Joseph’s Alabaster Box

What awful fires rage down in Hell,

That fearful place where nothing’s well

Where souls of men are combustible,

And their life sentences are not adjustable.

“If only” echoes through each room

As wretched souls contemplate their doom.

Every soul in Hell believes in Him

Who died upon the cruel cross for them.

Brimstone makes a fearful fire

For foolish men whose sins are dire.

God will not be mocked, He plainly said,

And He will get you when you’re dead,

In sweet, cool water dip your finger,

And touch my parch’ed lips – don’t linger.

For I am tormented in this flame

Because I scorneded God’s holy name.

All of the matter appearing on this site is copyrighted by Joseph Kennedy in books of various sorts. I am always careful to give credit to others if I uses their work. The material on this site may be used by anyone, but I would like to be given credit for what I write. that goes especially for my poems. I have this problem with vanity for some unknow reason, and I pray often about it, but I feel I am not being unreasonable to make this request. Thanks.

A darling boy in a manger,

Who wouldn’t admire and love?

A gory corpse on a cross

Sent from Heaven above?

A baby boy I can adore,

My life He cannot rule.

Don’t expect of me more,

I think of Him only at Yule.

I worship my gods of revenue

That trouble me not at all.

Until my bills are overdue,

Then on the baby I’ll call.

My gods of cash ne’er judge me,

Or make me strive to do right.

But they’re always absent, you see,

When I am fearful at night.

The gory man on the rugged cross,

I may consider some day

When I encounter great loss,

And my soul is flying away.

What glory is thy kingdom,
Ye little royal boy?
Locked in a clammy dungeon
Where never entered joy.
Thy bony little grimy hand
Shall ne’er the scepter hold,
For foolish self and stubborn pride
Thy sire the kingdom sold.
The crawling things about thy feet
Thine only subjects be,
And dirty ringlets of thy hair,
Sole crown of thy glory.
Soiled tatters for thy royal robes,
And grime from head to toe;
Soon upon these cruel stones
Thy Bourbon blood shall flow.
What was thy fate, O little king?
The history books are vague,
Could thou have rescued mighty France
From proud Napoleon’s plague?
But, oh! for you, poor little boy,
A victim of thy birth,
Regardless of your final end,
What was your royalty worth?

AUTHOR’S PROFILE

Poetry is almost as hard to put on paper as smoke is hard to put into jar. My father-in-law was a man of toil. I loved him for that, and his many other strengths. He had such a hat: ancient, sweat-stained. He spent many hot summers in east Tennessee tobacco fields. But, unlike the farmer in the poem, he outlived his wife. She died of a broken heart, yearning for their son who disappeared on a frozen North Kirean battleground. I hope this simple verse will find a place in your heart, as words on paper.

HIS CROWN

There on a nail in the kitchen,
Hung an old sweat-stained hat,
Just as he had hung it years ago
When from the fields he came.
Bone tired, depressed, his youth was gone;
He knew not when it left.
He leaned against the wall and sighed;
The pain was sharp and long,
But he must smile for her, he knew,
For her he must be strong.

He ne’er went back to put it on
To venture to the fields,
And all these years she’d left it there,
The trophy of her knight.

The poem above was published in the International Society of Poets latest book, Forever Spoken along with the author’s profile.