I am, said Trump, the Chosen One
There are no other Gods but me
Fall on your knees before the Son
I am, said Trump, the Chosen One
Come not with peace but with a gun
Not for me then against me be
I am, said Trump, the Chosen One
There are no other Gods but me
© Gail Foster 22nd August 2019
The Choir of St. John the Baptist, Devizes
sing Evensong at St. Paul’s Cathedral
4th January 2017
*
The Temple of St. Paul’s, at Evensong;
The voices of our little children ring
In tones divine, as through the ages long
Our fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters sing
How lofty, lowly, wide, and deep, and high
The mystery, the magnitude, the sound
How thunderous, the whispered gilded sigh
Of doves that fall from dome to holy ground
On altar bright; what sacrifice is this
This mass of light, this sungen density
This quantum quality, this ancient bliss
That renders speechless such a man as me
I fall upon my knees upon the floor
Sing, children, songs as these, for evermore
*
© Gail Foster 6th January 2017
*
He cast a crouton on the water
Watched it sog upon the swell
What came back was lava bread
And Chelsea buns as well
…
She threw in an expensive cake
‘Twas softer than a futon
But what came back upon the waves
Was just a soggy crouton
*
© Gail Foster 2016
*
The Publican and the Pharisee went for a walk after church
One wore pride and majesty, the other the marks of the birch
“I say, my man,” said the Pharisee, “will you tell if I come to your inn?”
“My lips are sealed,” said the Publican “let us sup of the wine of your sin”
The Publican and the Pharisee quaffed back a couple of jars
And then another two, then three, for such is the way in bars
And as they drank their wine, an odd phenomenon occurred
The crown of hubris lost its shine, the marks of the birch became blurred
“I say, my man,” said the Pharisee, “I’m feeling a little queer”
The Publican chuckled, mischievously, “Time for some shorts, and some beer”
The Pharisee, unused to drink, began to loose a screw
Became dishevelled, sweaty, pink, made a desperate run for the loo
Got locked in for a while, and had to crawl under the door
Got stuck, well hey, you have to smile, for half an hour or more
Was rescued by some rugby blokes, who loaned him some spare kit
And made up lots of witty jokes, about Pharisees covered in it
The Publican, sat at the bar, surveyed his sorry state
He wondered if he’d gone too far, in setting up his mate
“Just sit,” he said, “and listen well, for this I have to say
If I am surely bound for hell I’ll meet you on the way
You are no better, Sir, than I, no better, and no worse
Your spiritual wealth is an arrogant lie, and your pride is a cardinal curse
I’m no angel, I confess, but hypocrisy, mate, I abhor
I reckon I should grovel less, and you just a little bit more”
The Pharisee gave a little nod, and hiccupped in assent
Muttered softly “Sorry God”, and got his coat and went
The Publican then rang the bell, poured out a short, and sat
“Oh come on, God, you know the bloke, he really asked for that”
*
© Gail Foster 2016
*
Grandad says that Easter isn’t funny
You won’t find him at parties
Dressed up as the Easter bunny
He’ll not be scoffing chocolate eggs
Or anything like that
He’ll be putting on his Sunday best
And dusting off his hat
For Grandad is an Anglican
Of serious intent
Does bible study when he can
And gave up cake for Lent
He says that Jesus died for me
And I’d best not forget it
But seeing as I’m only three
I’m sorry, I don’t get it
My Granny, now my Granny, mind
She has a different view
She leaves me little eggs to find
In places like my shoe
The smell of Granny’s hot cross buns
Is paradise and bliss
She makes me little special ones
Topped with a tiny kiss
Granny says God loves me
As she makes my Easter bonnet
With a smile as she carefully
Sews flowers and bees upon it
Let Grandad do religious stuff
The crucifixion thing
I’m only really old enough
For Granny, and the Spring
…
Grandad’s back from church now
Saying “Jesus rose for you”
“Well, bless us all” my Granny says
“The buns are risen too”
*
by Gail
Well, well, Welby
Beg your pardon
He’s got three Poles
At the bottom of his garden*
And joining in with daily prayers
Some Syrians beneath the stairs
Asylum seekers in his shed
And Communists
Beneath his bed
He’s just doing what he can
To pander to the ‘common’ man
To separate the issues, see
Of race and the economy
With good intent to bridge the gap
‘Twixt logic and the racist cr*p
For Welby is a diplomat
Just in case, and just like that
It’s not that we’re a racist state
Good luck with that one, Welby, mate
Imagine pubs across the land
The dodgy banter, beer in hand
That Archbishop got it right
We’re all white mate, we’re all white
Share our wealth with all the planet?
