(Crusader Will) – Shifting of the Blocks

Crusader Will is back. See his latest contribution below:

“Crusader Will reflects on changes in his circumstances and in the world scene over seven years into advancing age.

SHIFTING OF THE BLOCKS

i

Once I’d wait all year for it to get warm.

Now I can’t wait for it to get cool.

Erratic behaviour is now the norm

At the climax to Satan’s age-old rule.

 

I was told I would ‘come into my own’           

At ’62’. But my initial guess

That it concerned my age was overthrown

When the reference proved to be my address.

 

Shrunk have my horizons. Big City scope            

Eludes a small-town shift. Public transport

Is limited; most people drive. There’s no hope

For the pedestrian but to resort

 

To the furnace of the street, and the relief

Of the hat, the occasional awning

And the well-spaced tree. It’s past all belief.

An abyss of stuck-at-home is yawning

 

Unless I step out in faith: opt for the good    

As Christ’s Church is being split and contents hurled

To the ground, worshipers blinded by falsehood

                                  Into thinking all is well with the world.

 

Economics made me move. But all right      

Much in my world was, and I had certain plans

That even gave a reporter delight

To report. What hopefulness is a man’s.

 

The Church, the stage. A garden, photographs

And poems: all exercised my mind. I walked

Everywhere, even biked. A load of laughs

Not everything in my health was, but i balked

 

At few initiatives. I joined a troupe

Of entertainers. A charity cafe

Saw me wash dishes as well as serve soup.

A one-man show I wrote; work-shopped an old play;

 

While a visit to friends capped off a trip

To an overseas touring exhibition

Of Grace Kelly’s costumes and clothes, in whose grip

I wrote a piece on her life. This mission

 

I have still to completely accomplish.

And hope will segue into another piece

Of quasi-apocalyptic anguish

As Church-and-State transitional woes increase.

Task still in progress as I stem the decline

In my physical and artistic powers,

Where changes in tolerance work to consign

Me and my race to our darkest-veering hours.           

ii

Now we must be circumspect. I feel alone,

Utterly alone.  I don’t know who to trust

in a town whose truth-awareness at-the-bone

Stays unsounded: lurking beneath a tough crust.

 

Back to Grace: a Hopkins-like verse come-back

(Hand ‘a little out’ at first). I need a theme

To tempt my inner Muse to take up the slack.

That, or a cooler climate for the dream.

 

A ‘state of grace’ is indeed my prime concern;

Eternal salvation a personal quest –

And a spur to intercession as hordes burn

In hell,  untaught how to gain eternal rest.

 

In my country we run the gamut of modes        

Of allegiance: God, gods. no god at all,

Or the Prince of Darkness, who makes great inroads

Even on the once-true, who have the gall

 

To desecrate the very House of the Lord.

Never were the Seven Deadly Sins so bold,

So many ancient virtues put to the sword,

                                     So many of the old pieties grown cold.

 

The sordid, the grotesque, mass corruption,

Scorn for the eternal, deadness at the heart.

Many no longer have any compunction

About unrighteousness in trade or in art.

 

All been foretold, of course, though the future

Looked to is either too bleak or too far

To the turnaround for the makeshift suture

To hold. God’s wounds weep over the last hurrah.

Now, Catholic Prophecy  by Yves Dupont

Was published nearly fifty years ago.

Though my Charismatic phase found in this font

Of gloom too Fundamentalist an echo.

 

But Fatima and its plummeting sun

Brought me through to more recent Marian veins

Of forecast too close at hand not to have won

From me the conviction there of great truth-gains.

 

For soon after my Kelly endeavours

Came a plunge into a mission that has, since, 

Wrought a change that once and for all severs

All from all other reasons for existence.         

iii

The aging process and a small town afford

Distinct disadvantages.  Bus lacks have cut

Some interests back; stamina woes have gnawed

At some volunteering; and some doors have shut.

 

Verse I now write mainly to discursive ends,

Sometimes as song parody. Lyrical scope

Only occasional travel now lends.

(Beware of that slippery downward slope.)

 

Then came this poem (after calls to rescue

My lamp from the bushel). A fine-film club

(Complete with soft seats and a piano) grew

A poetry sub-group. Aye, there was the rub.

 

Now I was really ‘coming into my own’.

A small town could provide the right milieu

For testing the waters and getting known

On a small scale and in an esprit de jeu,

 

In temperate times of ‘mellow fruitfulness’

In which my body was holding level

And my mind receiving the astute coolness

Of peer endorsement. Long-last cue to revel.

 

Remains the apocalyptic. I retain

My caution. The lowdown on the Showdown

Lies in Revelation and Daniel. The stain

Of original sin swamps this land this town.

 

Crusader Will”

 

Note: The bulldozer image was requested by the author.

The other images and the coloured highlighting were added by the editor/administrator of this site.

 

Published by

remnant survivor

Traditional Catholic; member of Jesus' Remnant Army and member of a Jesus to Mankind Prayer Group.