Chapel Poem by Jim Young

Heavy gate opens, slow, gaits our steps to enter the Parthenon.
Church mouse grasses shawl dry shrubs to kiss Gethsemane.
Towering varnished doors asunder the warm walled stones, and as
Mothball ladies glove their stoles, the dark suited sons of sin steal in.
The vestibule where polished deacons backhand books of
Hymns and common prayer, to bid us sit on left or right hand
Of God's chapel pews that fidget hard on woodblock floors.
Or drawn up to the petticoat balcony's crinoline curtsey,
Upheld by concupiscent pillars that hitch their golden garters high.
Stale air stills and light beams stall, hushed upon the pulpit deacons.
Until the silver fag-end organ pipes moan through their missing teeth
To stiffen sinews of chins jutting to high heaven help us now.


Riding the pulpit high, exalted nigh heaven's red carpet stairs,
Leaning into the reading light that lies limp on a dusty carafe,
The vicar's exhalation rests his hand upon our shoulders.
From the deacon's parsimonious bench, absent handed flowers
Bounce the words to fall upon the beveled benches where, in
Numbered pews the congregation lean into their dying light,
And draw down early evening thoughts unto the night.
Poor lives congregated in a hushed requiem for their Eden
Fervently wait and wait for the icy Lazarus to yawn.
With a ruffling of angel wings we sit, we stand, upon command.
A burial chamber of souls in awful awe are we.
Here endeth! Thumps the bible, and the lectern shivers the supplicants.


The chapel slumbers with one ptotic eye upon our village.
It sees all week the prize we seek as we eke out a living.
The chapel's benevolence in such events stands warm
And turns its eye from pints and smoke, and bars and joke,
Where men lay down their yoke, to speak of other things.
When gossip gossips all day long and fire nights beside,
The chapel smiles on all of those whose hearts entwine, or
Crash upon it, rock in a stormy sea, and cling to it appealing.
It invites you walk in, begs you talk in, and to pray for
Better things, where thoughts take wings, and everybody
Bears each other's griefs and grime in time never ending.
A paternalistic chapel's anchor chain village to heaven.