Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

the jesuit francis

pope francis
stood before the calabrese
stricken with grief
for the death
of a 3-year-old lamb
shot and burned along side his grandfather
by the black hand
over cocaine

he wept for the child
he wept for italy

in the middle of his mass he broke
from the liturgy
and spoke directly to the mafia
declaring they
represent an adoration of evil
and contempt for the common good

palm raised toward heaven
he declared those involved
no longer had the ear of god
they are excommunicated

he then visited the sick in a local hospice
and as he left
humbly asked
to have a splinter removed

the world media outlets
clamoring for ratings
immediately began speculating
as to the personal and physical danger
the pontiff may now be in
facing possible retaliation
the wrath of mafia capo regime

now i’m sitting there
and i laugh
thinking if he was a tarantino character
he’d be jules in pulp fiction

i picture his papal wallet

what a bad ass
the jesuit francis is

he is a true priest
a fierce advocate for his congregation
a representative of divinity

he says things the underlings don’t like
about poverty, sexuality, and corruption
and the official spin doctors of god
shit themselves running

the news outlets ignore the more fundamental story

as soon as he was elected to the papacy
he vowed to reform the scandalous vatican bank
the ironically named
institute for religious works

promising to stamp out the fires
of corruption
heads began to roll

this is where his holiness
faces the true threat

there are gangsters
far more evil than la cosa nostra
amidst the church’s ranks

if anyone is going to put a hit on
the holy father

should he be poisoned
fall down the stairs
or die suddenly in the night

it will come from men wearing red vestments
whispering conspiracies
during vespers

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

saint basil the beekeeper

he killed the bees
emily had given me as a young girl
with his many poisons

he raped my life of its sanctity

stricken and sure of demons
desperate to heal
i prayed to the beginning
to send someone to love me
to restore my faith
to return the bees

then came the day
i sought quiet
to write poetry
within the pews
of saint mary’s church

the basilica of the assumption
shamed covington diocese
so german and vast
yet comforting

i was given my answer

a man humble of appearance
had entered silently
standing mid aisle in awe
of the soaring stained glass

weeping as he looked
at the depiction of jesus falling the first time
beneath the weight of the cross

the statue of the virgin drew him
he fell to his knees praying aloud
then kissed the ground

i watched him stand and softly sing
an aria so resonant
it rose to the highest points of the cathedral

he was surrounded by a soft whiter light
i had never seen a holy man before
until that moment
not braced to find one in a church

so i didn’t resist
when he took my hand
led me to a lectern
carved deeply with saints

pointing to the bearded smiling wooden fellow
presenting in his hands a beehive

“Do you see him? He is my favorite. Saint Basil the Beekeeper.”

i am sure of angels