Friday, June 21, 2013

The Blank Holiday - by Bob Atkinson


The Blank Holiday
(c)2013 Bob Atkinson

drawn upon our inbred lives
carried within us, begging pride
that day of solitude begins with loud
bells ringing from churches around us

years ago, way back when
you would stop, no shops open
no yards with workers agonizing
no sets of preachers sitting idle

we'd grasp this time of quiet pleasure
ponder who we were and measure
those goals we'd had for last week
did we reap all we had seeded

now, for lack of faith in those
who send their message, subliminally spoken
beneath their overt tones and speeches
opening our minds to mindless preaching

I lament not those Sundays in a pew
not those stories, both old and new
I lament the trust in them I've lost
because of their harvest of my heart

they mean by harvest taking time
to invest their words deep in our minds
then taking all we have of freedom
planting seeds of doubts, unreasoned

strap a vest on tortured people
force their women underneath them
take all you can from freedom's choice
a legacy of the oldest order

grab my freewill with your ritual
keep my mind within your whirlpool
don't let me love my fellow man
preach hate simply because you can

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