Empty Church, free of worship.
Solemn words trapped in stone wall.
Echoes of song long since dissipated.
Redundant Reverends,
Disconnected Deans,
And Perished Priests.
Age has eroded the congregation.
Faith in a Power displaced by modern life.
No time nor inclination to pray:
Hymns have too many lyrics
They offer no repetitive melodies.
As belief in Him erodes,
Faith in the Establishment remains,
It's failing flock clinging to the rock,
Demonstrating their faith in His return
Through small hopelessly hopeful acts,
Such as a 'Clergy Parking Only' sign.

Empty Church, free of worship.
Solemn words trapped in stone.
Echoes of song long since dissipated.
The tired Eagle spies fewer prey
As age erodes the congregation.

Faith is now displaced by modern life.
No time nor inclination to pray have they:
Hymns have too many lyrics
They offer no repetitive melodies
When was the last poor soul saved?

Yet faith in the Establishment remains,
It's failing flock clinging to the rock,
Demonstrating their faith in His return
Through small hopelessly hopeful acts,
Such as a 'Clergy Parking Only' sign.

Red Kite hovers and spies,
A Raven studies a dying lamb,
Sheep graze the grass,
A pheasant enters left looking lost.

I gaze out at this scene
Through sheets of glass.
I am distinct from real nature,
Cocooned by architecture.

"Let us rock" said the man in a frock.

"Let us pray" said another man in a frock.

The congregation replied "**** YEAH!" and gesticulated like they did not care.

The other congregation bowed their heads to show their reverence and care.

"MOTHER *******!" was the first man in a frock's opening line.

"Our Father" was the other man in a frock's first whispered words.

The congregation went wild and they pogoed out of sheer joy.

The other congregation remained fixed in their seats, staring at feet.

Four hours passed until the man in the frock finished his slot.

The other man in the frock was done within the hour.

The man in the frock went backstage and partied with his flock.

The other man in the frock went home to **** his socks.

The man in the frock woke up the next afternoon no longer wearing his frock.

The other man in the frock had been up since six o'clock but had nowhere to go.

The man no longer wearing the frock picked up his phone and made a call.

The other man in the frock rushed to his phone for it rarely rang.

"Hello dad" said the man who had worn the frock.

"Hello son" said the man still wearing the frock.

When you grow up I'll tidy the house
But for now it must remain in disarray
For I have no strength for a losing battle
Or another full time job for no pay.

A long long week
A short weekend
My body feels weak
My spirit has weakened

Days and days of deadlines
Time speeding up as I age
Getting closer and closer to red lines
And all this to chase a meager wage

But trusty Saturday arrives
Hugs me with duvet respite
Yet lucid dreams that I contrive
Reawakened my mind all night

But sleep demands company
So even on Sundays you'll hear my alarm bleeping
For to succumb to sleep's Siren bewitchery
Would see me forever sleeping

My poor nest I must address:
Fed up with poor nights' sleep,
Ending up, ironically, with crow's feet
It's not ideal in mating season
I'll demolish this nest for that reason.

An unorthopaedic mess of a nest
Is my rickety pokey ***** bed.
However, one solution in the offing:
A mail order memory foam mattress
That I could return before migration.

Life is not a Program.
GOTO Hell
Syntax Error
Back
Ctrl Alt Delete
Options
Restart

Memories compressed under a thin sheet of glass,
A camera first and telephone last.
My laughter, my pride and my joy it stores,
Joylessly sealed in a glass and metal sandwich.
But this little device taking over my life,
Has one disadvantage:
A finite memory full to bursting,
Warning me it's 'Dangerously Low on Space'.

You rose gently this morning
As if wanting to ease me into the day.
I watched your slow-burn rise
Gifting me a kaleidoscope sky:
Reds, Greens, Yellows and Golds,
As befits a celestial Emperor
Whose power basks in its own brilliant light.

But you knew I was watching your daily coronation.
Was it your plan to make it so memorable?
Or was it a self-fulfilling prophecy?
Did I choose this day subconsciously
As the day of my life's blossoming...
Fruit overspilling,
Wine glass brimming.

Now, with our day underway
My joy is unabating.
Your radiance infectious warming my soul.
What will the rest of your tenure gift me?
I am where I want to be,
I am who I want to be,
Dearest Sun, please do not set on me.

I met the Devil the other night.
But, try as he might,
He couldn't deceive this old Knight.

I'd met Death the previous day.
I'd lost my way,
But I convinced her to go away.

God has spoken to me in the past.
Been a long time since we spoke last.
It's time He stuck His colours to His mast.

