December 20th, 2004

From"Decoded" The arrival


This Sunday at D&S Mass I ordained a Priest and a Priestess, packed house. Last Sunday I did some KEWs. Been a busy month. Nice to see the transfer of the Prison Ministry as having gone so well.

In any case, my friends Mr. & Mrs. Nance had a sort of solstice party, which was gonna include a poetry reading on Winter themes, but y'all know parties, so I composed this really tight depressing thing you're about to read, but, predictably, I would up reading it to one or two people who thought I was mispronouncing "Thimble Winter" whatever that might be. Bowing to Fate, here ya good, pain junkies and depressives and seasonal blues cats:


Dying Earth, Sighing World
Wind whipped, snow drift
White on white, drag on Night.
Tree skeletons naked cannot hide
Cold Moon, Frozen stars, Empty static skies.
All are dead or have died – "Fimblewinter."
The Norsemen said, the portent of the final dread.
Season of the Wolf, Season of the Hoof
Ragnorok beats on the roof.
Mythic fancy Northern dreams
Or nightmare vision of what seems
Not so far away, in this splendid day?
At One Minute to Midnight, no memory
Of daylight remains.

Midnight train to New Orleans,
I saw by lunar glow, reflected
Gothic Tombs erected above ground
A polis of the departed, keeps water out
Inches below; water to rot the rotting dead
Beneath marble crosses, the crucified
All have died and turned to mildewed dust.
I was twelve, but tasted death
Through the window of the train,
I could hear the silent refrain
Of the stillness, in the dark
Oddling park of monuments.
I grew up that day – I knew
Winter’s never far away.
Dance and drink deep while you may.
The shadows loom, they smile, they wait
They know the secret of our fate.
Sooner perhaps, but even late
Not far, not far, to the Gate
No man can cross alive
No pious Christian will survive.
Our tricks, our schemes,
Our empty spells, the games we play in
Private Hells, just mark the sands of time
Running down, running blind.
Ship of fools, ship water on
Soon we sink, soon we’re gone.
Abyss swallows abyss.
That is that, this is this.

On an entirely different note, Sheila my wife of seven and a half years is constantly working the 'net for obscure political causes. I should never complain: who was it that went up a mountain every St. Patty's day and transmitted my own rendition of IRA fighting songs, ending with such little of the Gallic as I could do well. Collapse )
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