Past Abiding (Poetry)

I can’t abide these churchy folk —
their hands too white
their nails too clean
these members of a private club
who assure themselves each time they pray
that Heaven’s kingdom is their own
by right of some manmade belief
all other faiths be damned

Their afterlife a white-sand beach
exclusive to the pure elite
who follow rules and stand in line
head bowed and smug
they tolerate — but only just —
the non-believer — the strayed sheep
the nature-loving pagan happy
in his green-treed temple on a blameless hill

They have their top ten hymn charts
and well-worn stories — all those
comfort blankets piled against the cold
of reality ... while they pity heathens
and despise the little gods they’ve worshipped
since so long ago
The truth lies hid in many things
for every heart that’s listening —

no bar to colour, race or creed
the door is narrow and the key
is not in church (where reason sleeps)
no building houses immortality
there is no place for closed-off minds
thought should run free so each man
strives to live whatever way he can
to keep his true humanity