419 and 420

We couldn’t stop the masses from descent,

nor curb the chaos from coming our way,

but we knew that our time was better spent

by sharing hope and tea every Tuesday.

And, true, we didn’t stop catastrophe,

and skies were permanently painted gray;

but e’en as life fell down round you and me,

they couldn’t keep us from tea on Tuesday.

And now there’s swords and guns at every door,

and bitter loss our freedom’s had to pay.

But outposts just like ours still plot the war,

where tea and hope are shared every Tuesday.

For those of us unfit to quiet kings,

the anthem of the teakettle still sings.

~~~

My sluggish soul I made to leave its bed,

and dress, and leave his haunts behind my door,

and follow down the path that had been led

by many sluggish souls who’d gone before:

and found himself behind a chapel bench,

and found the hymnal filling out his words,

but couldn’t shake his sluggishness, nor wrench

himself from all the dullness it affords.

He was, within, still clouded—numb at heart,

and I began to think what more he’d need;

but by the end of service, one small part

appeared in my slug soul, as Moses’ sea.

It takes awhile for flame to grow on wood.

It takes awhile for penance to feel good.