Priest and Altar

The old priest clings
     fast
and with fearful fingers
     to the altar slab
     that
     long has stood
in this faithful place
     this place of filial hope.
His heart is now
    quite cold
    dead as the stone
    his hands tight hold:
    cold as its silent speech.
His soul is withered
    as autumnal leaves
    which fall from stricken trees
to dampen, darken
and decay
– or else to burn
on bonfire bright
to briefly lighten up the night
and end their feeble, futile span
no sooner than by them began.

His eyes flare out with tears:
     precious gems of salty woe.
He mourns mortality
    and loss of love
    and failing hope
and desiccated faith
    which flaunts its false solace
though he, like Faustus his forebear,
    is far beyond
    all scope of grace.

His mouth frames silent syllables
    which if were spoke
    might shrive his soul;
but no words, fair or foul,
    escape his narrow lips
nor e’en inchoate grunt slips
    out: no sacrament of hope.

The old priest slumps
    devoid
    of breath and and word
on the altar slab
    that
    long has stood
in this fateful place
    this place of filial hope.
His heart is now
    quite cold
    dead as the stone
    his hands un-hold:
    cold as its silent speech.
His soul is withered
    as autumnal leaves
    which fall from stricken trees
to dampen, darken
and decay
– or else to burn
on bonfire bright
to briefly lighten up the night
and end their feeble, futile span
no sooner than by them began.

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 Dark Light Shines

In the night the dark light shines,

deep within the shadows.

In the dimness softly glows,

the heart of all believing.

Cold my brain and dim my eyes

and yet I grope on, hoping

(despite my fears and anger hard

and desperation growing)

that it is there, and solace gives;

gainsaying all appearance.

I come upon the deep abyss

of hate and pain and sorrow

where love is lost and swallowed up

in fulgin eve that vastly falls

to spite all word of morrow.

I drink my fill the brook of loss

that plunges there in torrent

down cruel rocks that know no joy

but battered are by years of bloody woe.

My thirst assuaged, I risk the sight

gained at the chasm’s brink.

I stare into the dark of death: the end of being fell.

I feel it steel into my soul and recognise it full well

for what has always present been amidst my tawdry hopes;

the lie to all my vanities, the cusp of all conceits,

the worm that gnaws my heart away:

the knowledge of mortality.

I long to fly the deep descent

which offers me release

from suffering and hate,

to embrace the arms of hostile rock

and shatter in their urgent grasp:

to spend my life in one last spill of blood;

but at the edge

some unsought instinct speaks,

an unseen hand does stay my step,

and I pull back.

But I am lost, I have no guide

to tend my way or point me right.

As I advance the choice repeats

again and again, without release,

’twixt life and death, ’twixt good and ill.

But why chose life, when life itself is ill

and offers naught but pain

and prospect more of same?

Surely ’tis better to be dead

and put an end to doubt and dread

if life itself’s a living death!

But still ’tis life I choose,

though it is fraught with woe;

for one thing’s clear:

that if I once choose death

there will be no ’morrow

in which to make another choice;

no chance to regret any choice,

no chance to grow,

not even chance to know

the pain of loss and of sorrow.

While there’s life there’s room for hope,

even if that hope be false;

and, though false hope is foul

and ne’re to be desired

(a spectre which despises life

yet offers what it hates)

still, life will always demand hope

and hope will promise life

in everlasting play

and dance reciprocal.

Perforce, I live in hope;

and, though I may in despair die,

I can not help but hope

or else, e’en now, I die.

Far in the West, I glimpse the end

of all my paths and choices.

No matter if I soon find joy

in little things of hearth and home,

or greater things of art and skill,

or greatest things of wisdom’s kin,

or even love that thrills my soul

and my whole heart does win;

still I shall die

and all my enterprise shall come to naught.

All I hold dear shall be undone

my fine conceits be futile shown.

So what for hope and life?

This life is dying as it lives: it is not e’en itself!

The law of identity it denies

and can’t keep faith with its own name!

Its hope leads surely to the clammy grave:

and so is shown most truly false!

Still, in the night the dark light shines,

deep within the shadows.

In the dimness softly glows,

the heart of all believing.

Cold my brain and dim my eyes

and yet I grope on, hoping

(despite my fears and anger hard

and desperation growing)

that it is there, and solace gives;

gainsaying all appearance.