Saintly Poetry

The Faerie Hen

(A Poem composed for the occasion of Thanksgiving Day, 2014)

 

I walked the path from glen to arch

Of hoary oak, in darkness deep.

And on each side my eyes did watch,

For wanton imp or hidden creek.

 

Not seeing danger, yet I trod

Far on a mile, thence one mile more.

Til from the glome arose a sod

Of mosses heaped by foot a score.

 

What should a’rest upon tha’ tuft

So deeply hid, midst forest grove?

Well wont you know, a cooked turkey stuft,

Wit berries, chestnuts, and a wee dove!

 

So now I return from wood and glen

Once again to my friends, in the land of the living,

To share with you all this bounteous hen,

And to wish to you all, a Happy Thanksgiving!

The Unusual Guest

[A humorous poetic tale penned on the Occasion of Thanksgiving 2013]

 

Twas Thanksgiving Day; all the Silver was set,

All the linen was pressed, all the China was laid.

From the kitchen a haze of sweet incense did waft

And the household awaited with anticipation.

 

With a booming announcement, at fifteen past three,

The cook and her suppliants sounded the charge.

From the living room, basement, TV room they came;

A thundering, rumbling, grand perturbation.

 

The throng did survey the Feast’s bounty with awe,

Noting yams, custard corn, garlic stuffing and fowl.

Their senses so heightened, all heads bowed to pray,

Til the hostess cried “WAIT!” and began her oration.

 

“One chair yet lies empty, there’s someone still missing

I’ll not have us eat til we’ve settled this lack.

See there’s Father and Tommy, Aunt Emma and Stewart

But where is our Guest?” was her stark admonition.

 

“Here I am!” cried the guest, springing out from a corner,

“I am sorry, I fear I was taking a nap.

Many thanks to our hostess, it all looks delicious…”

Then his eyes to the entrée did make introduction.

 

 

“What is this?” he did cry, in a tone most irate

“If this is a joke it is not at all funny.”

Then with tears in his eyes, from the house he did fly,

In a flurry of fury and gross indignation.

 

When once he had gone all there gathered did blink,

They at first understood not the cause of this outburst.

And then all at once on them gathered there dawned,

That this Guest was a bird of the turkey persuasion.

It Allows Me to Live in the Margin

I am one, if you please, who despises his work and in this I’m by no means unusual

But the thing I despise isn’t much enterprise; now, please wait, I’m not really delusional…

 

I hate numbers and pages, and spreadsheets and wages, and laws and duties and rules

It’s as though man has taken the human equation, and multiplied inhuman tools.

 

Now I know it’s been shown, through the ages we’ve known, that the wages of sin are profound.

As a way to combat it, we pulled out the hatchet, and chopped our humanity down.

 

Then we sorted the parts, and in fits and in starts, rearranged every passion and stirring,

A masterpiece made us, in order to save us, a structured colossus went whirring.

 

And what still remained us, when ‘manity’s Magus, convulsed into chanting and dirged?

Was it any wonder, twas Frankenstein’s Monster, which out of that cauldron emerged?

 

And so, here I stand, midst Modernity’s plan, stamped and filed lest passion should barge-in,

That is why I do hob, at my despised job: It allows me to live in the Margin.

The Yard Behind the Veil

I am haunted by another world that lies behind the veil

Of minutes, seconds, hours, days, the scientific scale.

 

That other world is made of straw and other useless things,

Like lint, used foil, ceiling wax, and fraying balls of strings.

 

My mind does sometimes wander there to contemplate such styles

As might-have-beens, and never-weres, those undiscovered Isles.

 

Those sombre Isles are peopled by a most strange race of ghosts

A mishy-mash of faces known, who speak in spoken toasts.

 

These speeches flow in spits and starts or rivulets and streams,

And convey such information which is never as it seems.

 

If I try to interject a bit, to clarify a point,

The only thing accomplished is to throw things out of joint.

 

I mean this quite concretely, though these spirits might seem vague;

If I anger them they’re more than apt to push me towards The Grave.

 

The Grave he stands a bit apart, and though his face looks grim;

He really is a clever chap, his coat well-cut and prim.

 

He’ll ask me what my business is and offer me his card.

Politely, I defer, refuse, for I’m not yet his ward.

 

He’ll bidst me leave, I’d wander midst the haze and fumes and steam

And view the many pretty things, if only eyes could see’em.

 

I’ve yet to set my mind at ease concerning this strange land,

The less one’s like to spend there, less things tumble out of hand.

But less ones time is infused by the “What”, the “If”, the “And.”