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Enda Collins Poem
It's a cold bitter day
the wind it bites like needles
head held low, wind chimes
beckon from the open fields
to the shelter of his elders
woods, a cabin quaint and humble
place enough to potter and mumble
where he kneels beneath the smoke
stained stone vent
Kindle wood in hands to light the fire
helped on by his old leather bellows
a gust makes good the flame
With time on hand and pipe on lip
he lays right back and takes a sip
old man Brent demure, content
he lived a quite
descent and lent
an ear to the wild,
travelled to town on his
horse and cart always
up with the lark an
early start
Made his own wine from
elderberry fine, where he
drank in the evening of his
own decline
He played his father’s fiddle
that high pitched hey diddle
diddle, fingertips hardened
aged and brittle
The years are closing in on
the old man from fresh pine
hill sitting on the rocks where
his fore-bearers sat, ending
his days on the shores of his
youth, old man Brent his far
away stare, smiles.
Copyright © Enda Collins | Year Posted 2018
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Details |
Enda Collins Poem
Within the walls of the catholic church
the rape of innocence behind the preachers
altar, holy robes discarded altar boys
sodomized by the righteous absolute
power corrupted by soldiers of God
The victims of the roman collar
implore the clergy to confess
how now to compensate for a
life time of mental torment, the
hopeful lobotomised in youth
decades of hidden truth
Prayers of forgiveness by those who defile
are misdirected, the faithful no longer
rally in droves white robes blackened
by scandal such an unspeakable tangle
of faith and innocence angers my restrain
I struggle to remain tame while confronted
by such hypocrisy that preaches here in front
of me from the same book that would send
his guilty soul to hell, dispelled my belief
a preacher that became a thief, where now to
aim for eternal relief
Antithesis cause and effect
immoral decisions designed
to reflect, fingers pointed
disappointed by them the blessed
be anointed
Burn head in hands failing to
understand, a tourist amongst
the purist, faith that stands in a
broken line
Belief left by faith at the garden
gate of Gethsemane, the ever after
knows thy enemy, suffer little children
who come unto thee
Papal temples laden with faith and fortune
above law and accountability, all within
failing to practice what they preach, a leech
sucking innocence from its prey the children
that we cradle the white collar label fable, swept
under the doctrine table
Copyright © Enda Collins | Year Posted 2018
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