There is a semblance of disorder
Lurking on the brow of Gods’ ordained.
The first Pharisee, Pentecostal Blight
Refuses to worry his tribe
With idle talk of Gai’s revenge.
Towns may burn, lives are lost
But Pentecostal Blight maintains his outward calm
Raising neither sweat nor alarum.
Not so quiet:
These fires carve their way across the land.
II
In private
The Patrician sends his children
From the soot filled cities.
Publicly, he will not acknowledge
The decade’s dispatched warnings.
He watches the cricket instead
Marketing his brittle calm:
Parched of understanding
The science beyond his ken.
In his book of books
The earth was made for man’s abuse
But a staging cloth
For heroic human endeavors:
Digging up the coal
Damming the rivers
Culling all pesky creatures
From this dry old earth
(All would die in triumph for his tribe).
He would wait for the rapture of his god
But what had he and his flock done
To deserve such pestilence:
The horrors of drought and fire
Consuming their rich way of life?
Had he not prayed nightly for the return
Of Jehovah’s order
And yet white folk were now refugees
Cast out from their promised land?
Not so quiet:
These fires carve their way across the land.
III
Pentecostal Blight was deeply unsure.
Dark thoughts creased his brow:
This anger and worry were not expected.
For now, belief ebbs away
On the powerful currents of knowledge.
Quiet, not a word about the war!
Lives may be lost
But the semblance of order
Exists, in high belief
In god’s good craft, in thoughts and prayers.
The end would come.
He and his flock
Would be borne on high
Away from all those dying creatures
Pesky on the dry old earth.
But this sureness would not stretch into eternity:
Gai had trumped these fading nostrums.
Now, is revealed
On the brow of god’s ordained
The searing brand of failure:
The leader cowers in wanton disorder.
Impotent and fearful.
Not so quiet:
The fires of disbelief carve their way across his mind.
December 2019
Gar Jones
Lurking on the brow of Gods’ ordained.
The first Pharisee, Pentecostal Blight
Refuses to worry his tribe
With idle talk of Gai’s revenge.
Towns may burn, lives are lost
But Pentecostal Blight maintains his outward calm
Raising neither sweat nor alarum.
Not so quiet:
These fires carve their way across the land.
II
In private
The Patrician sends his children
From the soot filled cities.
Publicly, he will not acknowledge
The decade’s dispatched warnings.
He watches the cricket instead
Marketing his brittle calm:
Parched of understanding
The science beyond his ken.
In his book of books
The earth was made for man’s abuse
But a staging cloth
For heroic human endeavors:
Digging up the coal
Damming the rivers
Culling all pesky creatures
From this dry old earth
(All would die in triumph for his tribe).
He would wait for the rapture of his god
But what had he and his flock done
To deserve such pestilence:
The horrors of drought and fire
Consuming their rich way of life?
Had he not prayed nightly for the return
Of Jehovah’s order
And yet white folk were now refugees
Cast out from their promised land?
Not so quiet:
These fires carve their way across the land.
III
Pentecostal Blight was deeply unsure.
Dark thoughts creased his brow:
This anger and worry were not expected.
For now, belief ebbs away
On the powerful currents of knowledge.
Quiet, not a word about the war!
Lives may be lost
But the semblance of order
Exists, in high belief
In god’s good craft, in thoughts and prayers.
The end would come.
He and his flock
Would be borne on high
Away from all those dying creatures
Pesky on the dry old earth.
But this sureness would not stretch into eternity:
Gai had trumped these fading nostrums.
Now, is revealed
On the brow of god’s ordained
The searing brand of failure:
The leader cowers in wanton disorder.
Impotent and fearful.
Not so quiet:
The fires of disbelief carve their way across his mind.
December 2019
Gar Jones