he didn’t blink
when the light caught his face—
just stared like a dog too long in the rain.
no prayers,
no cries,
no family on the concrete bench.
he killed for sport,
like swatting flies—
and still the world made room for him.
the guards were tired,
the chaplain bored.
death smelled like disinfectant and steel.
he coughed once.
then again.
then silence.
nobody wept—
not even the devil.
A green chaplain to trees
nurtures Her root systems
and dancing
prancing branches
Preaching
reaching deeply
into shared 0-soul trunks,
circling spinal enthusiastic core
Breathing
circulating annual rings
of growing communion
Potential win/win performance
musing resonance
amusing musical engagement,
brilliant resilience.
Thomas Traherne
as a chaplain did a living earn
A predictable metaphsic
of a world so platonic
William Strode loved to recite aloud
a public orator so proud
Chaplain to the Bishop of Oxford
perhaps he read his poetics to his 'Lord'
An atheistic 'Chief Chaplain' at Harvard
The university's raison d'etre bartered
A divinity school, founded to spread God's word
The goal now, 'equitable neighborhoods'
blowing frost on a star and gravestone
quickening our steps like Charlie Chaplain
turning maple leaf into rubies and gold
churning flocks into wind splashed shoals
now we're hunched over like Quasimodo
the homeless sinking deeper into their hole
November struts about and barks like a crow.
Eye for eye; tooth for tooth,
Age old key to old hitch,
Justice’s way; known from youth,
Consciences’ vexing itch.
Few know death’s row bower,
Lowly know its bare scene,
Some escape through power,
Rich blood trumps poor man genes.
Time goes in ticks and tocks,
Hits midnight and then chimes,
From the jail house wall clock,
Cell opens for last time.
Con, warden, and guard walk,
Chaplain reads from St. John,
Not much need for small talk,
Judgment due; praying done.
Go on stage behind glass,
Viewers wait for the show,
To see con breathe his last,
Justice’s false golden glow.
Curtain pulls, they walk out,
Press reports; mourner’s cry,
No joy or vict’ry shouts,
All left to question why.
Religion has been privatised like gas
I know in church we still can hear the Mass
Yet no Chaplain comes to dying men
I did my best alone without a plan.
Inside the holy sanctuary bare
I became both priest and comforter
I sang the sacred songs and gathered crowds
Outside our little cubicle they bowedL
I saw a canopy of golden cloth
Hanging down from heaven, as it does
It came nearer till it touched his soul
I was silent, love can’t take control
For a moment everything was still
A little bird sat on the windowsill
Then the cloth of gold was lifted high
I wept the precious tears for those who die.
That one eternal moment gave us grace
I see your sunny eyes, your smiling face
Held behind cold stone walls,
In silence, marched to work.
The shabby dressed walked prison halls,
Hell waits for those who shirk.
Breaking rocks or picking rope,
Naught to eat save gruel and bread,
Pointless toil, devoid of hope,
Here worked the living dead.
Mornings in the chapel praying,
The gathered wincing at the drops,
The hangman had the condemned swaying,
Yet more unworthy souls now cropped.
The chaplain looking down his nose,
He could better use his ministrations,
The faithless sat in squalid rows,
(As he prayed for a better station.)
Ne'er has a place been so bleak,
Nor seen more fear and woes,
If the Devil sought out company,
It would be here he chose.
with dying breath
holding the hand
of a chaplain
posted on September 26, 2018
I pulled back the screen,
“Oh my God!” said
the patient who'd seen
me from the next bed;
from whom I had heard
a ripe expletive.
“I'm just his collared
representative.”
As Hospital Chaplain this occurred more than once when I appeared from behind the screens. Laughter followed.
To open a conversation
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
seemed safe.
Safe until the moment
Mum paused before saying;
“We don't know.”
Blank:
I was neutered.
Space opened – if not beneath –
in silence, mum.
What to say next?
What could be safe?
For her? For the infant?
For me?
I could not walk away.
Our eyes would not meet,
but she occupied the space
with, “I'm sorry.”
“I'm so sorry,” I replied.
What more?
What next?
After a space
of twenty years
What now?
Of your creation, God,
what is natural?
God beyond gender,
we don't know.
“I'm so sorry.”
In the blank – space – mum
you challenge me
beyond what is safe.
Most weeks my routine as Hospital Chaplain took me to the maternity wards. While there was plenty of joy, it was also a minefield of sensitivity. This was a learning experience for heart, soul and intellect.
Lover, I need a break
To consult my chaplain
Cos I can no longer stand the earthquake.
My sanity don’t think fake
Although doubts still remain
Lover, I need a break
Or else I’ll make a mistake
As fickle feelings I can’t any more contain
Cos I can no longer stand the earthquake.
Am I fake or awake?
Seems tricks are terrorizing my brain
Lover, I need a break.
Let me visit my lover’s lake
To clear my strain in the rain
Cos I can no longer stand the earthquake.
Lover, my brain don’t wreck
Or else you’ll lose my gregarious grain
Cos I need a break
Since I can no longer stand the earthquake.
Pain and struggle sometimes do take hold
Alone, terrible thoughts can take flight
Isolation intensifies, I feel so cold
A never ending descent into the night.
When a gentle gloved hand takes mine
And my pain soon begins to subside
And the darkness begins to decline
As a chaplain sits quietly at my bedside.
Hearing my plea for courage to return
Opening my soul for Him to come in
With the chaplains’ words, my soul did turn
Rebuilding with hope, to let healing begin.
Determined then to rise beyond the pain
This man of God helped me live again.
12/15/2016
Tooled up, the army chaplain
Is wielding the words of God
Straight in for the kill
With ‘The work of His will’
And ‘He came not with peace but the rod’
The sixth commandment is tricky
A most inconvenient law
For the turn of a cheek
On the battle field bleak
Is far from conducive to war
So, pity the army chaplain
And the conflict that rages within
As the ranks of the dead
Tramp a march through his head
And he murders his conscience with gin
by Gail
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