Hmm, Christmas season has gone, good:
Presents shoved in drawers, some used, some abused,
Some never to see the light of day, until thrown away,
Others worn with delight, played with, till dawn’s first light,
We never even saw church, or thought of god, any god.
Why should we? Religious? Nah, not us, Darwin rules,
We had science in schools, we mocked the fools,
Who even imagined an all seeing deity, with awe,
Punishing and rewarding, everything he saw,
But we ate our fill, partied with skill, just avoided,
The need to ****, especially to ****, so messy,
Never allowing our own family blood to spill,
The clean up is swallowing, such a bitter pill.
Hmm, Easter approaches, we do it all again,
Stretching our family, what an awful strain,
Pretending we like, adore, the snidely sneers,
We just ignore, avoiding the drunk, such a bore,
While those of us, who are close, watch the chaos,
Feel the undertows of love streaming among us,
Binding the salient parts, making a family work,
For the kids, you see, a duty we, must never shirk,
Our only legacy, from the lives we have built,
Making us continue, regardless of the guilt,
Emotional alloys in alcohol flux, so easily spilt,
Another religious festival, who gives a toss?
A land of empty churches, not such a loss.
Hmm, Whitsun lies beyond Easter: what?
What is, Pentecostal; exactly? More rot?
Fifty days, oh yeah, makes sense, sure,
Makes nonsense, have faith, no defence,
We don’t care: get it! Got it? Well good!
No nailed-god; for heathens like us; we hijack,
As Christianity hijacked our paganism, yes!
Copied and pasted their festivals over others,
Took our sacred places, chanted in dulcet tones,
Where we gathered, running naked around stones,
Leaping cleansing fires, bumping ugly bones,
How’d you like that, preacher folk; in shock?
Burn in your created Hell; let heathen Earth rock.
© Paul M Chafer 2014
Written for one of my favourite poets on here, he knows who he is.
