Colin F. Jones

~ God and War ~
GOD’S POETS AND PREACHERS

~ 1 ~

First we make the sorrow; all things sad,
Then sprinkle it with reason and some fear,
Make all roads rumpled that they look so bad,
That all the joy will conveniently disappear.
We stoke these fires until they blaze in flame,
And add more coals a furnace to produce,
Until it’s all the time that we complain,
And plead to God “Oh hell what is the use.”
Then we glory in being Gods firemen with a hose,
And spray the flames but not to put them out,
For we can’t function if the hot grates close,
And none will hear us when we loudly shout.
What is this passion for writing of our dread,
In a living world which feasts upon its dead?

~ 2 ~

Despite the sorrow the despair and the fears,
The dwelling in the morbid world of death,
The making of perpetual spilling tears,
There is the smell of contentment on our breath.
For due to this we invite the Lord to come,
And solve the problems we alone can solve,
But are possessed when all is said and done,
That by lingering stress the spirit will evolve.
I can’t live life by painting it so bleak,
By training all my thoughts to mourn the dead,
Tis a happy world that my old mind doth seek,
For all I am lives only in my head.
Thus I make not God the servant of recall,
And seek my peace in whatever may befall.

~ 3 ~

Who are these vultures that feed on lack of joy,
Who swoop right in as soon as they smell tear,
And quickly their foul doctrines do deploy,
Nourished by the existence of your fear.
Are they not vultures in the clothes of doves,
Fanning with their wings the sadder flames,
Shaking all your hands yet wearing gloves,
While stealing from your hearts the love it claims.
They are not people as most living people are;
They are but servants of an absent host,
Who hide their characters in an act bazaar;
Behind the righteous doctrines they do boast.
But few will notice who live on being sad,
But it matters not if it makes their hearts feel glad.

~ 4 ~

Would I about religious things debate,
With a priest who claims to have no mortal doubt,
I’d more receive instruction out of hate,
Than the truth of life he’d tell me much about.
I’d learn much more from a pagan’s ways,
Than from a preachers ever repetitive tongue,
For I note he believes in all the words he says,
Without much doubting that he may be wrong.
None could doubt there is a spirit God,
Who made the Earth or from it came to be,
But one can doubt that souls rise from the sod,
And rise as Spirits into the heavenly sea.
For none can know though they might well believe,
That by their faith they may their hopes conceive.