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.
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