The Poet Awaiting the Judge

A lengthy piece based on some of the poets I have come to know studying literature, this is dedicated to all my poetry and literary junkies who have experienced transformation at the hand of a pen.  :-) You know who you are. If you don't know poetry, perhaps it will inspire you to learn more. It is a poetic piece that explores the emotions a poet may experience at the end of their days when preparing to stand before the Maker. Enjoy! 

The Poet Awaiting the Judge

My roommate, he is

Chaucer his name

Who’s work it would seem

Used laughter for shame.

An intelligent sort

But frightful is he

Who writes outside reason

His text—poetry.

We await turn at the table

An appointment with Judge

Who loves beyond reason

Yet who may hold a grudge

Chaucer the poet

And then there is I

A writer for people

Yes fewer years have passed by.

Our cellmates, we call them

Await the judge as well

A female companion

We are sure doomed to hell

Who cannot control her desire of men

Who marries new lovers

Again and again.

Sir Gawain, quite the fellow

Both naughty and nice

Seems to be quite the saint

Yet romance his vice.

Faithful to his Godhead

Yet to lovers as well

It seems his inner passions

Cause his judgement to swell.

He brings with him witnesses

To lodge his defense

That a good king and princess

Who live on the fence

Between loyalty and love

A young knight in between

But passion holds promise

At the hand of a queen.

Their language is odd

These awaiters that speak

With broken English that sounds

Less English than Greek.

They stand and perform

With passionate gait

And outshout one another

And less impatiently wait. 

And I as a poet

Am shamelessly bold

Interfering with the banter

From these poets of old.

With courage I take

The floor, its my turn!

And I stand there before them

Speak loudly and burn

With quite the same passion

As they, though I know

I’ve balanced my passion

And religion just so.

For how can one wait

On the judge to appear

Knowing they’ve cheated

And dishonored a dear

Woman of interest,

Although five times she’s wed

And charged her with humor

She has made her bed.

The Judge, he has entered!

He shouts Chaucer’s name.

At first I am terrified

Chaucer enters, no shame.

I am not alone scared,

Gawain’s hair stands on end.

A new cellmate?

Margery’s amend!

How I find myself here

Is anyone’s guess.

I have not altered

This spiritual mess.

She believes she’s had Jesus

In a worldly affair

Marrying the Savior?

She’s beyond compare.

How could she enter

With such an innocent smile

When we all know

Her damnations compile

The complete sacrilege

Of altering now

The voice of His Father

She would avow.

In this outrage of sinners

From past until here

Where I sit among spinners

Of heaven come near.

Their tales of religion

Mingled with sin,

Of sexual behavior

Mocks the spirit within.

I should not boast

Of such worldly sludge.

In their shoes I’d be shaking

Before facing The Judge.

My poetry romantic,

But justly so

For my voice is toward marriage

And righteous I go.

Surely my plea of innocence

Will be pure

And accepted by the Judge

Not fooled by demure

And self-serving comics

Who mock him in ways

That are so very offensive

Both yester and always.

During worlds of war

Of fighting for rights

More than impure thoughts

From deep in the nights

Will be found my pardon

My purity secure

From the passing of judgment

To someplace less sure.

From churches to bedlay

These poets poke fun

At the hand of the Judge

Who will pardon but one

That lives by His handshake

His approval intact,

And attach pardon fully

In one selfless act.

As I wait in this room

Of religion and lust

I find myself loathing

The simplified, just

Because of their wandering

Pilgrimage lost

And their adamant tossing

Of very high cost.

Do they not care

That The Judge will appear

And condemn them to hell

As one caught by a spear.

I sit in my chair,

Feeling confident yet

That they have found their fortune

And their eternity met.

Believing their guidance

Has been skewed

In their misbelief

They embrace rude

Behavior and language

Mingled with God

In a manner unseemly for

One whom we laud.

How can he for instance,

In Canterbury Tales,

Make fun of the Miller

Or one of the males

In a place of misfortune

Or a place so content

As to bring on a pilgrimage

Of worldly descent.

And what of this Margery

Who thinks she’s all that

Married to Christ,

Lying on a mat?

My poet is suffering

At the thought of such prose.

The ugly development

Of thumbing my nose.

Quietly I must wait on The Judge

For my entrance

Into his chamber

To show him my penance.

I alone             feel I am worthy

To take a part

In His chamber so fully

A part of His art.

One I had believed

Current society so ugly

Yet these poets of old

Have driven me pugley.

A creator of language

Of love and of light

To drive out this darkness

And blackness of night.

How in this century

Of modern delights

Concerned with technology

And money and sights

Have I concerned myself fully

In the beauty of words

Yet discovered so sharply

We are far from the Lord’s

Grand scheme of His greatness

And beauty and grace

To find out our forerunners

Have driven the race.

Again the door opens,

The Judge coming in,

And He calls on Margery.

Did I witness a grin?

He has pleasure in the presence

Of this woman insane?

I find I feel faint

And my strength is wane.

What if I an educated,

Spiritual man

Have been mislead

Into wishful clan

Of religion and purity

And just one right way

To find it all rubbish,

And be cast away?

Could He so love her,

The bride that would claim

That the Father of Father has

Chosen her name

Betrothed to the son

Whom we all believe single

Could actually have been

Chosen to mingle

Amongst angels and beings

Much stronger than I

Into a world

Of intimate why?

Suddenly shaken,

My heart tossed about,

My poetry failing,

My body to shout

Against what seems treason

Of the life I believe

Should only be mine

From The Judge to receive!

To my right yet another,

A fairytale king,

Who writes of a table

And a knight and a ring,

Seems confident in losing

The love of his wife,

In favor of honor,

Giving his life.

Am I the lost poet

The one cast away?

Will The Judge disapprove me,

And leave me today?

Have these others

With words and rhythm

And lust

Be the avenue The Judge seeks

Serving the Just?

Fearful I wait,

My courage waning

Until He comes calling

My name in the dawning.

I stand, my head spinning,

My heart quickly beating

As I understand

The fate I am meeting.

Perhaps He is greater,

Far greater is He

That I cannot fathom

What good poetry be.

From churches to harlots,

From humor to death,

His gavel will fall

As a monster on meth.

In angst I do follow

Up a long flight of stairs.

Fog and light falling

A sound fills the air

The sound of one calling

To come join the throng.

Suddenly I learn

I’ve been terribly wrong.

They stand there awaiting,

At hell’s fiery door

Reaching to grab me

As I reach the floor.

I sense the looming fear

At the door

As I reach the threshold

Of writing no more.

In my terror I’m running

But can’t find the door

To escape all the madness

I am facing once more.

Where have I landed?

An English glen?

Where both saints and sinners

Are beginning again?

I’ve been handed a pencil

And paper to write

And given a freedom

To write beyond sight.

The Judge does not reject

Any of those who have gifts

Of sharing with the masses

Words beyond rifts.

Before me stands Chaucer,

Completing his work,

Which now I am learning

Is much less a jerk

Than I had decided before

Entering in

Finding our heaven

Lives from within.

There stands Margery,

Next to the man,

She believed as her savior

As nobody can.

They words she is writing

Are close to her heart and

Accepted by Father,

The Judge all a part.

Entering behind

Is the king and his lady

Awaiting the entrance

Of the knight not so shady

As one would have thought,

As he loves the king,

But loves more his woman

Than any other thing.

The Judge lifts his gavel

With strength of hot fire

Pronounces us equal

And all safe from retire.

A pen in our hands

Life’s eternal paper,

The words will keep coming,

And morals will taper.

There is evolution

In words and in living.

To be excellently sure,

The poet keeps giving.