Pagan Faith

Christians tried adapting pagan faith to make it wane,
Britain’s old religion was regarded as a stain.

Castigating those who loved grey circles on the heath,
Labelling them heathens for each countryside belief.

Eostre was a goddess of the spring and had to go,
Her name is a remnant in the Easter that we know.

Jesus wasn’t born in late December, some innate
Fear of winter solstice made them pick the Christmas date.

Druids sensed in mistletoe the reproductive deed,
Till a silly kiss replaced the meaning of its seed.

Samhain gave us Halloween and when Beltane became
May Day, every beacon blessing summer lost the flame.

Christians thought adaption would ensure they’d get their way
But it failed and pagan faith continues to this day.


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All faiths seem to me to be born of a deep seated need to belong and to keep chaos at bay. The only bit I find disturbing is the need to destroy those who do not conform.

I'm happy to co-exist with all benign faiths - how about you?

Definitely Biz - it's the fanatics who spoil things with their intolerance of any other religion.

Song

Sometimes I get so confused,
lost in my head
in self-abuse,
weary of making every excuse,
must be a way
easier to choose.

Once you caressed my very soul
while using our love
to sell your role,
and I thought I needed you to feel whole
so I gave myself up
to your control.

Short time turned your hand against me,
I took my blame ,
it was my fault, we’d agree.
I’d choose to stay, not to flee,
the relief of a beating
would set me free.

You stripped me to my darker soul,
tore away my dignity,
left me dead, left me cold,
caught in the lie of conspiracy.

Now bruises fade whenever you’re near,
caught in guilt,
trapped by fear.
What to do should be clear,
one day there’ll be
one final tear.

You stripped me to my darker soul,
tore away my dignity,
left me dead, left me cold,
caught in the lie of conspiracy.

Swallow poison, swallow pride,
something’s so wrong
here inside.
I’ll take my hand, forgive my lies,
and wash in blood
the tears I’ve cried.

Great write Scottie - I always enjoy your darker poems and this was no exception

Hello Musty, I came across this song called Roses of Picardy and it's lyrics are like a poem. I'm not sure if I can put the lyrics on here but I love the story of how the Composer, Haydn Wood came to write the music.

That sounds like tale of domestic violence Scottie. I hope it's imagination and not personal experience.

Wow! You're going back a bit aren't you Sandy?

Listening to it, maybe for some, it was just like the other day.

There can't be many left.

Hi Sandy That was a song my Mum really loved and I remember her telling me about it

Imagination, Biz - thankfully.

Copper Bullet Road

In this part of Nevada
A few brave fools have roved,
The Devil may wear Prada
But here he goes unclothed.

The sun is busy frying,
A vivid coin of red,
The two lane blacktop’s lying
Unendingly ahead.

It’s hard to tell where God is
With desert all around,
They say that buried bodies
Out here are never found.

My car fills with Ry Cooder,
Another guitar lick,
When snakes see an intruder
Coils tighten, wet tongues flick.

To pass them by I’m grateful,
Impatient now to eat,
Still as the rocks and hateful
They rattle in the heat.

If you prefer surviving
Take heed of my short ode;
Don’t stop at all, keep driving
On Copper Bullet Road.


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I have just started reading 'Desperation' by Stephen King, and am finding it quite uncomfortable to read, the poem has just added to it

I'm really pleased to hear that.

Thanks Flower - the poem was influenced slightly by his earlier book The Stand

Commuter

With overtime done and dusted
He boards the fast seven o’clock,
A schedule so rarely adjusted
It could have been set in rock,
Homeward bound on the train he trusted
From the sky-scraping office block.

The evening paper he browses
In pinstriped suit and tie,
Aware of the skirts and blouses,
An occasional glimpse of thigh
Makes a change from the sleepy houses
Eternally passing by.

Tired passengers show resistance,
Their faces are always masked
And the commuter goes the distance
But we’ll never know if he basked
In the nine-to-five existence,
For nobody ever asked.


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Morning Musty. That's quite a picture you paint. Thank goodness I never had to do that; crowded trains are a nightmare.

Morning Biz I got off that particular train years ago, it actually made me ill. The poem was strongly influenced by Journeyman, a Jethro Tull album track about commuting. I love the term 'sleepy houses' and I must confess to nicking it from the song

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YorEAVz4gkQ

I won't tell anyone.

Your journeys to work must have been awful.

They started out ok, but months of the London Underground took its toll. My destination was Old Street, which many years later I re-visited, having found out my hero William Blake was buried there

I found the Underground very claustrophobic, and certainly would have hated to travel on it to and from work. Don't think William Blake was too keen on London as a city.

London by William Blake 1757-1827

I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

The perfect excuse to post his poem on the capital Biz

Sounds like Hell on earth doesn't it? Hope things have improved.