It’s All Sailing Over the Top
Occasionally I stray into strange spaces,
Where things already are ongoing in high swing,
Chaotic congregations with withered earnest faces
In pews, all hymn books lined, that with high notes loudly ring.
All is condensed, thematic strands concise,
Like compact format of a sensational local tabloid;
Or flat as tireless tableland measured precise
Like those Australian landscapes of Arthur Boyd.
There hesitantly I take my position circumspect with intelligence
And produce presently a scribble sheet tabular
While the others wallow in sheer self indulgence
To perfection spectacular like an animated warbler.
Emphatically I turn to leave, dismissing the gathering joint.
All else goes over the top to exhaustion point.
Sackcloth Clad
The unmistakably contrite at heart
Commence their long, long stroll of hard penance
And gripping bite indecorous dust on the cart
As they sight their goal in the looming distance.
Away from the ornate, the ornamental solid,
Like one in post-trauma recovery,
They toil unpardonably in circumstances squalid
To unobtrusively cancel their debts, each and every.
There isn’t even a break in this earnest
Exercise of will power and determination,
Not one intermittent smiling session even in jest
On anything to cause that repeat consternation.
I laud them, sages all, for this! It makes sound sense.
Their sackcloth and ash for benedictions to condense.