Pray Father,give me your guessing.
My guessing!Don’t you mean my blessing.
So have you any sins to tell me?
Yes,I broke a glass jug.
Whose was it?
It was mine,Father.
Surely it’s not a sin to break your own jug?
It is if you hit yourself on the head with it!
What made you do that?
I was angry with myself…I had been committing effrontery.
Do you mean adultery?Your main problem seems to be bad language.
No,Father I never say” Fu*ck”
You just did.
Well, I had to do.I had no choice!
That’s what they all say…if only I heard some original sin I’d find life more interesting.
Well,it’s hard to think of anything original to do especially if it has to be a sin too.
You are just not using your creativity.
All right Father,Put your hands up.i’ve got a gun.
Where did you find that?
In my wife’s handbag.
Now we are getting somewhere.. that’s threatening a priest,interfering in your wife’s privacy and stealing a gun.Any other sins?
I could shoot you,I suppose.
No.no!That is going too far.
Shall I slap you?
No… just say something rude to me.
Your sermons are the most boring I have ever heard.
Well,that’s enough…I’ve never been so insulted in all my life.
You have been very lucky then… you should hear what people say to me!
Well,you are both ugly and unintelligent.I don’t know how you had the nerve to marry.
I had no choice.She forced me.But I gave in quickly in case she changed her mind.
And you have seven children.
No, they are not all mine,And they are Jewish.
How can they be Jewish.
My wife is Jewish!
I thought she was just a lapsed Catholic.
No,she’s Jewish but not even an arranged marriage could be arranged for her so she used her imagination and decided an overweight ugly Catholic would be grateful for her love,
And are you grateful?
Yes, and so are all her lovers!
Who are they?
The curate is one of them and has two children .. they look just like him too.
And does she want them raised as Jews?
She just let’s them rise naturally and go with the flow.Do they have to wear hats?
Only in the Synagogue!
Are you Jewish too.
Yes,it’s quite handy as we have Sabbath on Saturday and then we have Sunday on Sunday if you see what I mean.
I never met anyone who practised two religions before.;
Well,I figured it would double my chance of salvation!
Well. I must speak to the Rabbi.For your penance you must give £50 to Homeless at Xmas.
Am I absolved?
If you stay any longer you’ll be dissolved!
Thank you,Father.And take that gun away.I don’t want it.I can get you a good price for your cassock.
Why,thank you,my child
Day: October 11, 2016
deserving intense dislike.“I found the film’s violence detestable”
synonyms: abhorrent, detested, hateful, hated, loathsome, loathed, despicable, despised, abominable,abominated, execrable, execrated, repellent, repugnant, repulsive, revolting, disgusting,distasteful, horrible, horrid, horrifying, awful, heinous, reprehensible, obnoxious, odious,nauseating, offensive, contemptible“such behaviour is detestable and despicable”
The frog in my throat came out …… she’s gay
- She cried in the ointment but soon climbed out.She sucked it dry first and it was cheesey then
A more fun conclusion, I have yet to find
- That frog in my throat came out …… she’s gay
- The frog in my throat frightened the doctor.He thought it was my tonsil going mouldy.
- A wood man cared enough to wind my bobbin
A good rule of aplomb is to stop blushing when you meet another sex.Or is it agenda?
- A chair of the dog that likes you is still full of hares
- A half-baked crime here,sergeant
- A hard man is not good to lie to
- a corpse of a different color got laid in the bed.Is that a crime?
- The curse, a curse my god I bleed so worse
- A house divided against itself cannot blunderstand,
- A smack of all shades is a bruise far gone
I never could gell. even as a baby
No wonder I have gone mad.Would you ever believe Trump could be decadent?
Is Free Verse Killing Poetry?
I’m not advocating control of vers libre, which has been around since the Book of Kings,just that its adherents stop stifling rhyme and meter poems. If poetry is to survive, it needs to use everything in its armory, especially metrical rhymed poems—serious, humorous, nonsensical, satirical, even insult poems. Variety, as Christian Wyman found, is the spice of life, and it’s absurd to think that vers libre should be the only form American poetry should take. No wonder John Barr found stagnation in American poetry. So loosen up, vers librists, and ask formalists to join you. Poetry needs all the help it can get. Or can’t you write good rhymed and metrical poems? Walt Whitman couldn’t.
Why I still write poetry by Charles Simic
Kite by Mike Flemming Copyright
“There’s something else in my past that I only recently realized contributed to my perseverance in writing poems, and that is my love of chess. I was taught the game in wartime Belgrade by a retired professor of astronomy when I was six years old and over the next few years became good enough to beat not just all the kids my age, but many of the grownups in the neighborhood. My first sleepless nights, I recall, were due to the games I lost and replayed in my head. Chess made me obsessive and tenacious. Already then, I could not forget each wrong move, each humiliating defeat. I adored games in which both sides are reduced to a few figures each and in which every single move is of momentous significance. Even today, when my opponent is a computer program (I call it “God”) that outwits me nine out of ten times, I’m not only in awe of its superior intelligence, but find my losses far more interesting to me than my infrequent wins. The kinds of poems I write—mostly short and requiring endless tinkering—often recall for me games of chess. They depend for their success on word and image being placed in proper order and their endings must have the inevitability and surprise of an elegantly executed checkmate.”
Sparrows in winter
When faith to love is what we cannot find
When doubts and drawbacks struggle on the mind
When faith to love is what we cannot find
For even when asleep, the mind still schemes
When darkness and defeat seem close at hand
And lights dim even as we pray for grace
when wrecks and ruins rile the native sands
When in this life we feel we’ve lost our place…
Then at the saddest depth we see the light
Surrounding with such warmth,with love adorned
The path that seemed so wrong now leads us right
And in our hearts, warm feelings are new born
For in all storms there is calm still eye
From which we note the fiercest clouds rush by