The great key

It is colder than the thermometer claims

as we near the end of the season

the season of dying

the fall

felt all the more keenly for fasting

hunger leaves space for faith.

The gate lies open

and the inscription above bids me enter.

Music comes from within

although no service is in train

and standing here on the threshold

only ancient oak separates me from God

but the door stays closed to me

the great key was turned from the other side.

(c) 2013 The Slush Poet

Not one of my better Fridays

Smoking is no longer part of life, says Andrew Lansley

The Guardian, Good Friday, 6 April 2012

Walking away from Calgary

some of us were keen for a spliff

or a stiff shot of vodka straight

from the bottle. Something to help us

forget why we needed so badly

to forget him. We certainly

didn’t feel like talking about him

sober and po-faced. ‘Remember me,’

he’d said, forgetting to mention

his most recent carpentry project,

the one he’d been dragging

his feet on, but finally struck

the last true nail through today.

Oh, he’d whispered something

to Judas, his favourite, but us

he just let eat his bread and drink

his wine with no word of warning

about the aftertaste. We don’t know

what we’ve done, but soon

it’ll be cold and I’ll catch my death

if I can’t smoke a cigarette.

(c) 2012 Slush Poet

Dave Allen at large

Gay marriage is like slavery, Catholic leader says

The Telegraph, 5 March 2012

Did you hear the one about
the priest whose ranting left him hoarse
so he heaved a hateful dogma out

his arse?

He said, God gave Adam Eve to care
for his children and his every wish,
and lest she wander had her wear

a leash.

It’s plain the man should dominate
in marriage, and for that a woman’s
an essential extra to abate

confusion.

And in the end your bottom’s not for sharing,
but to give the word of God an airing.


(c) 2012 Slush Poet

Beyond Damascus

Court upholds St Paul’s eviction

Financial Times, 22 February 2012

Beyond Damascus

an ideological fissure sprang

from the Vatican to Karachi

over swaying Afghan

opium pastures, whose legacy

became a looking-glass prophecy;

there were two opposing

versions of the same litany:

they might just have been inept

translations of the divine;

and young Americans

arrived at Bagram fresh

meat from Fort Worth, Texas,

their minds on homecoming

queens until time alone

fortified them with wisdom

to distinguish dates from figs;

but there are no trees outside

the gates of Bagram, Saul,

so think again before you turn.

(c) 2012 Slush Poet