NaPM April 7 2014

[milo]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.

Topic 7: Today's prompt comes from trueenigma who would like to see a "prayer" poem.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[ellajam]

Prayer

When in a congregation
and expected to join
I have but one prayer,
repeated silently.
May each of us left
in this world be more like you,
hearing each other with openness
and acceptance.

[Erthona]

A Child’s Prayer

Thank you for
the sun above,
Thank you for
my parents’ love,
Thank you for
good food to eat,
Please watch me
while I sleep.

Amen

[ChristopherSea]

Salmonella Appeal

Fear and loathing arrives,
as respite leaves the dance;
this guest comes unwelcome
like a blast in the pants.

Irritable colon
harbors a demon seed.
What put things in motion?
I do not have a lead.

Did I swallow the cull
left by someone ill-willed,
a high colonic of
something crudely distilled.

It’s too late to stop-her,
that petulant pooper;
I’m riding the hopper
as though a good trooper.

Swaying in misery,
then frantically praying;
grasping skinny ankles
with buns widely splaying.

Cursing all of the gods
and Ms. Salmonella,
but using time wisely
to write a novella.

[justcloudy]

Church

He’s dressed in purple robes today
a stiff scarf rests on his shoulders
as he chants the sacred words
and takes predetermined steps
around a table, chairs and candles.
My mother’s heavy on her knees,
chin to chest and forehead wrinkled.
I imitate, head bumping
into the wood of the next pew,
until I get bored and turn around
and continue with my crayons
to color Jesus red.

[Keith]

Oh Jesus I have promised

Mr Blackburn bellowed
and stabbed the sharp keys
of the schools grand piano.
No, no, no, no; NO!

He wanted back a public school past,
where the boys could sing in perfect pitch,
and he would get goosebumps telling tales
of how the audience held their breath.

His compromise was comprehensive,
and he hated everything it stood for,
he twisted with bitterness in plain view
and couldn't accept their version of; to.

Four hours he made them stand,
repeating the same song
over and over
again ! and you are not leaving until we get it right.

“Oh Jesus I have promised tew serve thee tew the end”
Stop, STOP ! Head-boy, where are you, get out here boy,
now !
Let us ask for some divine inspiration, repeat after me,

Our dear lord,
help us sing the word toooo,
for we shall not go home
until we doooo.

The headmaster spat the last words through gritted teeth,
teachers were watching closely from the wings,
his meltdown close to the liquid phase.
He had the Head-boy by his collar,
presenting him to the rest of the assembly,
a dangling ventriloquist’s dummy.

The boy spoke clearly.
Our dear lord,
help us sing the word tew,
else baldy Blackburn will pop a screw,
and I really just don't give a shit,
so fuck him,
and fuck yooo tooo.

The teaching staff moved as one
like warders in a mental asylum,
they wrestled the headmaster
off the stage,
the audience held their breath.

[milo]

By an old friend of mine, just had to post it, haven't read it in 12 years:

I Hate Babies
______________


I hate babies who cry in church
and their fat moms who let them
disrupt my holy prayers for peace.
It's so hard to be a good Christian.

Milo T Briggs

[Keith]

Church

He’s dressed in purple robes today
a stiff scarf rests on his shoulders
as he chants the sacred words
and takes predetermined steps
around a table, chairs and candles.
My mother’s heavy on her knees,
chin to chest and forehead wrinkled.
I imitate, head bumping
into the wood of the next pew,
until I get bored and turn around
and continue with my crayons
to color Jesus red.

Very nice JC a lovely Sunday school snapshot. Best Keith

[milo]

The Man and the Wooden God an Aesop Fable

Once a man inherited a gift
of a wooden god upon his father’s death
and as the dying mother prays for health
and as the mute singer prays for breath

this man, without a coin, he prayed for wealth.
When life is poor, faith’s not much more than grift
and prayers can’t feed a child or warm a bed.
One day, when many wasted years had passed

he took the god and smashed it to the ground
and found a stash of gold. Then, rich at last
he should have cheered with joy at what he’d found.
Instead, he sat down mournfully and said,

“I wish that I could have you back my friend
What good is gold when life is near the end?”

[Truerenigma]

Puyallup and the Sacred Fire

A prayer for spring . . .

There is a sound sweet as the mountain springs
that rustles through the evergreens above
Multnomah Falls. A wind whose whistle sings
the song of lovers in the treeline grove.