Outrageous! (outraged Bob from Thanet)
But what of all the fish and bread
With which five thousand mouths were fed
Would Jesus Christ have found it hard
To put up Poles in his back yard?
by Gail
* A play on the words of an English joke, “Well, well, well, three holes in the garden!”
*
The curious offerings of sacristans
Are given in obscure humility
The symbol of the cupping of the hands
Enshrines the essence of this mystery
The dawn unlocked; the turning of a key
The mystic world behind the little door
The mourning weepers, watching, silently
The quiet foot upon uneven floor
The layered shadowed centuries; the pass
Of long dead worshippers before the throne
Slow shifts of coloured pools of stains of glass
Soft drift of latticed light on pillar stone
The empty candle, thirsting for new oil
Unscrewed and filled, screwed up again and lit
The hidden corners, carved by masons’ toil
In which a wary flickered flame may flit
The covering, uncovering; each fold
Of linen and of altar cloth an art
Within the starch of white, on marble cold
The space to hold His living, beating heart
Here, understated wafers wait in line
For blessing, as an unblessed congregation
Here silver, water, light, and red wine shine
Anticipating sacred consecration
Here eye, and hand, and mind, seek symmetry
In objects placed, in psychic ebbs and flows
Seek that perfection only God can see
In right angle and scented mystic rose
When all are done and gone, her hands will shake
The fragments of His flesh on holy ground
Shed drops upon the earth its thirst to slake
Pour water through the light without a sound
When all are gone, all blessed with wine and bread
There, in the East, where better men have trod
She kneels and presses to the step her head
And, lost in awe, she speaks these words to God
I am that ancient soul you always knew
A part of you, from when time first began
The I am that I am, the that in you
That serves thee, as I will, while still I can
I come to you as Christian, Muslim, Jew
Agnostic, Gnostic, Druid, Angel, Man
In the cupping of my hands I give to you
The curious offering of the sacristan
*
© Gail Foster 2016
*
This poem has been chosen as Poem of the Month at Sherborne Abbey
I’m thrilled
*
For the congregations of St. John’s and St. Mary’s, Devizes
*
Within a pumpkin’s hollow is a candle burning bright
We have prayed the dead to silence, we have sent them to the light
Bring in dark November, let the winter cold begin
Stick the heating on and let the Saints come marching in
There will be icy dawns and fireworks, dank leaves and naked trees
We shall wish for Christmas jumpers to protect against the freeze
Is it colder now than last year? Oh, where did the year go
By the time we’ve got a grip we will be sliding in the snow
We will remember that November gives birth to the Advent season
And that once the knives were out for Fawkes for gunpowder and treason
We shall wish for bonfires high enough to chase the night away
As we watch the winter shadows fill the corners of the day
We have been tricked, we have been cheated; now it’s all downhill from here
Until we come to rest, at Christmas, when a new light will appear
*
by Gail
the crazy preacher man
he speaks
to me
I and the crowd
hypnotised
confused
and squinting
his shadow stands
before the sun
his silver words
are slivering
forth from ancient nets
fisher of men
gathering
it may be so
maybe it was
ever so
and so
some say
it may well
ever be
yet know ye this
that nothing new
shall ever stand
against the sun
and speak as He
*
by Gail
The North Door of the church of St. John the Baptist, Devizes
by Gail
gailfromdevizes 