Whit-Monday, all its names not here;
Doomsday rapture; again postpone;
Whit-Sunday, dove soars in the air.
War is here, there and everywhere;
Earth a-spinning with truth and lies;
Gaddafi acting out King Lear.
Gaddafi wears stained underwear;
Painful flames in Afghanistan;
Road blocks the Pentecostal cheer.
Birth of Christian Church we revere;
Wearing garments of sunshine white;
Speaking in tongues with Golda Meir.
Holy Spirit in US, that's clear;
Touched Apostles, with Pentecost;
Human's wits adrifting, worse nightmare.
Honoring God we feast with prayer
Wine drunk, from Holy Ghost' chalice;
Whitsun dancing shoes reappear;
Storms and minds of hate disappear.
© Paterika Hengreaves
St James, Barbados/June 10, 2011
Thanks for a very enjoyable poem which floed and ebbed with much meaning for me. The previous poem also struck a chord as it was my dear wife's birthday yesterday. What did I give her. Airtickets for her and our two boys to spend two months in Kazakhstan and Turkey for their holidays.
ReplyDeleteMuch better than flowers and underwear that doesn't fit.
Keep up the inspiring poetry.