The Barista did warn me,
But my home brewed hubris
Really blew up in my face
When my boiling hot porridge
Eruptively boiled all over the place.

Don't go through the door Daniel,
We know it isn't fair
But forget the stairs are there,
They're not for you Daniel.
Your place is neither down nor up
But on the floor where all you need exists.
Please, Daniel, don't resist
You have your bed, your cutlery and your cup,
So please,
Don't go through the door Daniel.

Selfishly, I reflect on your deaths
As betrayals of my childhood memories.
For, you see, you were like ancient Oaks on my childhood street,
Deep-rooted bastions of my youth,
Withstanding weather, tests and time.

You cradled me in your arms when I fell,
Scented the late summer air with freshly cut grass,
Encouraged and chastised in fair and equal measure:
You were dependable, solid reminders that change is not absolute.

You are the foundations of my fanciful reminscences.

But now, living untethered from my playground,
News of your deaths trickle down to me.
Guardians of my childhood felled in quick shock succession.
Your beating hearts and breathing lungs were always just flesh and blood
Not the ancient timber trustees of my youth,
Simply characters who waved "hello" every day of those forever-summers,
Who never aged in my egocentric mind
Who leave dots of death on the streetmap of my memory,
Whose homes will never be properly re-occupied by useless strangers.

Frantic mornings can make me grumpy,
Got to get you both to nursery.
Get to the car we're gonna be late:
This is the time of day I really hate!
I'm seriously considering hypnotherapy,
To make these mornings a lot less hazy.
But - a saving grace - you are but three,
Which means you're often very funny!
And this morning is no exception,
As you always say something to break the tension!
And, as you are so young,
You often get the expressions wrong!
Like this morning in struggling to belt you in,
You looked to me with that lovely grin,
And declared so happily:
"Easy pie, daddy!"

Basking in a borrowed light...
too short is the conjuring of joy
while infinite degrees of freedom
tumble tombola-like elsewhere
out of sight and out of mind
Can there be beauty in the rot?
Is that not enough?

The mystery stopped
When the apple dropped:
A simple, natural act
Of a fundamental law,
That keeps our feet on the ground,
Was written down
To little effect
On our state of being.
A pointless endeavour?
I think not,
A great leap of imagination
That escaped the pull of limitation
And opened the door to
Endless fascination.

I watch an artist create
Something new from nothing.
I turn to the writer
Who conjures life and lives,
Realising fiction from nothing.
I face the other way to weep
In envy at the distance of talent.

I was possessed by a demon so lazy,
He left the Priest feeling slightly hazy.
He wanted some ecclesiastical action,
But this Demon didn't give him no satisfaction.

My Priest said "you've got to stick it to him!"
So I took us both to the local gym.
I did some cardio and did some weights,
I stayed there until really very late.

Finally, when doing some cross-training,
My chest started straining,
And a voice (not mine) wailed like a Banshee,
"The power of exercise compels me!"

So that was how my Demon was exorcised;
Bloodless, sweaty Holy exercise.
Now I'm a major fitness fanatic
Thanks to forces oh so Satanic!

His mind's pained pleas echo
The brain's chosen words fragment
Inside his closed mouth

Hazards lie in wait
As the Disco lights ignite.
Rhythm the seducer
The DJ the inducer.

Five men on stools:
Men of the hour seeking power.
Silly fools.
Bickering and sniggering,
Blowing their own trumpets,
Apart from He who blows a Trumpette
And cares not what he says,
And whose fans care not what he says
As he stumbles into power
And feels the hand of Churchill upon his crotch.

"Follow your follower,
That's how Twitter works!"
That's what she told me.
Little wonder then, that
Social Media gets no one anywhere:
Fertile ground for circular arguments,
A deafening echo chamber,
Where debate is often choked at birth.

Fragments of a cacophony hung in the air:
A note here, a note there

Broken glass crushed underfoot
Traffic-cone-trumpets playing flat notes
A grievous insult to the left
Uproarious laughter to the right:

All in all a right riotous night!

The one that winks,
The one in hysterics,
The beer,
The wine,
The OK sign.

The shocked one,
The facepalm one,
The angel baby,
The thumbs up,
And the one throwing up.

Life can't be bad:
My frequent emojis aren't sad.

Are you religious?
No
Why?

Are you religious?
Yes
Why?

As she talked of her past
So too she talked of her future
For fate ricochets endlessly
Through the tunnel of her narrative:
A sorry tale told of a trapped soul
Yearning in vain for an escape
As elusive as it is seductive.