Down To the River

 River, Marina Moevs, 2005

You can give your sins to Jesus

You can wash them in the river

You can throw them in the ocean

But don't bring them to me

You can tell it on the mountain

You can tell in confession

You can tell it to a five buck whore

But I don't wanna hear it any more

Jesus may have died for your sins

but I'm not breakin' another nail

God may be callin' you home

but I'm lockin' the doors.

submitted for The Mag, Magpie Tales 98

      

Sonnet of the Bells

The bells are ringing, not for me

I hear them in the high church tower

They sing a wordless melody

Counting out each passing hour

They fill the winter's frigid air

With peals of sound so true and warm

Sometimes I want to follow there

Intoxicated by their charm

And though I feel the coming squall

I will not seek shelter inside

The gentle sounds outside those walls

Much hatred and harsh words belie

For many truths I hold within

The Church believes to be a sin.

 submitted for Imaginary Garden With Read Toads, Mary's Mixed Bag, Bells

 Baptist Church Bell , Court Street, Keene NH

(source)

Sacrifice

Fire-Spirt by filmchild

Let me be your sacrificial lamb

I get off on giving til 

it hurts

Spill my blood upon the altar 

to your gods

I am no virgin

but my heart is pure

I bleed ecstasy

I will redeem your sins

Throw me upon the pyre

I'll save your soul, baby

Watch me burn

white hot.

Francis Takes a Vacation

image source

Francis has a bad case of the burn-out

He's real tired of this sainting gig

So he figures he'll take himself a little vacation

Do some much needed meditation.

"What you should do is some trout fishing," suggests Neot.

Francis shakes his head and says, "Nah, I wouldn't feel right about that."

"There's great skiing in the Alps this time of year!" says Bernard. "I'll lend you my skis, man."

"What about a nice Caribbean cruise? Work on your tan?" Erasmus taunts.

Francis just sighs.

"Can you picture me in a Speedo, really?"

John, the Baptist, says, "Paterson, NJ is really nice!"

There is silence.

"Sorry," John explains. "I'm the official patron. I'm required to say it."

Francis settles on a quaint little villa in Tuscany

With a vineyard, olive trees, and lots of quiet.

Before he leaves, Dymphna scurries over to him, biting her nails, and stammers,

"What about the animals, Francis? Who will take care of them while you're away?"

Natch. 

Leave it to Dymphna to harsh his mellow.

Francis replies, "Let Darwin take over for a while. Survival of the fittest and all that rot."

And with that, he's off.

Well, I've been marking the calendar since his departure

And I have to tell you that I hope he comes back soon

Because I was driving down the road this morning 

And it looks like a war zone

And the animals are losing bad.
I don't believe the drivers are the ones needing the protection, Chris.

Squashed squirrels litter the street 

Deceased deer on the sidelines like they passed out drunk

And despite my calling on Jude for that turtle

Trying to cross to the greenery on the far side of the median,

I strongly suspect it will become asphalt soup.

How about one more glass of Chianti, Francis?

And then please get back to work.

submitted for Poetry Potluck, 41, Saints, Monks, and Meditation

Come On In, The Water's Fine

Photo courtesy of Matthew Saindon

Let's take a swim

In the waters of sin

Dip a toe in

That's how we'll begin

But then we'll submerge

Give in to each urge

As our bodies converge

In a heavenly surge

I'll pull you under

Head pounding like thunder

Ripping asunder

All that you wonder

And all that you knew

And did misconstrue

How you need to subdue

A love wicked and true

So come, let's get wet

And never forget

We need not abet

Any saints as of yet

submitted for Poetry Jam, Swim, Swam, Swum

and for Photograph Prose
 and for One Shot Wednesday, Week 48 at One Stop Poetry