canned indifferents

Oh so typical - I sat there today saying and thinking that I hadn't been writing poems for a bit (aka a few weeks) and that I was not in a poem-y mood at all. Then, a joke with Mogget and a challenge from Chelsea later, what did I do but become inspired to write a poem?! Such is the way of fickle artsiness.

Here is a weird poem. It might seem very much like something it really is not.




canned indifferents

"I bring before you," said the judge,
"A man of diverse crimes.
Engaging in
Satirical philosophies, and
Stentorian apologies;
he is a man most snared."

And the congregation looked;
they wondered what was coming next.

But the nut-haired boy in the back
thought about the portrait
that hung upon the wall,
small-framed: not a saint.
Why though did the philosopher
who wrote of such diverse
crimes and inhumanities
Smile in his picture?

Scales on a brown back:
The young priest tapping his book
in nervousness.
The choir's eyes - watching him;
He needed to deliver -
something pure, he thought:
ambrosia?

But outside, out, out, out,
the thunderclouds contrasted
with heavenly blue lights.
And someone must be thinking
how nice it will be
to feel the rain

The judge began. "Did he care enough?
Wheedle enough
or Borrow?"
But the jumble fell
cat's-cradle-wise

And the people stirred
wading knee-
deep in little pools
in reverie
One said, Simplicity
and They decided
tomorrow could just be
happy.

   felt
they did not know
but it was all
okay