Colin F. Jones


Fictile worshipers of an absent ghost,
Congregate in a building made of stone,
With images arrayed to promote their host,
With imagined pictures of him shown.
They call their building the house of God,
Who remains inside when they leave,
Condemning others as home they plod,
Thoughts already planning to deceive.
They sing his praises ask for his aid,
Unto themselves taking ownership of him,
Taking sunshine from the shade,
Pretending that it is a sin to sin.
Then he is revived inside each head,
Hands held together before their bed.

There are whispers in the forest,
Sounds of insects, animals and birds,
Running water; applauding leaves,
Shadows running over herds.
It writhes and squirms; screams in horror,
Hunter hunts the hunter; deadly skill,
As it was yesterday it is tomorrow,
As cruel Mother Nature subjects her will.
Mark though the beauty of the slaughter,
The elegant lines before deaths stroke,
The graceful disfigurement of a hind quarter,
The strangle hold of a sharp fanged choke.
It is hard to picture a heavenly mind,
And the gentle touch is hard to find.

The gentle touch kept for secret places,
Where the darkest shadows evade the light,
Hidden expressions on hidden faces;
Gentle passion takes place at night.
The sweetest kiss the tender touching,
The soft caress; new life from birth,
Hides from the savage unrelenting,
Dog eat dog system of the Earth.
What is this writhing munching rhythm,
This cruel and merciless living jaw,
From where red saliva drips within it,
Giving rise in man to call it war.
We dare to hope some creator made it,
Who will one day return to change it all.