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Monday, October 15, 2012

Deep in the Heart of Texas.....

our blog's poet laureate comes forth with some poems about the the greatness of humble ones and the indomitable spirit of sacrifice that never fades. Mack, thank you for posting your inspirational work in the comment boxes over the months ;-)

The Beggar at Canterbury Gate

The beggar sits at Canterbury Gate,
Thin, pale, unshaven, sad. His little dog
Sits patiently as a Benedictine
At Vespers, pondering eternity.
Not that rat terriers are permitted
To make solemn vows. Still, the pup appears
To take his own vocation seriously,
As so few humans do. For, after all,
Dogs demonstrate for us the duties of
Poverty, stability, obedience,
In choir, perhaps; among the garbage, yes,
So that perhaps we too might live aright.

The good dog’s human plays his tin whistle
Beneath usurper Henry’s offering-arch,
For Kings, as beggars do, must drag their sins
And lay them before the Altar of God:
The beggar drinks and drugs and smokes, and
His penance is to sit and suffer shame;
The King’s foul murders stain his honorable
His penance is a stone-carved famous name
Our beggar, then, is a happier man,
Begging for bread at Canterbury Gate;
Tho’ stones are scripted not with his poor fame,
His little dog will plead his cause to God.

Ever England

Brave Hurricanes and Spits still claw and climb
Far up into the English summer sky
At the lingering end of a golden time
As wild young lads and aging empires die

The Hood and Rodney still the Channel guard
Against the strident Men of Destiny
Then shellfire falls; the helm is over hard
But the brave old ships keep the Narrow Sea

Dear Grandpa and the boys sport thin tin hats
In Sunday afternoon's invasion drill
Gram says she's too darned old for all of that
But she too smells the smoke of Abbeyville

Faith does not pass with ephemeral time:
Brave Hurricanes and Spits still claw and climb

Begging for bread at Canterbury Gate....

Brave Hurricanes and Spits still claw and climb.....


  1. I'm honored; thank you.

    - Mack in Texas

    I share some DNA with the deBeauvilles / Beauvilles / Bevils of Chesterton, wh. is a few miles west of Peterborough. I've never been there, so I wonder if I got any of this sorta / kinda right:

    Harvest Time in the Fens

    A calendar knows little of a day,
    Of any day; its arbitrary squares
    Mark seasons as they amble on their way
    From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs,
    When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue,
    Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens,
    Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
    Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens.
    Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
    With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn,
    For he is merry too, and quick to bless
    The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn.
    Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
    And now comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all.

  2. Wherever did you obtain that fist picture, Pearl? I just thought that it looked interesting...
    What beautiful poems, Mack! Thanks to you and Pearl for sharing them!

  3. @Mack: You're most welcome! Your poems are truly a blessing to this blog :-) "Harvest in the Fens" is another fine piece; well done! I shall have to post it some time in the future!

    @Meredith: I located the first picture on google search images by typing in "Medieval Beggar". It's amazing what juicy things will come up by embarking on imagae searches on the internet.