| Mea Maxima Culpa ~ Funeral in a Small Village |
Wobbling plastic wood ceiling fans
wave the Asiatic blue Morrocan tiles.
Flickering stained glass sun rays paint
‘Jesus Tombe la 2eme fois’ blood red.
(They wiped his brow but still he died)
Brass numbered pews, foreshortened
for a smaller race, hat hooks empty,
splintered kneeler hard, bumpy and worn.
Misdeeds of a small village securely locked,
tightly held in unused confessional crypts.
Misplaced Irish orphans, their red haired
progeny, defiantly wave the blue and white
Fleur des Lis de Quebec, with freckled hands,
dipped in the font of baptismal propaganda,
Their history forgotten, their history denied.
Cloying casket flower sprays dip, drip
on the insipid singer’s quailing voice.
An ancient priest reads the ‘scripted’ life
no pause for English ears to catch up,
No chance to laugh, no chance to weep.
So, I sketch the ageing congregation
Mme. Heafey with her 1972 trap line
wolf and worn fur coat, cloche hat pinned
to over-permed, over-blonded pink hair,
thin wedding rings grafted to her plump finger.
Alphonse, missal in hand, smiles intoxicant
‘Prier pour nous’ aka pray for the bar to open.
His kinky haired daughter, Marie-Josee enduring
The life of domestic drudgery. Her mother left
too early, too tired, too drunk & too dead.
Francois (Frank), college handsome buff,
touches la derriere de Lise, the village
One-stop-one-shop entrepreneur beauty.
He - the surprised lunch special-of-the-day
(Half-price, double-the-service, supplies included,
funeral rates for the recently deceased)
Nauseas claustrophobia wafts on incensed air,
giddiness guides my pen, happily it seems.
Tansy tickles & rosy pickles
Puffin clouds & a winkle crinkles
Flossing floozies & whambam cruizies
mea culpa,
mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa
Pardon the priest
Buy him a walker.
Amen
AMB©2003
wave the Asiatic blue Morrocan tiles.
Flickering stained glass sun rays paint
‘Jesus Tombe la 2eme fois’ blood red.
(They wiped his brow but still he died)
Brass numbered pews, foreshortened
for a smaller race, hat hooks empty,
splintered kneeler hard, bumpy and worn.
Misdeeds of a small village securely locked,
tightly held in unused confessional crypts.
Misplaced Irish orphans, their red haired
progeny, defiantly wave the blue and white
Fleur des Lis de Quebec, with freckled hands,
dipped in the font of baptismal propaganda,
Their history forgotten, their history denied.
Cloying casket flower sprays dip, drip
on the insipid singer’s quailing voice.
An ancient priest reads the ‘scripted’ life
no pause for English ears to catch up,
No chance to laugh, no chance to weep.
So, I sketch the ageing congregation
Mme. Heafey with her 1972 trap line
wolf and worn fur coat, cloche hat pinned
to over-permed, over-blonded pink hair,
thin wedding rings grafted to her plump finger.
Alphonse, missal in hand, smiles intoxicant
‘Prier pour nous’ aka pray for the bar to open.
His kinky haired daughter, Marie-Josee enduring
The life of domestic drudgery. Her mother left
too early, too tired, too drunk & too dead.
Francois (Frank), college handsome buff,
touches la derriere de Lise, the village
One-stop-one-shop entrepreneur beauty.
He - the surprised lunch special-of-the-day
(Half-price, double-the-service, supplies included,
funeral rates for the recently deceased)
Nauseas claustrophobia wafts on incensed air,
giddiness guides my pen, happily it seems.
Tansy tickles & rosy pickles
Puffin clouds & a winkle crinkles
Flossing floozies & whambam cruizies
mea culpa,
mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa
Pardon the priest
Buy him a walker.
Amen
AMB©2003