The final invitation

No one invites me to parties any more.

I am no longer hip or cool.

I have no part in hit parade.

I’m long in tooth and short of hair

except on chin and arms and ears.

No one invites me to parties any more.

The trend has past me by.

I have no part in cabaret.

My face don’t fit, my ideas ain’t right;

except for grins and cool disdain.

No one invites me to parties any more.

The ocean’s swell is calm.

I have no part in any crew,

nor role on any stage or board;

except the last: to quit this coil.

No one invites me to parties any more;

but one awaits: my call

away to part this shadow life,

and face the charge and fiery fateⁱ

excepting none: to wake anew.

i“Every man’s work shall be made manifest: for the day shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by fire; and the fire shall try every man's work of what sort it is. If any man's work abide which he hath built thereupon, he shall receive a reward. If any man’s work shall be burned, he shall suffer loss : but he himself shall be saved; yet so as by fire.”
[1Cor 3:13-15 KJV]

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.