Compostela or Knock — Wherever

    Compostela or Knock — Wherever

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem 

The saints are dressed in all their silks and gems

As never in their holy lives before

Their martyrdoms or whatever.  The hems

Below their statue knees approach the floor

Within their niche within the shrine.  Prayers

Wrapped round with incense make their way to ears

That cannot hear.  Each sacred eyeball stares

Straight forward.  It does not see pilgrim tears

Much less does unseen statue tongue taste salt

And sorrow in them.  Penitents kneel down

And beg.  Implorings, thick-tongued, never halt

Till church doors close.  At last the saints can frown.

  The priests go off and have their tea, of course.

    This jeweled religion has become that coarse.

~ Phillip Whidden

by phillipw | Aug 12, 2024 | CH, CO, FR, KN, RE, RO, SA, SU | 0 comments