Father Ed
The day of his ordination his widowed mum's happiest day
To Sainthood she said my son is on his way
She raised him on her own when his dad of a heart attack died
Of her only offspring she took so much pride
At sixty eight he died in his sleep with his mum he now lay
At his funeral this morning his Parishioners for his soul did pray
He had been their Parish Priest for more than twenty years
And they did farewell him in sadness and tears
Of their Parish Priests the greatest of all
His sunday sermons on morals and chastity they will long recall
But the saddest one at the funeral was his housekeeper Kate
With head bowed as she sobbed she whispered I have lost my soul-mate
To me he was far more than Parish Priest Father Ed
He was my secret lover and he was damn good in bed.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Related quotes
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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Yes, I was a parish priest for five years. I was a curate in a large working class parish in Bristol and the Vicar of a village in Kent.
quote by John Polkinghorne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Disrespect
A crafty cat crapped in the crypt.
A furtive feline felony,
it left its mark and then it skipped.
The parish priest proclaimed that he
had cause to curse the cunning cat
for sacrilege and blasphemy.
He double damned the dastard cat
that crept into the crypt and crapped.
The theocrat though that was that.
His saintly self-control had snapped.
The phantom feline failed to flee,
the moggy met with no mishap.
The crafty cat quite cleverly
decided it would demonstrate
that it could crap contentedly.
His contempt to communicate
to parish priests. Quite powerless
to declare excommunicate.
Unchristian cats who crap in crypts
or pagan pups, which pee in pews.
They are exempt from his prescript.
All animals act as they choose
they won’t refrain to please the priest
impervious to his abuse.
Such is the nature of the beast
who only do as they must do
. Priests do not matter in the least.
04 Jun.07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I wouldn't say the world is my parish, but my readers are my parish. And especially the readers that write to me. They're my parish. And it's a responsibility that I enjoy.
quote by Andrew Greeley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry Can Damage Your Health
The day my doctor died of smoking
I bought myself a fat cigar -
I realised he must be joking,
His funeral was so bizarre:
A dwarf in multi-coloured clothing
Sang louder than the parish choir
And though my heart was full of loathing
I leapt upon the funeral pyre.
I'd often longed for such a roasting
And knew it was my friend's desire,
I shouted out 'We'll all be toasting
In Hell's incandescent fire! '
Don't be discouraged by this story,
Smoking cigarettes is fine,
Inhale them on your days of glory
And drink your fill of rich, red wine! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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I just wanted to be an ordinary parish priest.
quote by Martin Scorsese
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I Die
when i die, what shame can i have?
do not take the blame, neither all the shame
you may bury my body with dignity
a coffin made of mahogany
with a glass cover and white carnations
all over my body
there will be a make-up of my face
like i am a freshman of
a class A university,
but i pity you for that will be too expensive
to add the parish priest's fees
and the the food and prayers
plus the songs of the choir
and the cost of candles
not to count the wreath
and the drinks
oh, you will be buried in debt and you will have
all the hard earned years to pay,
so, take it easy, it is more for our advantage
that i will not die or you perhaps
but i have no shame
and i take no blame & grrr
i don't care about what people say
if you die
i will make you a coffin of coconut wood
sprinkle your body with flowers from the grass
that i can pick along the goat's paths
i can pray and sing myself
no one eats snacks and i will not invite the parish priest,
hire no choir or buy ready made wreaths
for i know and you know that these will be very expensive
and i have no money or if i have some
i will not spend a cent
for all these no-sense rituals
useless prayers and out-of-tune choirs
so we will take it easy now,
you can't take it? then fake it
let us live and just be ourselves
let us survive all these
or suffer those consequences.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Doctor Luther's shoes do not fit every parish priest.
It is a poor parish where the priest has to ring his own bells.
Love Making Inside The Comfort Room
we pretend
that this is the
church
that this is
the favorite
confessional
box of the
priest and
his favorite
concubine
we pretend
i am the parish
priest and you
are the wife
of the mayor
and now you
kneel before
me without
a lace
without
clothes
i preach
you
the
naked
truth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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‘holy Family Church House-warming, Perundurai, T.n.’
Excerpt from Dr John Celes’ Welcome Speech
(to be held on 05-02-2010)
The Shepherd comes to meet his flock,
And bless the church that’s newly built,
Wherein an older church had stood on rock –
A sacred ground of prayer for Catholics!
Let’s welcome him; let’s welcome him, ye sheep!
He brings with him his staff that protects us;
This is the time our hearts with joy must weep;
The anointing will give us greater bliss.
Let’s thank the Lord for giving us this house
Of prayer to worship the ‘King of kings’;
Let everyone take Jesus Christ as spouse,
And tread the road to heaven as earthlings.
The Church though small looks splendidly laid out;
It has been christened ‘Holy Family Church’;
Our parish is a small one without doubt,
Nevertheless, peeps in internet-search!
The flock is one led by our parish priest,
Father Claudius, a dynamic, young man!
Who works hard without mistakes in the least;
‘May God give him good health and long life-span! ’
Our heart-felt thanks to Bishop and all souls
Who gave the land for building the new Church;
Our hearty thanks to all who played new roles,
And doled the sums that can now help to preach.
