What Woman Wants

“What does Woman want?”
is not a question
you need to ask.
Instead, ask: How can
woman be curbed, how
kept at her task?

How can she be made
to know her place? Must
her ears be cropped?
The way she uses
her wits, her wiles! How
can she be stopped?

Was it wise to let
this genie out of
the bottle? See
man in chains, woman
his master! Is this
how things should be?

An Angel Singing

I heard an angel singing
As I looked out to sea
And these were the words came winging
Over the waves to me:

“Sing! Sing! What matter if
You lack the perfect song?
What if your voice is cracked
And all your notes are wrong?

The woods would all be hushed
From farthest east to west
If no birds ever sang
But those that sang the best.”

Carrion Comfort, by Gerard Manley Hopkins [*POEM*]

Carrion  Comfort

Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

Satan’s Child


Here I lie, Eternal Slut,
Object of your burning lust,
Born to plague you, Satan’s child:
Hated, hunted, damned, defiled!

You, Sir,  are the one to blame
For making me the thing I am.
I could have been an angel if
You’d let me! My entire life

Has been spent trying to please you.
Instead of which, it seems, I tease you
And generate this aching lust
With which both you and I are cursed.

So here I lie, your femme fatale
Farouche and frenzied, soon to be
Your doom, your drug, your funeral—
So long as you keep craving me.

Seeking the Perfect Man, by Darrell Wright [*POEM*]

I knew a girl with countless fears
Who every day shed bitter tears,
And round and round the world she ran
While looking for the perfect man.

She said, “Like Jesus Christ I’ll be—
The Sinless One who pleases me!
Courtship is what I want, not dating:
I think I’ll put off love and mating.”

One day she thought she’d found her pearl,
But he was looking for a girl—
A rich patrician, young and fair—
A paragon beyond compare!

At forty-four  her search was done:
She found Him — and became a nun.

My Rose above all roses, by Darrell Wright [*POEM*]

‘Madonna of the Magnificat’, Botticelli, 1482 (detail)

There is no rose without a piercing thorn,
And shadow closely cleaves to radiant light;
And though for life and love we have been born,
Our life’s a struggle, love our painful plight.

But you are light alone and my life’s breath,
And for you daily my love tender grows;
A thousand thorns I’ll challenge unto death
For you who’ve pierced my heart, my heavenly Rose.

Lines to a Decadent Shrew, by Anonymous [*POEM*]


Pastiche of a poem by Hilaire Belloc

Blind, perverse, corrupted Shrew,
Resembling the devil in all you do!
Shrew, destroyer of all that’s good,
From youth you’ve poisoned all you could;
Promoter of porn, abortion, gays—
You serve your Father in so many ways;
Shrew dirty in bed and worse with mammon,
Shrew, cause of wars and tears and famine;
Shrew arrogant, Shrew of bile and lies,
Shrew reckless, Shrew with roving eyes.

Shrew twisted, Shrew obsessed, Shrew scary,
Shrew self-absorbed and solitary;
Shrew blustering and epileptic,
Shrew puffed and empty, Shrew dyspeptic;
Shrew hypocritical, Shrew bad,
Shrew furtive; Shrew, like Hitler, mad!
Shrew (since a man must make an end)
Shrew that shall never be my friend—
That is, until fall from your eyes
The scales of Satan, and you arise.

You’re just a shrew like Shrews of old,
With necks of bronze and sacks of gold;
Imbibing—as they thieved men’s homes—
Hell’s poison from satanic tomes!
Like them you curse, blaspheme, and bawl;
Like them one day in hell you’ll fall;
Thou turncoat Shrew, to sin devoted,
Shrew to thine own damnation quoted,
Perplexed to find thy trivial name
Reared in my verse to lasting shame.

Shrew dreadful, swinish Shrew and swearing,
Repulsive Shrew, Shrew past all bearing!
Shrew of the cold and sinister breath,
Shrew despicable, Shrew of death!
Shrew sly, Shrew nasty in night revel,
Shrew snotty, Shrew so like the devil!
Shrew, symbol of dark hate and horror—
Shrew whose mind is in Gomorrah.
Begone, O parasitic Shrew—
Who serve the devil in all you do!

Based on Hilaire Belloc’s Lines to a Don

Unborn Child, Murdered

aborted fetus thumb


Here I lie beyond mischance
In the womb’s long timeless trance.
Here’s my sea and rivers flowing
And they all know where they’re going.
Fruit and blossom, leaf and bough
Live in the summer of the Now.

They tell me there’s a world out there,
But I simply do not care.
Life’s a sickness, yet it comes
And its icy breath benumbs
The souls of millions. What a thorn
In the flesh…this being born!

— Relax, my dear, no need to grieve.
Your luck is in! Here’s a reprieve.
Thanks to the latest liberal views,
Your mother is now free to CHOOSE!
She’s made her choice: the vacuum pump,
The fetus bin, the garbage dump!

The Rose of Memory

Soon, soon again you’ll see the world
Reflected in those long-lost eyes!—
There where dead children play again

In the gardens of paradise.

There where young lovers, two by two,
Walk by the waters of lost song,

You’ll pluck the pristine rose again—

The rose of memory all night long.

The devil at your door

The devil at your door

Dead fishes in the river
beneath the bridge whirl by
and end up in the ocean
where one day you and I

will make our way when music
and laughter mean no more
and the only one who’s knocking
is the devil at your door:
the smiling rogue who taunts you
with a twinkle in his eye,
“D’you want a kiss, my darling—
one last kiss before you die?”

Light and Shadow

We hear it often when it’s wet and cold:
the malediction, murmur, and complaint—
as if it were God’s job to scatter gold
down from the sky to please us and to paint
the world bright green: to stop the winter weather:
to give us always summer and sweet spring
and keep us safely this side of our tether.
But no, that wouldn’t work. Bright days don’t bring
us happiness. The sun’s no cure for pain.
Gray days are also needed and black night—
and the gift of tears, too, like golden rain.
Out of the well of darkness, springs the light.
Mull this, my soul, in time of death and loss:
no resurrection comes without a Cross.

Variation on a poem by Lucius Knightsword. (See here)

Nature’s Parables: Winter, by Darrell Wright [*POEM*]

We hear it very often when it’s wet
and cold: the curse, the murmur, the complaint;

as if we held almighty God in debt
to give us warmth and sunlight, and to paint
the world bright green without the snow and rain;
to send fair Summer, pleasant Fall and Spring
without the cold and wind — without the pain —
as if we did not know that would not bring
more happiness, but total, painful loss.
Can there be life without the winter rain?
Can we accept its gifts and still complain?
We often hate the cold that makes us strong.
We learn to love the light when nights are long —
In Winter lives the mystery of the Cross.

Song of the Silent Swan, by Darrell Wright [*POEM*]

In memory of Rachel Corrie

I came upon a swan and asked to hear from her a song.
She said, “I sing in silence, and in silence you will hear
A song far greater, if you will but listen to His voice,
Whom you with earthly eyes can’t see, because He is so near.

But I am not permitted yet to sing, or I would lie:
For God made me to listen in the silence my life long,
Composing every day for Him the notes of one sweet song,
Which I will sing most beautifully the day I am to die.”