The rottenness of it all is no less foul for having been bleached white. This is the conclusion I come to. I walk with a scarf covering my mouth through the dimly lit catacombs of the faithful. The arched ceiling holds a dangling string of incandescent bulbs which cast a sickly yellow glow on my shoes and the cavities full of thighbones. “Why are all the bones the same,” I ask. The guide smiles. “Tens of thousands of heaven seekers wish to be buried here. There’s only so much room,” he said. “Even today people pay for holy ground.” Ghostly, armless, rib-less, headless, specters seem to rise un-braced, oh the indignity of it all. I picture them searching for the missing parts of themselves. I sneeze through my paisley scarf, stumble back; back, following the arrows in reverse, seeking the way out; just as frantically as they had sought the way in. The rest of the group trudges on; after all, they had paid their coin to Charon.
First Published in Inwood Indiana January 2014
Categories:
thighbones, adventure, allusion, faith,
Form: Prose Poetry
Cast out devils
Once holy building
Deserted and abandoned
No more holy rites
Dead vicar’s skull and thighbones
Used by Satanists there now
* A true story - the Satanists were forced to leave and the church was reconsecrated
Jack Horne for Constance's Church by the Ocean contest, 23rd September
Categories:
thighbones, life,
Form: Tanka
Furious I rushed to strike,
My fists were all made and,
The inner violence riveted all on target,
I swiveled and swirled on my toes,
And took that mighty sweep,
As my muscular armature shook and sweat,
My thighbones turned taut,
And leg muscles screwed up like hell,
Chest huffed and heaved up and down,
I knew the moment had come to deliver,
And deliver with bang I did,
The target did not move and was hit real bad,
I had almost killed him but fell short,
Because before I could try again he had taken off,
And honestly I did not have enough for that second blow,
And with every passing day and foe,
I feel the same,
Something inside of me is drying up fast.
Shishir Gupta
Categories:
thighbones, philosophy,
Form: Free verse