Category Archives: religion

A new year, a new start. Work from home! No set hours, no commute, no supervisors, no deadlines! There’s no downside, so who wouldn’t kick the door down when given the opportunity?

Give Me Strength.

Working from home is all very well
But my kitchen table looks like Hell,
There’s paperwork piled up by the ream-
I’m regretting being the only ‘I’ in my team.

Come daybreak I’d powered the lap-top up
Feeling less than perky till I poured a cup,
It was my first, it wouldn’t be the last,
MSGs from the boss scrolled in thick and fast.

Me and my lap-top, awash in caffeine,
A constant flow of Java Joe and Benzedrine,
I can’t get the boss off my ass nor my phone,
He don’t like my attitude, I don’t like his tone.

I worked grimly on all morn without a break,
My dutifulness all but proved a big mistake,
Call it a little inkling, call it something in my water
But I couldn’t cut being caught short any shorter.

By now I found it was nigh on high noon
And I was sick of dancing to my boss’s tune,
My actions might wind up getting me the boot
But when I flipped him off the phone went mute.

As I tossed some tasteless treat in the microwave
I mused I was over being the boss’s galley slave,
The boss is truly testing the patience of his Job guy
Thought I, turning my eye and microwave up on High.

I was looking forward to my lunch and quiet time
When I heard an unexpected door chime,
My stomach grumbled, I slapped hand to brow,
Who or what kind of fresh Hell is this now?

I opened the door and there they stood-
Three of God’s chosen, here spreading good,
Teeth as bright and white as Gods shining light
Here to tell this wrongdoer how He’ll put me right.

I’ve had (too) many theological conversations before
But never with one who’s slipped a foot in the door,
So even as my lack-lustre lunch was still revolving
Their patently creative argument began devolving.

My patience was wearing mighty thin
And verily, is not trespassing a sin?
So I asked for strength from above
And gave the door an almighty shove.

Still, what one uttered came as a shock-
I swear to God I was born in wedlock-
Brother, I’m sure you regret what you said
And wish you’d taken a vow of silence instead.

But it’s difficult to remain hushed
With both spirits and foot crushed,
And, oh Dear God, as for me-
Sorry about the blasphemy.

I do not foresee seeing that sorry lot back again,
I hope I’ve been blacklisted as bad, mad and profane,
 Should they return on my door I’ll stick up my sign-
‘If your’e doing Gods work, go away, I’m doing mine.’

 

The parable of Pope Francis and how he mingles with the masses. Let’s have a a big hand to anyone who can see signs of someone getting cross?

Sorry, Apology.

As your Pope I deeply and profoundly regret
If my slap-happy action caused the lady upset.

But to my flock all I ask is to patiently stand
And let your pontiff extend his blessed hand.

Kindly wait for your trembling hand to be taken,
To grab it in a death-grip will surely leave me shaken.

Remember, we don’t press the flesh in the Vatican,
Your man of God is frail and fractious at eighty-one.

To cling to His Eminence’s hand may be no mortal sin
But my patience and arthritic bones are now wafer thin.

So ma’am, forgive me, I’ll be eternally in your debt,
I’m only human, with no certainty of a sainthood yet.

The year is all but shot, but this weird year has yet another twist in the tail. What a crazy world we live in. Let those who believe pray for a better one next year. Me? I can only shake my head in disbelief.

In The Arms Of Jesus, Texas Style.

In the God-fearing burg of White Settlement
Off to church the good and faithful go,
To bend the knee, to take the blessed sacrament,
To pray for the sinners in this world of woe.

Unfortunately there’s one in this day’s congregation
Whose devil’s work is not yet done,
The good flock are in for one hell of a Revelation
Finding one congregant puts his trust in a gun.

He flung aside his coat, took his gun, a shot rang out,
But this gunman wouldn’t go on a rampage,
The Lord might well protect ’em but there’s always doubt-
Texas pew-warmers pack heat in this day and age.

With half the damn congregation blazing away
The church was filled with cordite smoke,
The gunman was offed, off to his Judgement Day;
Sweet Lord above, what a dark cosmic joke.

Forget the good Lords lesson
But not your Smith and Wesson?
What can you say except
Christ Almighty, Jesus wept.

