The Ballad Of Miss Bea Haven Poem by Dave SmithWhite

Do you worship idols graven?
Indulge the senses craven?
Can risk met close and shaven,
Still give illicit thrills?
If you enjoy a coy engraving,
Of teasing boys, a-bathing,
You must let Miss Bea Haven ease your ills!

With gentle arts and muses, exotic baths, infusions.
Our being is a temple. With a soul - a step away.
As a simple balm effuses, amidst the calm that soothes us;
She will summon from the ether any fleeting spirit's sway.

Like a puppet strung with levers,
She is flung from trance to fevers.
Her body jerks and dances in the chair.
It's exhausting work, and grievous,
That there's far too few receivers,
But her duty's to believers everywhere.

Her guide is dear old Walter,
Who pines for pipe and porter;
The vanity and vice of corporeal flesh.
With every mystic sally,
She relies on good Lord Raleigh,
And his illustrious offsider, Gilgamesh.

For the dead, they walk among us.
In shadow, mute. Anonymous.
It's said their subtle specter, is a hoax;
Of musty rooms and fungus,
Of greed and lusty hungers,
To elicit fees humongous,
And fool the feeble folks.

Yet she's no table turner,
But a gifted student learner.
She plumbs the ancient archive of the mind.
With the primal female talents,
That promote the psychic balance,
She is the perfect vessel for the wine.

Though the hours might pass in tedium,
She is a patient medium;
For no-one known can vouch a punctual ghost.
If her powers may pay a premium
You can couch and say we're dreaming 'em,
But she rattles bones and bigots coast to coast.

For the dead are all around us;
They close in and they surround us.
Yet we remain unconscious of their plight.
And by her arcane graces, she illuminates their faces,
To brace the baseless terrors of the night.

Does life implode or cave in,
To crush the spirit within?
Or make you but a slave in
This community of shills?
If you think you need some saving,
From your trials and grimmer craving,
You must let Miss Bea Haven ease your ills!