Right church, wrong pew

FinsburyParkCarrots

There are times when I look out, across a stage
and a range of pretty faces in my view -
perfectly proportioned, with no age
to blemish or to furrow - hold no clue
to what it is I sing, to try to know
of humankind I've met from day-to-day.
No eye will gleam, no countenance will show
a glimmer, comprehending what I say.


My people work outside.Our backs are bent,
our faces, red, our voices, beaten hoarse.
We came for postwar promise, and we've spent
years, building your roads to find the source,
the matter that still keeps us held apart.
How could you see our dark outsiders' art?

olderman

alright finsbury, you got me to writ a sonnet!!

here's to your ministry!!

The roots of harmony suggest the theme,
Art’s impressions cry from pulpit sermons
Unheard patterned beats fall deftly, a scream
Of disloyal flocks of sheep, yea vermin
Destroy society’s crutch in hiding,
An artist must ignore the vial bleach
As silence rests, the slaughter’s sad tiding
Washes red on the white sands of the beach.

Do not ask the Pastor for a reason,
His flock is tired, working too long days,
Have a pint, an ale that is in season,
Sing your soul, sing your songs as you amaze,
Someone out there will hear you soon, it’s true,
And be haunted by your voice, sometimes blue

FinsburyParkCarrots

That's the spirit, Jessie! I've been missing your sonnets!