A tiny fragment of Jesus’ manger finds its way back to Jerusalem. A minor miracle, perhaps? Well, stranger things have happened I’ve been led to believe.

Grain Of Truth.

This shard of wood handed down by the pope
Is a holy relic, a God given gift of faith and hope,
A bit of the manger that had been sweet baby Jesus’ bed,
Or so the pontiff, crossing his fingers (and vice-versa) said.

Bits of True Cross have been sold for untold years,
An ongoing blessing for Vatican City Holy Souvenirs,
So this new True Crib many disbelievers may mock
But the line to see this chip goes off around the block.

With the patience of a saint in this long line I’ve stood,
As I’m a mere manual laborer, a humble hewer of wood
I can’t tell if this babe-in-the-wood story’s kosher or not
But I believe, within this hunk of wood lies a lot of rot.

Israel Folau, revered rugby player, claims- sermonises- that unrepentant sinners are the cause of Australia’s forest fires. Where’s a bolt of lightning from above when you need one?

Jesus Wept.

So, high and mighty Israel Folau,
You’ve flaming gone and done it now,
Our devout Christian-cum-climate denier
Claims sinfulness leads to forest- and Hellfire.

My flagging faith won’t be restored
By this empty-headed vessel of the Lord,
I pray St Peter has this sermon on record
When Israel goes to his final reward.

But I’ve heard that God does love a trier,
So might this unrepentant soul enquire,
Oh wise and enlightened Israel Folau
Who made you mightier than thou?

Losing faith in a tin potty mouthed God? Thoughts after Don went to the fight.

Revelation.

The mildest of gosh darned blasphemies
Once drove Right(eous) evangelists to their knees,
Now that they have accepted Trump as their Savior
They’ll have to accept his unpardonable behavior.

After Stormy they really needed Gods advice,
Should not an amorous adulterer pay a stiff price?
The true believers of Trump use that inspired line-
‘To err is human, but to forgive Don, divine.’

But have even the devoutest disciples begun
To question the veracity of their ill-Chosen one?
Good Lord, what would sweet Jesus do if he heard
Don tweet and repeat that Motherf***er of a word?

The President is known to speak forthrightly
But a drunken sailor could speak more politely,
Are a few ex-believers now feeling voters remorse
Hearing Dons rude attempts at social intercourse?

I’m of a Conservative mind,
In Gods words comfort I find,
But if I use my God given-brain
I can’t forgive Don the Profane.

Hallelujah, the scales have fallen from my eyes-
His words and (Miss) deeds serve only to demonise-
That Motherf***er word rings loud and clear,
I’m the victim of believing in a false profiteer.

Now Don’s tweets are down to another level,
He sounds less demi-god than foul mouthed devil,
It’s dispiriting to find Dons not a blessing, but perverse,
And hearing that Motherf***er is a God-awful curse.

Texas, a law unto itself; guns, religion, rights, and an Attorney General who makes you get down on your knees and ask ‘Why, in the name of all that’s Holy, why?’

The Arms Of Jesus.

You don’t want to mess with the Lone Star state,
They don’t believe in listening to illiberal debate,
They have faith in a President and God being great,
They stick to their guns, say their piece- and shoot straight

There, their view on life is conservative,
There a God-fearing life you better live,
Where if, for public office you hope to stand
You have to have an NRA permit in your hot hand.

Now, they have an Attorney General, name o’ Ken,
Once a highfalutin lawyer a pric– prince amongst men,
He swears by commandments delivered way back when
Though in Texas ‘Thou shalt not kill’ scrapes in at number ten.

Now good ol’ Ken wants to bring guns into church-
Be like good ol’ times, back at the good ol’ John Birch-
There’s nothing like feeling ones faith being bolstered
Than a pistol pressed to your heart, shoulder holstered.

Soon at church you can sing to Him, do the Mass,
Hope like hell the hymn don’t strain the stained glass,
There, while others pray you must just let the sermon pass,
On alert for an armed invader intruding, ready to cap his ass.

But Kens legislation isn’t the blessing that it seems,
Taking arms into Gods house is taking it to extremes,
Has Ken miss-heard His word, or skipped the Lesson?
Or is he knee deep in the service of Smith and Wesson?