My Waifs

These days, I seem to be collecting waifs

like others collect stamps

or the numbers of trains.

It’s a queer hobby, I know,

and not one I’d recommend!

Unless you have a strong heart

and much time to lend.

They pop up as unknowns

at the foot of my screen,

urgently requesting

my immediate attention.

Sometimes I am glad of the company;

sometimes I am glad to be in demand,

for it gets lonely in my basement study

now that I am home alone,

with time at hand.

Sometimes the request

is an interruption of thought

or a distraction from

one endeavour or another.

Sometimes a moment

of solace is besought,

sometimes advice

as from an elder brother.

Always there is a need,

always a life is fraught.

Always there is pain,

always there is despair.

Generally, they are reticent

and coy at first;

but all it really takes

is an invitation to share

A “how can I help?” or a “how are you?”

and a whole sad life-story out does spew.

Some of death too much have seen,

Some by parent abandoned have been.

Some fear rejection for telling their truth.

Some condemn themselves

for being uncouth.

Some with guilt and self-despite

are burdened.

Some are so angry and

with violence consumed.

Some feel wound up tight

and fit to burst.

Some feel unloved

and for love sorely thirst.

Some have broken hearts

that will not mend.

Some see too clearly of this life the end.

Some feel empty and so, so sad.

Some feel wicked and so, so bad.

Some despair of finding peace.

Some in self-harm seek poor release.

Some seek solace in vodka or rhy.

Some their death themselves do try.

Each bares the scars of despite.

Each one cowers in the night:

frightened of the darkness

that lurks there as a sickness

threatening in its slickness

to overwhelm their soul

and render them unwhole.

I do what little I can to help and mend.

I listen, affirm and tell them I understand

(Because I do understand,

for I have been there.

I have ridden the bucking nightmare.

I have felt the gut-wrenching sorrow,

with no prospect of a dawning morrow.

I have had my full share of strife.

I have at times lost faith with life.)

I try to give them hope,

when faith they do not know.

I tell them they are loved;

that mercy they must show;

and that they must themselves

forgive and loose the guilt

that holds them fast and

has a fortress round them built.

I tell them life can be

a glorious exaltation

something of sturdy

and stalwart stone and ice:

something of fluid

and playful conflagration

varied and multiform,

yet stable and precise:

an intimation and disclosure

of heavenly eternity

thrusting forcefully and surely

into earthly futility.

So much sorrow, so much pain.

So many people lost and forlorn.

So many people in need.

So many souls to feed.

So little that I can do;

but I do what I can, will you?

The Popish Plot

Under the hallowed halls

the noble band had hid

cask on cask of powder

as stalwart Fawkes had bid.

The morn before King James

came to address his Lords

they crept unseen through darkest gloom

most unaware of their fell doom

down narrow ways unto that room

where waited men with swords.

To deeds extreme Fawkes had been led

by agents of the Crown,

who sought full long,

through shire and town,

some hapless man who’d loose his head

when he had carefully been fed

a silly, hopeless plan.

“Alas, we are found out!”

cried Fawkes, full of alarm.

“We are betrayed! Flee if you can!”

as he did spy the harm

that waited in the form of men

intent to thwart his naïve plot

to kill the King, the royal Scott,

and so to end the state’s foul rot

that stank as stagnant fen.

The brave souls were beat down

and trampled under foot

their hands were bound,

their necks were bent

their hope was from them cut.

They were brought forth in day’s sad ray

their love for Pope and slight of King

made plain for all the folk to see:

and they did anthems sing!

Unto a gallows tree

the plotters were soon brought

and they did dangle most merrily

as of the Earth their feet came short.

The people did rejoice

and tell with glee full keen

how good it was that popish plot

had wisely foilèd been.

And now we labour hard

’neath traitors’ iron hand

(of Whiggish temperament

who of their ill will not relent)

and hanker after that good Guy

who would have downcast tyranny

and set fair justice on the seat

so all might have what’s meet.