown
And went to church alone.

They tolled the one bell only,
Groom there was none to see,
The mourners followed after,
And so to church went she,
And would not wait for me.

The bells they sound on Bredon,
And still the steeples hum.
'Come all to church, good people,' -
Oh, noisy bells, be dumb;
I hear you, I will come.

poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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The Dog Days Of Summer

June arrived just yesterday, or so it
seemed to be. All that's left is one
more day, then June is history. July
can hardly wait to get here, it's almost
at our door. The days will get much
hotter, then it was the month before.
Just as we're getting used to July, it
too, will be on it's way. Around the
corner lies August, which can make
you rue, the day. If you think July was
hot, August is the worst by far. It's hard
to escape it's sweltering heat, no matter
who you are. You can take a dip in the
ocean, if you enjoy having a steam bath.
The water will never be cold, as August,
unleashes it wrath. Here it is, the
wonderful days of summer. Even though
we look forward to it, it can also be quite
a bummer!

poem by Audrey Heller
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The Three Maidens

There were three maidens met on the highway;
The sun was down, the night was late:
And two sang loud with the birds of May,
O the nightingale is merry with its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Why walk you there so still?
The land is dark, the night is late:
O, but the heart in my side is ill,
And the nightingale will languish for its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Of lovers there is store;
The moon mounts up, the night is late:
O, I shall look on man no more,
And the nightingale is dumb without its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Uncross your arms and sing;
The moon mounts high, the night is late:
O my dear lover can hear no thing,
And the nightingale sings only to its mate.

They slew him in revenge, and his true-love was his lure;
The moon is pale, the night is late:
His grave is shallow on the moor;
O the nightingale is dying for its mate.

His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair;
The moon is chill, the night is late:
But I will lie beside him there:
O the nightingale is dying for its mate.

poem by George Meredith
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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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All I Need Was You

Outside the church bells toll
For this wasteland we call home
There's nowhere left to hide or run to

Daddy drank real hard late at night
He'd say without love life's a long fight
l promised I'd win one fight for him babe

The storm outside is raging
I close my eyes l think about you babe
There's got to be something left worth saving
We've wasted too much time

I played the fool I played the soldier
But my struggling days are over
I wanted everything
When all l needed was you babe

l didn't understand I was just a young boy
All I wanted was the rich man's play toys
I didn't really care how I got there baby

Now I've seen a thousand dreams die
In the oil fields in the coal mines
No need to wonder why
nobody's satisfied lately

The storm outside is raging
I close my eyes l think about you babe
There's got to be something left worth saving
We've wasted too much time

I played the fool I played the soldier
But my struggling days are over
I wanted everything
When all l needed was you babe

song performed by by Bon Jovi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bells In My Heart

I heard church bells ringing- ringing quite clear
I heard the church bells ringing- deafening my ears.
I looked all around and yet I could not see
Any places of worship even close to me.

That was when I realized that the ringing
Was coming from my heart.
Because it was you who captured it
Right from the start.

You entered my life like the earth enters
the day- and forever you would stay.
The bells are ringing with every passing
Thought of you, and it tells me all that I must do.
And to keep this love- to you I must be true.

I sometimes ask myself how can this be?
The bells toll louder every time you look at me.
Is this the way that love is really meant to be
That my heart is racing fast, and I feel wild and free.

We’ve all envisioned love and how it should be
But love is something you can not foresee.
Everyone sees love in a different way
And with your heart, love will play.
And love like a guitar that’s out of tune
You will lose it pretty soon.

So find the faults while you can
Tune that love and take your stand.
Now as I look at you I ask:
“Is this happening to only me
Or is our hearts singing in harmony”?

poem by Louis Rams
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Red riding hood

In the jungle named city
Johnny and Sally
dressed in their church best,
(she with a little red jacket and hood for winter)
one Sunday evening walked to church
when the cruel wolf
(a black monster) ,
drew a long knife
to take God’s money with violence and force,

but unluckily for him
they made him cry long howls
even before the moon did appear
when one two three
they chopped and kicked him using karate
and walked on quite unimpeded
before the church bells were even ringing.

poem by Gert Strydom
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August....

August is the month for kids it’s the last few weeks of freedom before a new school year begins.
August is the month where many parents are excited that its here cause they don’t want their kids home alone.
August is the last month before fall begins.
August is the only month that has fewer holidays than most months.
August is the month where most teens are happy because it means that it’s the last school year for most.
August is the month that I really don’t care for but I also like as well.

poem by Natasha Ligons
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August

August brings so many things to mind
Like county fairs with fun foods and rides easy to find.
Catfish scream louder than ever for our fishing poles,
Inviting us to joyous jaunts at our favorite watering holes.
The dog days of summer start drawing to a close,
But there’s still time for a lake visit or just a sprinkler hose.
August August, we thank you for your role in this summer.
Without you no doubt this season would be a real bummer.

poem by Gregory Huyette
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If Only To Suspect

If only to suspect that, that hasn't been conquered yet.
With feeling discontent the words are mentioned.
Like the forgotten invention.
The art of prevention.

