Our Temples

There is no vinyl
siding in this neighborhood
And eyes pass from one
bedraggled shack to
another, or are they
mansions of managed
life, lived at a pace
which wooly eyes such
as mine cannot

In that place on top
of the hill, those homes
that seem pretty until
nobody can afford the
Mexicans to come and
clean them? I can
enjoy them like a man
peruses a pin up they
look nice as long as
the insides stay inside
the white-washed
vessels that dwell
in these tall tombs.

And then one day they
all fall out and the trucks
come and take the long
couches and entrails
of broken eyes that weep
salt water and the bones
of the children's children
are there watching from
wombs yet to be born
and baptisms are done
three times in tears
of would-be martyrs
who die now daily.

And then there we are
Amongst the shotgun houses
Here we can "feel
The pain of everyone"
But it is beautiful not
because pain is pleasure
Or evil good or greatness
Of no account

But paint on wood is more
Honest how each man must
Somewhat wear his heart
For others to see blazoned
Across his buttress
Ere each castle a coat
of arms arrayed of angels
And nobody lies
For long.

1 comment:

  1. Yes, my pain is felt for those whose temples are groaning for release from these battered walls. Yet, here lies the knowledge that robes of righteousness will adorn those temples who have been baptismally washed (and not white-washed).

    If what Chesterton says is true about Rome ("Men did not love Rome because she was great. She was great because they had loved her"), it may very well be true for His Church. Christ, the Bridegroom did not love His Church, His Bride because she was beautiful. But through His Love, She is made resplendent.

    These temples of ours hold something more than we can ever imagine.


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