Poetry in Response to the Lord’s Prayer (Luke 11:1-13)

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Jesus,
You heard what was said,
John the B,
Is now dead,
I got so much,
I need to say,
Is God listening?
You know how to pray,
Teach me the words,
Y’all used to lay,
Up on God’s heart,
Not the cheesy clichés,
Simple words from the start,
God’s name is holy,
A coming kingdom,
Was Herod’s bitter pill,
Ain’t no euphemisms,
A verbal exorcism,
Of strung together empty words,
Doing God’s will,
Don’t look like nothing I’ve seen:
On Earth,
Is that what I read?
“Pray for my daily bread?”
Surely you do not mean,
While my bread is mine,
Vengeance is thine?
My enemies get off clean?
This prayer,
Is more than it seems.

–Richard Bryant

Poetry from the Common House Cat

 

maxresdefaultHey,
I’m in heat,
You know what that means,
At this crucial time,
I’m so really sweet,
Not the narcissistic witch,
You claim to have found,
In a toxic waste ditch,
I’m prepared to be,
Exceptionally nice,
I might let you,
Rub my head,
More than twice,
While I gurgle,
About that time,
I ate beans and mice,
If I’m on my heat,
I prefer to flop and meow,
My useless gestures of love,
Lost on humans who squeeze,
Hopes of roaming the hardwood,
My dreams of killing dogs with fleas,
A self contained life of smells,
Amid nine lives I’ve accrued,
Too many jingling bells,
I am your cat and I hate you.

–Your Cat

And All the Pretty Pokemon Go Chickens

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And all the pretty chickens
Ran down the exit ramps,
To keep the Pokemon children,
From trying to drown,
Too far away,
From the people swilling champagne,
In generic solo cups to see,
To make obvious comments,
“How utterly insane they seem?”
The greatest minds of our generation,
Glued to protected screens,
in search of reality,
which will never be.
As one chicken said,
captured virtual turtles,
are the algorithms of the dead.

–Richard Bryant

The Sister’s Tale-A Canterbury Re-Mix (Luke 10:38-42)

English School Chaucer M

Prologue
The Ballad of Martha
The Canterbury Re-Mix of Luke 10:38-42

This house is fully a mess,
And unseen by those unblessed,
My home girl, sits and waits,
While Jesus the Lord pontificates,
Ale and rum gather and come,
Like Chaucer’s ink, in mighty sums,
French cheese and wee Scottish Chickens,
Delivered by Nazarenes in my Judean kitchen,
Plates scattered and sent without help,
Iambic parables told as disciples belch,
Jesus Lord, help me please, tell that girl,
To grab a rag and begin to swirl,
Round that spot, there on the floor,
A fine place to do some chores,
Jesus, you’re the big MC,
She will listen to your religious themed pleas,
It will not happen this day, so you say?
She’s chosen the better way.
Jesus, we’ve got unfinished business,
Like cleaning that will go well until Christmas,
My sister Mary has made me word sick,
I’ve grown seriously allergic,
to this poet’s scheming tricks,
I think I need to see the Doctor name Luke,
Certain I am, of my forthcoming puke.

–Richard Bryant

White Trash Jesus, Martha, and Mary

MY NAME IS EARL -- "Made a Lady Think I Was God" Episode 206 -- Pictured:(l-r) Roseanne Barr as Millie Banks, Jason Lee as Earl-- NBC Photo: Karen Neal
Martha and White Trash Jesus

“White trash Jesus”,
Yells Martha from the back of the trailer,
“Tell that no good, two-timing, short skirt wearing,
Sister of mine,
To help me pass out the PBR and chips,
What does she think it takes?
This stuff called discipleship,
To sit there and flutter; her over done eyes at you,
While Peter pretends not to stare,
At her tattooed boobs?
White Trash Jesus,
Tell Mary to get off her ass,
And help my worn out knees,
‘Cause I still got to go out,
And cut the back grass.”

–Richard Bryant

Old Man D.B. Cooper

 

Don-Draper-Sunglasses-by-Randolph-Engineering

DB Cooper once said to me,
The roughest part,
Wasn’t jumping out the plane,
Or dodging the wind,
Even flying through rain,
But buying prescriptions
With no healthcare plan,
When your seventy three,
And nobody would believe,
You just a limping roofer,
With thousands of dollars,
Named DB Cooper,
or a paint scraper,
named Don Draper.

–Richard Bryant

Hurley Has an Itch

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I have a distant place,
A spot, a site,
My nose never seems to reach,
Hidden somewhere between
My butt and my feet,
And does it itch and scratch,
A crawling pervasive tickle,
Which smells like me,
And day old pickles,
Speaking of food,
I love to stare at your plate,
When you dine,
To look at you,
I love to eat,
Whatever you’re having,
Looks good to me,
This maybe that,
Or something with jelly,
Give me some,
Whatever it is,
I don’t care,
Please,
I’m right here,
The dog by your leg,
Oh, I’ve no time to spare,
The scratching calls,
I twist like a tiny black goat
soon I hope, it will be gone,
from my furry coat.

–Richard Bryant

I’m Lost

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Do you have it?
I thought you did,
I don’t.
Is it not in there?
No, it’s not here.
Then please tell me where?
I don’t know,
If where is there,
Or hear is near.
Does she have it?
You’ll have to ask.
I can’t see why,
She would hold it,
For it’s still not there,
Then where has it gone,
Perhaps moved somewhere.
It prefers to be,
Other than here,
Or way over there,
Nowhere I can see.

–Richard Bryant

A Poem By Ruby T. Bryant, My Dog

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My ferocious hello,
Says the words,
You already know,
“Where you have been?”
I like it when my name is called,
Whether from outside,
Or down the hall,
I love to stare at you,
Wondering what,
You’ll do next?
Maybe you’ll walk this way,
Sit down there,
Or ask me to play,
Perhaps I might stand,
Just beneath,
Your open right hand,
Where you’ll pat my head,
And say my name,
Over and over,
Rubbing my ears again,
I love to smell the places,
Those where you like to sit,
Because, at times,
It is easy for me to get,
Somewhere near, so I can find,
A place see, what’s on your face,
When you try to read,
Pontificate,
Or watch the TV.

-Ruby The Dog