If only to suspect that, that hasn't been reached yet.
With a smiling face I'm going to another convention.
A man on a mission.
With thousands of people who are just not listening.

Can you hear me now?

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Week-Night Service

The five old bells
Are hurrying and eagerly calling,
Imploring, protesting
They know, but clamorously falling
Into gabbling incoherence, never resting,
Like spattering showers from a bursten sky-rocket dropping
In splashes of sound, endlessly, never stopping.

The silver moon
That somebody has spun so high
To settle the question, yes or no, has caught
In the net of the night’s balloon,
And sits with a smooth bland smile up there in the sky
Smiling at naught,
Unless the winking star that keeps her company
Makes little jests at the bells’ insanity,
As if he knew aught!

The patient Night
Sits indifferent, hugged in her rags,
She neither knows nor cares
Why the old church sobs and brags;
The light distresses her eyes, and tears
Her old blue cloak, as she crouches and covers her face,
Smiling, perhaps, if we knew it, at the bells’ loud clattering disgrace.

The wise old trees
Drop their leaves with a faint, sharp hiss of contempt,
While a car at the end of the street goes by with a laugh;
As by degrees
The poor bells cease, and the Night is exempt,
And the stars can chaff
The ironic moon at their ease, while the dim old church
Is peopled with shadows and sounds and ghosts that lurch
In its cenotaph.

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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August is the dying month

August is the dying month
When hot July struggles to keep her hold
Moving toward a hopeless chilled September
Pretending to be summer
As if children heading back to school stir the cold from the sky

It is a refined deceiver

August is a butterfly crushed on a roadway
One side dead to the pavement
The other is still vibrantly flutteringly alive
Fighting to fly away but it’s fate is already sealed

It is a delicate executioner

August is the month colors trickle from trees
A first leaf unnoticed tumbles
Sheepishly the others will shortly follow
Shamefully they will drift to the ground

It is a subtle destroyer

August is 6 PM
The disillusion of a day realized
Dinners to be eaten alone
Murky dark mixes with the daylight
Spitting out gloomy gray

It is a sophisticated betrayer

August is the death rattle
Demise by means of a Fall
Stealing gaped mouth last breaths
Swallowing everything into its earth
Coughing back a cold winter in return.

poem by Wanda Swim Strunk
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Forgotten Church

Here stands the church
suddenly illuminated but usually ignored.
It's tucked away in the corner of the market place.

I see the spire, imagine the pews
look up at its stained glass windows
and hear the choir boys.

I relish the sound of church bells,
they calm me and the emptiness
of the market place on Sundays.

The trader's stands are packed away,
leaving bits of litter floating along
in the sunshine.

Here are the cobbles
where heels break from shoes
and women wobble.

No brightly coloured thongs hang
from rails now
or fancy petticoats.

No wafting scent of cooked chicken
or men's voices shouting
'ripe bananas'.

Here, in the heart of Romford,
the little church has always been
with its warm heart beating,

softly,
forgotten,
as people pass it by.

poem by Ruth Walters
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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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The Holocaust Song (August 6th, '45.)

8-15 Tuesday morning
a burning flash dissolved the skies,
death reigned without warning...
August 6th, '45.

In a lightning crash of frozen moment,
thousands were incinerated and scourged alive;
firewinds flayed through paper houses...
August 6th, '45.

People cauterized to the melting earth,
their scalding blood, their flesh that fried:
they were the lucky ones...
August 6th, '45.

Who put the horror in Hiroshima?
Who wrote shock on the human eye?
Who etched terror onto mankind's future
that August 6th, '45?

Across the warscape of that flattened city
women stumbled too numb to cry,
their skin pulped with boiling blisters...
August 6th, '45.

Lines of shuffling, staring figures
too stunned and sick to wonder why,
their faces shocked but past all panic...
August 6th, '45.

People peeled like red bananas,
those people lived but quickly died;
skin that hung like paper streamers...
August 6th, '45.

Who put the horror in Hiroshima?
Who permitted genocide?
Who sanctioned that mad disaster
on August 6th, '45.

Lurching beings like lifeless corpses
silhouette an ashen sky;
they wandered, abject, without purpose...
August 6th, '45.

Whose pride murdered Nagasaki?
Whose decision prepared the lies?
Were they doomed or just unlucky
that August day, '45?

Escape's denied to all survivors,
cancers haunt them till the day they die.
And their heirs will curse the craven authors
of August 6th, '45.

poem by David SmithWhite
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