Loowit stands with curves so full and round
two men once fought for her in a great war.
They shook the hills and scorched the holy ground.
Many a village was burned both near and far.

And the Great Chief was saddened by the pain
the war had caused. He turned the three to stone.
And every winter there is endless rain -
the tears of lovers left to stand alone.

But spirits sing as spirits do inspire.
Loowit stands snow-capped and full of fire.

[Brownlie]

I prayed by clasping folded hands
And wondered whether god
Could hear my buzzing breaths beneath
The blasts of cannon law

Imprinting blunt impacts in snow
And turning frozen shards
Into a phrase of hoary veils
That draped our eyes in dark

And set me digging up machines
Perverting wombs inside
The soiled cope of nightly earth
That I would open wide

To turn the nectar buried deep
Below to cannon balls
Of gleaming iron more rigid
Than holy words of awe

But I was just a cog, a tin
Enshrouded youth abroad
Who once imbibed cathedral light
To join the battle god.

Well you win some you lose some I suppose

[cidermaid]

More of an idea roughed out...rough and def not ready, but still having fun working on it.

One last prayer.

Not content with rescue from an overlord,
plunder, pillars of fire, clouds of witness,
being adopted by their God
parting water and bitter turned to sweet;
a million plus - Oh and don’t forget
asses, sheep, cattle and camels
demanded chilled Perrier.

In deep despair he waded past the tide
of effluent, moaning beasts and faithless ingrates
with their whiny brats and struck the rock.
Not once but twice. He knew he should have spoken
commanding words to carry to their ears;
But hang it all, after all his tears and prayers
supplicating like grains of sand,
a man can have the odd melt down.

Grace was multiplied and his outburst
produced a flood, that gushed from the rock.
Who would have thought that you could surf in a desert!
Enough for a million moaning mouths
livestock, wives et al.
Chilled and fresh, life giving – living water.
The story does not relate how this much water
was stored. Did it simply flow into a sink hole
or made a lake, or perhaps a giant slurry pit...
Well all that shit had to go somewhere.

Moses, friend of God, sat atop his final
resting plot and enjoyed the view.
Reviewing the incident of the knocking
on the rock. "Good God, I have had my fill
of all things flowing”. They buried Mosses
on that quiet, dry and rocky plateau.
The mighty man of prayer received his answer.
The muttering maul moved on into a land
flowing with milk and honey - the story relates how it all got very messy!

[ChristopherSea]

Church

He’s dressed in purple robes today
a stiff scarf rests on his shoulders
as he chants the sacred words
and takes predetermined steps
around a table, chairs and candles.
My mother’s heavy on her knees,
chin to chest and forehead wrinkled.
I imitate, head bumping
into the wood of the next pew,
until I get bored and turn around
and continue with my crayons
to color Jesus red.

justcloudy, your poem was my favorite in this bunch, as I could relate to it most. I used to color in Sunday school. They would not let children take crayons into the church. I remember drawing John the Baptist's head on a platter, Daniel in the arena with the lions and David beating up Goliath. Sounds a bit warped, boys will be boys, I suppose.

[justcloudy]

Thanks Chris and Keith! I liked this one too, I'm planning on workshopping it later.
I used to sit backwards on the kneeler and color in church, and little siblings did that for years too. Probably the most interesting part. ;p

[milo]

I prayed by clasping folded hands
And wondered whether god
Could hear my buzzing breaths beneath
The blasts of cannon law

Imprinting blunt impacts in snow
And turning frozen shards
Into a phrase of hoary veils
That draped our eyes in dark

And set me digging up machines
Perverting wombs inside
The soiled cope of nightly earth
That I would open wide

To turn the nectar buried deep
Below to cannon balls
Of gleaming iron more rigid
Than holy words of awe

But I was just a cog, a tin
Enshrouded youth abroad
Who once imbibed cathedral light
To join the battle god.

Well you win some you lose some I suppose

This is really quite good, brownlie. You are coming into your own as a poet.

[Truerenigma]

More of an idea roughed out...rough and def not ready, but still having fun working on it.

One last prayer.

Not content with rescue from an overlord,
plunder, pillars of fire, clouds of witness,
being adopted by their God
parting water and bitter turned to sweet;
a million plus - Oh and don’t forget
asses, sheep, cattle and camels
demanded chilled Perrier.

