Church Bells

They peer around doorways,

like shadows

of memories,

of angels,

of lovers,

long gone.

Lit by their halos,

casting about

in a small space,

maybe a casket,

maybe a confessional.


I hear old bones,

or dry, wooden prayer beads,

softly whispered supplications

to the Father,

and The Son,

and The Holy Ghost.

An ascribed diatribe.

No hold to Rome,

but distant liturgy.

A Prodigal Son.


Echoes in the Sanctuary.

Is there someone there?

Is this just the way

rivulets of guilt

let through the flesh,

like veins of fool’s gold?

Riddled with compassion,

and angst,

and horror,

we ask;

What is it we have done?



I hear the church bells

ringing in my ears

and frightening off

the ghosts that haunt me

in my periphery.

Glory is no emblazoned angels,

but a call to arms,

to trouble,

and adventure.


Make it worth their while.

All the old ghosts,

the companions,

the dilettantes,

the intrepid.

Step out lively,

not blindly.

See with a whole eye,

hear with a whole ear.

In this world,

perception is everything.



HG – 2019

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