"enlaced" poems - Hello Poetry

We took a bus to Wilmington And skipped a dream or two In order to be cognizant— When the “Are we there yet’s” Rebounded void of “yet.” We parked the bus adjacent to The paint-peeling facade Of lonely temple Wilmington— Threatening no demon of the sky With a keenly polished death spike. It had no spendthrift window of Christ Jesus with the sick And poor, neglected derelicts— Who glow with jubilee and gold chloride For His altruistic charities. Across its door was fastened tight A rusted iron chain Which barred the shallow, blinkered souls— Who loitered at the barrier’s feet Waiting on God to warrant entry. But we who were of cogent view Detached deterring catch And entered with our chins ***** A light-bulb-vacant sanctuary Where taciturn shadows took a seat in every pew. And down a velvet aisle stood A lonely, weeping priest Inhaling in unblemished palms— That not a single pious doubter Would dare inspect. “Welcome to my church,” he said With breathless, choking sobs, “I am the congregation here— The pastor, choir, usher, and Sunday school teacher Of Wilmington Church of Reason.” Inquired we what hidden woe Enlaced with torment cast Those salt discharged convulsions— Quaking the sanctity of exultation In the House of Apollo. And with concise, unleavened words He justified his tears And whispered to our weary troop—, “Alone, alone am I, Isolated within this box of omitted truth. “O, give me soothing slumber deep And strip these sentient eyes From ghastly sheaths of consciousness— Repair this mended paradigm, Or tell me that I am mistaken. “Imaginary friends and foes Make wretched hearts a wreath Of roses red and mistletoe— And bird of paradise to keep Hope alive, alive and awake and well, hope alive…” So each of us, a brimming cup Of empathy, remained To keep old pastor Wilmington— Old usher, choir, teacher, congregation Wilmington Alive and awake and well.

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Nov 29, 2011

Nov 29, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC

joshua-quinones

The Congregation at Wilmington Church of Reason

We took a bus to Wilmington And skipped a dream or two In order to be cognizant— When the “Are we there yet’s” Rebounded void of “yet.” We parked the bus adjacent to The paint-peeling facade Of lonely temple Wilmington— Threatening no demon of the sky With a keenly polished death spike. It had no spendthrift window of Christ Jesus with the sick And poor, neglected derelicts— Who glow with jubilee and gold chloride For His altruistic charities. Across its door was fastened tight A rusted iron chain Which barred the shallow, blinkered souls— Who loitered at the barrier’s feet Waiting on God to warrant entry. But we who were of cogent view Detached deterring catch And entered with our chins ***** A light-bulb-vacant sanctuary Where taciturn shadows took a seat in every pew. And down a velvet aisle stood A lonely, weeping priest Inhaling in unblemished palms— That not a single pious doubter Would dare inspect. “Welcome to my church,” he said With breathless, choking sobs, “I am the congregation here— The pastor, choir, usher, and Sunday school teacher Of Wilmington Church of Reason.” Inquired we what hidden woe Enlaced with torment cast Those salt discharged convulsions— Quaking the sanctity of exultation In the House of Apollo. And with concise, unleavened words He justified his tears And whispered to our weary troop—, “Alone, alone am I, Isolated within this box of omitted truth. “O, give me soothing slumber deep And strip these sentient eyes From ghastly sheaths of consciousness— Repair this mended paradigm, Or tell me that I am mistaken. “Imaginary friends and foes Make wretched hearts a wreath Of roses red and mistletoe— And bird of paradise to keep Hope alive, alive and awake and well, hope alive…” So each of us, a brimming cup Of empathy, remained To keep old pastor Wilmington— Old usher, choir, teacher, congregation Wilmington Alive and awake and well.