December 7th 2015

Incredible turn of events and I must ‘confess’ that I had my doubts about this eventuality. Having considered the whole issue of religion and all the participants of laity and clergy The Prodigal believes that the question of the ‘Here and Hereafter’ should be given a poetic suit.

Here and hereafter.

Grief; the silence in the hen coop

When the fox has sneaked away,
Unless you believe in Purgatory
Why would you kneel and pray
For the dead body facing eternal life,
Facing eternal death,
No one we knew ever came back
To tell us either way.
A commoner’s oath is as good as a bishop’s,
If a swear has meaning at all,
In church the congregation cough
And contemplate saints on the wall,
What else would they do when priests never work?
And idle their lives away.
That’s why a conscience is singular,
That’s why we fumble and fall.
Wisdom and truth are not popular,
An ancient lie; a lie still remains,
If you die with your arse pocket full of sins,
Nobody ever complains,
Except the forgiveness seller
With no money back guarantee
There is plenty of play; none of it fair,
Still the doubt remains.
Do we face our maker, father or mother?
In Limbo’s gravelled yards.
Are we face to face like a knave and queen?
In every deck of cards.
Are we tossed in a bed of phantoms?
Like eels in a canvas bag.
Will a searchlight fall on the heart?
Rending the soul to shards.

A cacophonous jay from a churchyard yew

Is to be our Matins Song.
No word of Hell in the Bible,
Never the mention of wrong.
Only the Ten Commandments of man
To rule the unruly mob,
If you’re amused with the topical air,
Why not chorus along?
The borrowed horse ploughs poorly,
Lean; the pigs in the neighbour’s pen,
The Devil stars in the nativity play,
Making faces at the Three Wise Men,
Only successful prophets are remembered;
Nostradamus, Moses, St. John,
The world is bedecked in fools’ gold,
The smallest lie is divided again.
Consider the state of the mind,
Lifting the latch of death’s door,
Dreading the vista on the other side,
Losing sight of the moment before,
Death is nature’s way of telling us,
The time is nigh; slow down,
Are we “Crossing the Bar” like Tennyson;
Is there really another shore?
When you’re amused and content with your dreams,
Why would you stay awake?
Folly can be dealt from the hand of wisdom,
But do not wisdom forsake.
Only blacksmiths and demons, if demons exist,
Know the secrets of fire,
What does it matter if you pass in your sleep?
Or are burnt alive at the stake.