In deep despair he waded past the tide
of effluent, moaning beasts and faithless ingrates
with their whiny brats and struck the rock.
Not once but twice. He knew he should have spoken
commanding words to carry to their ears;
But hang it all, after all his tears and prayers
supplicating like grains of sand,
a man can have the odd melt down.

Grace was multiplied and his outburst
produced a flood, that gushed from the rock.
Who would have thought that you could surf in a desert!
Enough for a million moaning mouths
livestock, wives et al.
Chilled and fresh, life giving – living water.
The story does not relate how this much water
was stored. Did it simply flow into a sink hole
or made a lake, or perhaps a giant slurry pit...
Well all that shit had to go somewhere.

Moses, friend of God, sat atop his final
resting plot and enjoyed the view.
Reviewing the incident of the knocking
on the rock. "Good God, I have had my fill
of all things flowing”. They buried Mosses
on that quiet, dry and rocky plateau.
The mighty man of prayer received his answer.
The muttering maul moved on into a land
flowing with milk and honey - the story relates how it all got very messy!

I really enjoyed this A.J. I'd hang on to it if I was you. Might be good to workshop it later.

[cidermaid]

Hi true thanks for the encouragment.

[ChristopherSea]

The Man and the Wooden God an Aesop Fable

Once a man inherited a gift
of a wooden god upon his father’s death
and as the dying mother prays for health
and as the mute singer prays for breath

this man, without a coin, he prayed for wealth.
When life is poor, faith’s not much more than grift
and prayers can’t feed a child or warm a bed.
One day, when many wasted years had passed

he took the god and smashed it to the ground
and found a stash of gold. Then, rich at last
he should have cheered with joy at what he’d found.
Instead, he sat down mournfully and said,

“I wish that I could have you back my friend
What good is gold when life is near the end?”

I might revise your implied moral milo. Perhaps, ‘Better late than never’, right? Either way, he could glue it together again. I enjoyed the irony herein. Just think, if he had smashed that 'true' idol for the sake of it being his sole inheritance what a life he would have had. I love Aesop's Fables. I can espy my volume on the shelves from where I sit at this moment. They could all be retold in poetry forms, changing the cast of characters and animal species and still be as fresh and wise as they were over two millennia ago. You have done a few of these and I wanted to acknowledge how much I enjoy them. Thanks!

[milo]

The Man and the Wooden God an Aesop Fable

Once a man inherited a gift
of a wooden god upon his father’s death
and as the dying mother prays for health
and as the mute singer prays for breath

this man, without a coin, he prayed for wealth.
When life is poor, faith’s not much more than grift
and prayers can’t feed a child or warm a bed.
One day, when many wasted years had passed

he took the god and smashed it to the ground
and found a stash of gold. Then, rich at last
he should have cheered with joy at what he’d found.
Instead, he sat down mournfully and said,

“I wish that I could have you back my friend
What good is gold when life is near the end?”

I might revise your implied moral milo. Perhaps, ‘Better late than never’, right? Either way, he could glue it together again. I enjoyed the irony herein. Just think, if he had smashed that 'true' idol for the sake of it being his sole inheritance what a life he would have had. I love Aesop's Fables. I can espy my volume on the shelves from where I sit at this moment. They could all be retold in poetry forms, changing the cast of characters and animal species and still be as fresh and wise as they were over two millennia ago. You have done a few of these and I wanted to acknowledge how much I enjoy them. Thanks!

The original moral was something like that. For me, I like better the irony of a man who thought all he ever wanted was money to regret smashing his god when he realised money would no longer bring him comfort but to each his own, i suppose. I had considered 2 or three different morals as I do like to change the morals.

Thanks for commenting.

[Brownlie]

I prayed by clasping folded hands
And wondered whether god
Could hear my buzzing breaths beneath
The blasts of cannon law

Imprinting blunt impacts in snow
And turning frozen shards
Into a phrase of hoary veils
That draped our eyes in dark

And set me digging up machines
Perverting wombs inside
The soiled cope of nightly earth
That I would open wide

To turn the nectar buried deep
Below to cannon balls
Of gleaming iron more rigid
Than holy words of awe

But I was just a cog, a tin
Enshrouded youth abroad
Who once imbibed cathedral light
To join the battle god.

Well yo win some you lose some I suppose

This is really quite good, brownlie. You are coming into your own as a poet.

Thank you Milo, you've helped me quite a bit. You're endorsement is quite the compliment