God made it possible to build His house!
Let’s worship Him with masses, hymns and pray;
Let’s reach the world at the click of a mouse!
And preach the Word of God by night and day.
We thank You God for giving us this place,
And worship Jesus Christ, as a family;
Let sweat of foreheads reinforce this base,
And help to rear this provident LILY!
Dedicated to: The Most. Rev. Dr. Thomas Aquinas M.A., DCL.,
Bishop of Coimbatore diocese
Rev. Fr. Xavier Claudius, the Parish priest and
All parishners of ‘Holy Family Church, Perundurai, T.N., ’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 4-11-2010
poem by John Celes
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If you have a priest that is pushing social justice, go find another parish. Go alert your bishop.
quote by Glenn Beck
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Old Woman That I Know....
the old woman
goes to church everyday
reads her novena, spends more time in church
than in the house
she is close to the parish priest
gives sums of money to the
religious activities
noted for charity and
enjoys many indulgences
from the Pope
always she is dressed in the proper
whiteness
her head covered by
the required embroidery
her movement restrained
her poise reserved
holy and
silent
what they do not know
(and this is her secret that i have discovered)
is that
just this morning she slapped her maid
because her coffee was served
and no longer that hot
to satisfy her
cold longings
exactly the opposite of what she is
in society
this old woman takes away the faith of
the maid
from the same God that she adores
in her Sunday church.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At The Funeral They Cried
At the funeral they cried,
So much sadness pouring out, it was a surprise
To know they’d hated her whilst she was still alive.
But so it goes, the bottled up years of grief given relief,
The pain of loss, that bollocking from the boss,
All those months of feeling cross
And times you had to lie,
All, all comes pouring out
In one long cry.
At the funeral they tried
To think of the woman who’d died,
But found they cried most easily
For themselves.
Coz they didnt care for me,
The woman that died.
poem by Charlotte Marie Peachey
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Doomed Padre
The Loss of Faith
Fated priest when he walks in front of a funeral
procession his gait is often wobbly, says it is stiff
joints; smells of aftershave lotion and brandy.
Lost his faith years ago, in the night his prayer
echoes in the village church.
Thinks it his fault that god has left him in a vacuum
of disbelief a penance for not having a total godly
deference. In his dreams he meets god who speaks
in a language he doesn´t understand; he wakes up
bedroom bleak, and the voice of god has gone.
He says as Jesus once did, why have you forsaken me?
Has a brandy goes back to a restless sleep.
And there is no peace as sexual needs takes over,
actions he will not abide. Morning and he is thankful.
Routines of the day someone has died, funeral service,
and a woman who wants confess her banal sins,
he murmurs prayers, waits for god to answer why he
has lost his faith, but there is only silence.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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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
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Forgive me father I have sinned For FriendDenis Joe
Forgive me father I have sinned.
He was a hidden enemy who took delight in thwarting me.
I don’t know how I gave offence, his friendliness was pretence.
He constantly destroyed my dreams by underhanded evil schemes.
When I discovered all he’d done, I said nothing to anyone.
Then I destroyed my enemy. I planned his murder carefully
Paid great attention to detail and formed a plan that could not fail.
He had to pay the penalty in such a way that I went free.
His death must seem an accident, nobody knew of my intent.
My conscience doesn’t bother me because I killed my enemy.
His hatred of me made him blind to the snare I had designed.
He thought that when he turned the key, the lift would fall down crushing me
But I had rewired the lock and he received a fatal shock.
I think that I was justified in planning how and where he died.
He was intent on harming me instead of which died instantly.
I acted in my own defence. His spite and his malevolence
Have made a murderer of me but I can still sleep peacefully.
I confessed my sin openly; my parish priest has absolved me.
He bid me go and sin no more. He need have no doubt on that score.
The deed which I was driven to, I won’t repeat and that is true.
My secret enemy is dead. It might have been me in his stead.
27-Apr-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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McTaggart
A real horse of a man McTaggart
Called him nineteen hands high,
With shoulders like a barn door,
Town lands champion, miser and horse doctor.
Focus of all the neighborhood shallow gossip,
Uncle Eddy strode Brucha’s rushy aches alone
for eighty years to outlive them all,
Unschooled and illerate, a product of lean times,
He could guide a team of Clydesdales at twelve,
At fifteen a man.
He bought his first suit with rabbits snared on the loch shore.
Rebuffed a sullen parish admired his feats from a safe distance,
Fearing the hard honesty, the cold stare.
As when he mowed all night in the wet meadow,
lifted a trap across his bare shoulders,
broke stallions or drove a herd of bullocks to the Moy Fair alone.
Well able for pestering clergy,
Friendless and womanless all his life,
He christened the great bays, Tom and Ned
Laid out two policemen at Finigan’s republican funeral, they said.
Finally as lawyers and priests came to count his money,
And the whole parish waited triumphantly for his final feat.
He chased doctors and priests from his deathbed.
Wanting only that the workman bring the horses to the window so that he could see them.
Feb 9th,2011
poem by James Bredin
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