Morning full of old ghosts, dawn struggling to break iron clouds
Remembrances of coming into a far town in that ’51 New Yorker
He was so proud of
Thirty dollars in pocket, kids in tow, just enough to get us that
Welfare apartment, a cockroach there for every good intention.
Machine gun fire from the new places
At the bottom of the hill.
But I was happy to see an old man
Cane pole, going fishing happy even here
I could practice that most
Practical magic until I saw a muddy trickle
Filled with trash a long way from my Montana
Crystal creek teeming with cutthroat.
And what fire filled my father’s brain
Feeding cattle on that bitter morning
Calling him away to southern theology
And why do they come, these half-forgotten
Sorrows of morning with no heat or breakfast,
Useless things come to me
On the morning of old ghosts.
Too much sorrow, too much violence
Handed down like worn out clothes
God, Christ, Mary, Michael, all the angels
Whatever saints can hear,
Guard this beaten Baptist from old fears.
Ask me again and I tell you that I am
A beaten Baptist doubly predestined elect
Lonely in our chosen solitude, set apart
From what to whom? The world is a
Vale of sin and tears, world to come
Clouded by our fears
Of vague retribution
Of eternal doom
No peace, no peace I find
No heaven can we hold when everything
Fair and beautiful is corrupt and suspect.
Maybe it’s the eternal potluck!
Hot dish of pearl on folding tables of gold
Robert Redford angel pretzel dishes golden gate
Street tacos from the manna court as much as you
Can fit into your sanctified immaterial belly
Eternity in a short sleeve white shirt
Red white blue clip-on tie
Never-ending special service
(still casting sidelong glances at
the way that angel gown falls in folds along
her flanks)
Extended through the ages singing the songs
That make your jaw tired and your heart restless
Leaning on the pew out of habit
Since now you can sing eternally with never weary jaws
And your back will never hurt again as you stand
Singing the hundred and eleventh verse of
Victory in Jesus.
Ask me again, and I’ll tell you I’m a beaten Baptist
Can’t keep up the false enthusiasm, the car salesman pitch
For peace that passes understanding
Tired of wondering about the dread
Punishment handed out like poison
Halloween candy by the source
Of all Light and Love
Sick of this modern god of the flickering screen
Of the quick commercial success
Jaws tired, so long ago, of mouthing
Words that make no sense
Legs weary from standing in the pew of conformity
Ask me again and I tell you I’m a beaten Baptist
Who dreams a heaven filled with
Songs of birds, music of crystal
Streams teeming with trout
The beauty of the young never fading
A new world untainted by our sadness
(But maybe a little harmless axe fighting)
The cup that never runs dry of honey wine
Company that never turns tedious or
Depressed in drink
Song and story never ending, craic of ages
Agelessly calling to memory all that is worth keeping
And I guess, maybe,
Over there in the walled off corner
Like the tired old joke we can’t stop telling
The eternal business meeting of
Unbeaten Baptists, for those who can’t quit,
Still want to count, for those who still need
That old time religion.
Author: Duncan MacNae
Exiled Gael, scion of the Dust Bowl, dweller within Divine Grace, admirer of mountains, I have made my peace with trout and the starlings. Looking for a river and healing trees.
duncanmacduncan5@gmail.com
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