Tag Archives: Christian poetry

Santería

Ogun owed Oxun for the fee he paid
to divorce Yemayá in the watery deep.
Babalu Aye‘s messenger delayed
(no rum in the bargain; price too steep)
until San Martín, divine caballero
deceived the third wife of el Indio Guerrero.

(Obatala‘s beats got lost in transit
the rhythm robbed by macumba-bandit.)

Eleguá cleared paths for He Who Opens Pores.
Black roosters smoked puros at midnight. Outdoors,
Santa Muerte was asked to turn down the noise
so Nana Buluku could get some sleep.

As she gathered Ashé, reduced to a heap
of Yoruba fool’s gold anointed with blood
Oduduwa pretended he understood;
but his mother-in-law knew he never would
until Olódùmarè returned from the feast
having sacrificed roosters while facing east.

The santero drew me a pictogram
to protect me from forces my poem conjured
but the blood of a sacrificed perfect lamb
affords more protection, I knew. He wondered.

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Farewell Sweet Porneia: an Elegy

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Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in his sight:
but all things are naked and opened
unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do.
Hebrews 4:13

When first I met you, girly-girl
you gave my hormones quite a whirl
believing I had found the pearl, Porneia . . .

The shell was richer than your charm
assuring me you meant no harm
my stroke of luck: you clasped my arm, Porneia.

You called me with that sultry voice
and made me think I had no choice, Porneia.

You glistened in a fantasy
of pixillating pink HD.
Your flesh tone’s ever-changing hue
sure made me want to do it to
that someone just beyond my view, Porneia.

I emptied every magazine
in search of angles yet unseen.
The angels fell upon my screen, Porneia.

More I tasted, more I needed—
yet the bed remained unseeded
waiting for your rose to bloom,
recurring passions to resume
in contemplation of your womb, Porneia.

Exposed: your jaded artifice,
that bright celestial orifice,
gynecologic precipice—Porneia.

I took you for a worldly muse
dead mistress of the thousand views;
my carnal will could not refuse,  Porneia.
With your deceit I came to grips;
you represent true love’s eclipse—
the spurt of passion died in drips, Porneia.

Alas, our book of love must end.
The final chapter’s pages bend;
the bookmarks, now deleted, send
each one, a flower to your  grave.
My sinful soul you could not save, Porneia.

Oh what has come between us, princess?
Now your rare allure evinces
fearful alarm, the urge to flee—
our love was never meant to be.
Thus ends it all twixt me and thee, Porneia.

 

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IMAGE CREDIT: muzhand.livejournal.com

Drowning vs. Dead

Rescue

It’s not  being given a lifeline at last;
bobbing in the swell, latching onto hope,
grateful the well-meaning rescue ship passed,
half-dead, but floating when they threw the rope.
It’s a different scenario—more vast
more madly stupendous, worthy of awe.
It’s a cosmic miracle unsurpassed:
completely defying your grasp: love’s law.
You were dead on the seafloor, waterlogged.
Crabs had drawn near as you rolled in the weeds.
Your heart was long cold, every chamber clogged;
the scavengers tearing where darkness feeds.
The first metaphor can be misconstrued
when God hauls you up, alive and renewed.

 

 

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Christian Types & Anti-types in Limerick

The riddles of John’s Revelation
Imply a large-scale desolation.
The end is not too clear
But looks rather nuclear:
A well-deserved A-bomb-in-nation.

A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.

A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.

A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance, yes sir.

A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
He invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)

A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.

A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.

A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.

A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.

Anita Fuentes Channel HERE

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