Saturday Night Street Preacher Poem by Martin Ward

Saturday Night Street Preacher



Saturday Night Street Preacher

No-one could deny his commitment,
nor propensity for taking drunken abuse.
As the sky darkened and the rain began to fall,
the Street Preacher sought sanctuary
beneath a shop awning in the market square.
Some passer-by, in witty, mocking form,
stood before the friend of Jesus and proclaimed:
‘Behold, the Lord hath built an umbrella
above his servant's head.'
Unfazed by wit or drunken lout,
the Street Preacher shouts his messages
of hell-fire, damnation, or eternal salvation.
Not even a swig of water taken from Evian
plastic bottle, or maybe a receptacle from Lourdes,
could curtail the recitation of Biblical quotes.
As aged concertgoers pretend not to see
the short-skirt girls; half-naked,
falling out of blouses and teetering on high-heels,
as they move from public house to nightclub;
the preacher, who may in daytime
stock shelves or sell self-assembly furniture,
remains unmoved, except for the acts and sacrifices
of his beloved Christ, whom he serves.
How many souls has he saved?
How many slaps across the face,
or offers of sex: tempted by naked breasts
thrust in his face by drunken girls,
goaded by their mates to do things
fueled by demon-drink or drugs.
When the city streets empty
of their reveling hoards,
the Street Preacher:
saint or fool; with best intentions,
walks back to his terraced home,
amidst the ordinary, sinner or good,
knowing that he has served his God.

Saturday, February 3, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: religion
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Martin Ward

Martin Ward

Derby, Derbyshire
Close
Error Success