tinashe severa

Rookie (11/01/86 / harare, zimbabwe)

The Protestant Church Of The Old Tabernacle - Poem by tinashe severa

The old woman on the front bench sat wide eyed,
song after song, the youthful praise group bellowed,
talent they had not, but to mimick angles they so tried,
when the priest arrived, a trumpet blew and the windows trembled,

he wore a white shirt, over a silky purple suit,
the congregation came alive, the minute they saw his face,
he spoke in greeting, words flowing from him like notes from a flute,
'this is the man of god', they all shouted as he took his place,

from the old woman's cheeks, flowed a river of tears,
the praise group ran, and clung to her like a prize trout,
the pastor stood up and raised his arms as if he was holding a spear,
'here in the protestant church of the old tabernacle, no demon will sprout'

the congregation sprang up, and beagn to speak in tongues,
bibles were thrown into the air, with shouts of 'hallelua' and 'amen',
the pastor unfolded a cloth bearing an emblem with two tongs,
'we have never seen her before, she is heathen',

out came a gold jug and a diamond dish,
the pastor spoke with relish, as their epitome of realism,
'like Simon and Peter did to catch those many fish,
this woman must first believe before her baptism'

he stood before her and pulled her flaky hair,
while he waved and smiled in a way so civil,
'before we save you woman, it is only fair,
that you tell us, speak! why do you dance with evil'

the old woman dried her tears and took off her spectacles,
slowly she stood up to speak to the crowd,
the praise group shifted, but their hands stuck to her like tentacles,
while the pastor wiped off his bald head, looking mighty proud

'i am not evil, nor am i heathen,
i love my lord and God, i am a catholic,
they is only one shepherd, you all are my bretheren,
they is one God, as one herd, we all must frolic'

the man of god fumed and foam dripped out of his mouth,
he jumped up and did a shagani warrior dance,
'believers, we all know the truth,
lets all drive away this demon, before it also puts us in a trance'

a cladly dressed young woman spoke into his ear,
the pastor grew cold as he nodded in agreement,
'two million dollars and a tithing contract are needed i fear,
before all esle, she must make this payment'

the old woman laughed and lifted her hands to the skies,
the praise groups hands withered as she grew wings,
the walls fell apart, and squashed them all like flies,
in rememberance, on top of their shrine, a rosary still swings

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Edgar Allan Poe

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Poem Submitted: Monday, March 19, 2007

Poem Edited: Friday, February 4, 2011

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