The Monk

Random words: monk, palace, café, bosom, dashing and bemused

The Monk

He used to live alone, a hermit, foregoing the
Tenderness of like companionship in those vows
Of chastity, celibacy, poverty and obedience.
There was nothing else preferred but for him to
Live for the contemplation of his god.

Yet, alone and bemused by his self-imposed isolation,
Seeking like fellowship, took him on a journey to
A Palace of Privation – this Medieval Monk. Seeing
In the distance a Monastery of like-hearted men, The
Monk held within his bosom a surging, dashing pleasure.

His only redemption for this abounding happiness that
Filled his lonesome heart was prayers for guidance and
Fasting. Working within a communal garden, making
Cheese and wine, The Monk, without an earthly father,
Given away by god, discovered Frangelico, a nutty liquor.

Hazelnut contained within a bottle shaped more like a
Friar wearing the monastic, ubiquitous roped belt, The Monk’s
Habit was of undyed wool, face hidden by a cowl. Shrouded
Away, deep within the monastic walls, The Monk pleasured his
Heart with café’ royale as he scratched dutifully upon parchment.

To him would come those poor seeking mercy, never turned
Away, alms shared, heads bowed. The Monk, ever joyful in his
Service, often sought his solace by walking the Flaminian Way,
That great artery between Rome and Italy, ancient and worn. He
Served, This Monk, passed his Middle Age, content and wedded to his god.

Cheers

Bombardier, Mustachio, Squint, Festooning, Shadowed, Rose


Cheers

We raise our glasses filled with an English Bitter
As we sit in some cheery pub, a cask and a keg
Of ale, Bombardier; tis the day of St. George, April 23rd,
To Celebrate some ole chap who might never been British.

Those Englishmen tend to exaggerate the importance of
This man who may have been no Saint, wearing in their
Lapel a Red Rose and festooning their drinking dens with
Garlands of St. George’s cross. Yet, we find in the midst

Of their pleasure with malt, barley and hops, no invidious
Acrimony ‘gainst those who wear not the Rose. Instead there
Is an enormous congeniality and conviviality amidst the
Clinking of mugs. Crikey! Upon my word there are blokes

Wearing a fake mustachio and nose! Bombardier has made
Them cheerfully cockamamie, but pleasantly so, as we share
Their festivities and laughter. The ceiling fans whir without
Effect as we sit in some smoke filled shadowed tavern that

Makes us squint. We make our rounds from pub to pub, find
Our friends and make some new. Ah . . . but here’s the rub, let’s
Not become so drunk we can neither stand, nor sit upon our
Stool; for surely St. George has never been the patron of a tap house.

Poetry With the Inclusion of Words Chosen at Random

Sometimes it is a great challenge to choose several words at random and then find a way to work them into a poem. The results can be silly or even downright ridiculous but rarely boring. I've written two of such poems recently. I thought I would share them here. The first is entitled "Cheers" and the second is "The Monk." I'll list the random words at the beginning of each poem. Hope you enjoy them! They are rather funky!