The Stuff of Souls

My soul, if I have a soul, is like a camel

Bearing baggage that will surely break its back,

Lodged between twin humps of past and future

Present of quicksand, futile, heroic, another Joan of Arc.

The menace of prayer, a double-edged sword

Recital of misery to give birth to misery more.

Create a life to shield from life the truth

Delirium and half-dream stranded on dreamings shore.

Sheltered ambling from noon to dusk

Wreck of a man, ripe, or onset of decay.

Eyes, lashless and bloodshot, half conviction in a glance

Stretching life’s allowance, boughs and branches, no leaves today.

Older than my years, no sap reaching my roots

Conscience sleeps fitfully, soul’s door ajar

Waiting the stress test of time

Higher office beckons, surely a bridge too far.

And the Lord might say, if He exists,

“What’s your pleasure”?

I couldn’t answer, wouldn’t know

The magic of such measure.

Can moral disease be fought by human means?

Or is the concept futile and absurd

Why is man less finite than hoar frost?

Why is God a household word?

Florid faith, in flesh filled collar white,

Martyrdom in cassock, routine religion overdrawn still,

The problem of all flesh is self-inflicted

The bigger problem, problem of Gods will.

The sea of pain laps ever, ever spewing

Time never stops, looks sideways or forgives

Conclusion, no conclusion, vanity appeased for now

What does it matter to our dead for whom the past alone lives.

Where are the million others who aspire to do better?

Hell of human longing stamped on each brow,

Stripped trees, grey mossy lawn, relics of summer

Bloom and blossom, colour and scent, where are they now?

How can we find a way to see the working of each other?

Mock manliness and bravery, repose in bed the same,

Lend me your eyes and I’ll see you as might your mother

Rabbit and rook hail the keeper; they know they are the game.