ST. STEPHAN'S CATHEDRAL CONCERT

There is beauty in a cathedral,
an edifice built labouriously by hand,
with sacrifice of many lives
that stands for hundreds of years
carved of stone made living
by faith of many calloused hands,
santified by worship of generations
of faithful souls,
beauty in the stainglass, the sculpture
the archetecture.

there must be truth here
could all this be spent to build a lie?
so I come to a concert here
not a worshipper, but searching.

I found karma creating
a world without grace,
crowds seated with backs to the altar,
karmic poetry sung with remarkable voice
thrown from a tower,
clothes torn from a battle of axes and swords,
a violent rape in mouldy hay,
singing at the matrix of the crucifix
where Jesus’ heart would dying beat
in a sanctuary monument to a saviour, forgiveness,
death and victorious resurrection,
built and filled generation after generation
with simple foolish unsophisticatd faith.

Empty now, spiders fill it
with gigantic webs catching stainglass lights
in colors sorrowing among
ensnaring strands,
flashing spotlights,
pounding drums,
mindless repeating phrases,
descending, descending, descending
into relflective shallow pools of self pity,
perfect circles before a giant
lifeless idol in silent repose.

THEY COME

Dirty jackals with glowing eyes
gather this black of moon;
upon what prey are they intent,
glaring past midnight into the Charybdis?

coarse hair, protruding ribs,
slavering bitten tongues,
what malevolent doom
keeps them circle-milling
on dancing feet
beneath my blackened spruce?

coiled springs,
crouching in this wild north,
what civilization about to fall,
bleeding from too many wounds,
what nation, what system collapse?

Jackals have been strangers to this land,
where shall be found
a Carcass for them on this green continent
and bones?

The jackal’s God has summoned them,
He will provide.