One Poem by Simon Daley

Written in response to this month’s Special Challenge.

You were not at church

the accusation stings like rooster down
it seems I am ungodly, unsaved, unclean
my Sunday best she can but misinterpret
the darn finery of a pom-pom handknit
Lordy, my reputation pinned by the hat
appraised by the cloth no matter the chat
beneath my nails; earth; third day created
long before seventh set sabbath existed
no guesses which way she will lean
that’s one fence not fit for sitting on
her opinion of me could be little worse
worth no more than the lip of her purse
soon her nose will stick another business
the comfort of my ground well stood
no sermons needed to be one of the good
eschew the pew becollared spew and yell
tales of fire, of brimstone, oh what the hell
grant me absolution for forgetting to pray
give me some peace for the rest of my day.

 

Simon Daley is a police officer who aspires to write poetry that people are glad they read. He is studying creative writing with Open University. He may never be published but can live with that. He lives in Scotland between houses and a campervan and misses his daughter terribly.

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