Surprise

Cancer too is a prize

You don’t have to queue at the newsagent’s

to buy a ticket

They slip it in with the teddy bear,

the beatrix potter china setting,

the first photograph album,

unnoticed.

The final draw may be foreshadowed

in the missed stitch in the booties

grandma made

put aside, only used at your Baptism.

(“It was her last pair.  Do you think she knew?”)

Unlike the contents of your bowels

or your most recent projectile vomit,

it is not discussed in polite company.

It may stick its head around the corner at 3.30am,

pop into Dad’s thoughts as he tries to settle you

and sees his own mortality as he pictures his own father

rocking him 30 years ago,

and his grandfather walking the floor twenty years before that.

A link in the chain between first and last

Somewhere between the savannah and the heat death of the universe.

You can buy more tickets later on,

or be the lucky recipient of a random allocation.

Just like a five million dollar lottery.

You say you’ll keep working,

but you’ll find that you can’t.

Your colleagues no longer look at you,

well, not the same way.

Early retirement either way.

And lots of time to think.

***

In our illnesses, may we know that we are not alone, for everyone treads a version of this path.

May we know that we are loved along the way.

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Jehovah’s Witnesses

Having been inspired to great artistic heights by Mormons and Scientologists, I was going to pick on Jehovah’s Witnesses next.  In my old house they used to visit me and resist my attempts to convert them to something else on a regular basis.  I have been in my new house a year and they have not visited at all.  I suspect this is because there is a big hill you have to climb up to get to me (yes, cos I spend my time meditating on top of a mountain), and the local Witnesses round here might be a bit lazy.  So my poem was going to have lines like

Hey Jehovah

why don’t your witnesses like to climb over

the hill and visit any more

I never seem them

they don’t call

they don’t tuck the WatchTower

under my door

And then there was going to be something about how I hope that he is a vengeful god, because his Witnesses were ignoring me.

Then I came home the other day and the alleged Mrs Chip, if there should be such a person (I don’t think there is for this persona), had placed The Watch Tower and Awake on my desk.  Bugger!  They had been!  That spoiled everything.  Curses!  Foiled again!  I am struck into appropriate politeness, and it is for the best.

I like the monster Jehovah’s Witness in Ghost Story by Peter Straub.  The bit about Dr Rabbitfoot.  He was scary.

I hope none of this sounds rude, I have to write about something.  (Or do I?)

The day I failed my personality test

You wanna test

my personality,

You say you’ll make a

man of me,

Wanna check the level of

Dianetic technology

required to set

me free

from the engrams that

bedevil me.

I’m very sorry,

Mr Scientology

in the words of Boy George

I’d much prefer a cup of tea.

***

Ahhh, Irish breakfast.  The writer once had a personality test.  It turned out he didn’t have one.  The scientologists had to throw him back, and off he swam, along the stream of rushing humanity along Castlereagh Street, still unable to fathom what made him different, as in his mind he added up the numbers on the registration plates of the cars he passed.  On cold nights he aches, and he thinks he may still have the hook embedded in his cheek.

 

Lonely Mormon

Lonely Mormons

far from home

wandering through the great apostasy.

Tempted by Coca Cola,

shunning coffee and other like beverages,

is your truth too good for me?

You all rush to share it

with the pretty Asian girls.

Was there nothing on

those buried gold plates

Elohim wanted you

to share with me?

I’ll just have to cross my own desert.

Not for the first time.

Chariots of the gods?

Nice car, Pastor.

What’s the mileage?

Does God drive one like that?

***

I have a solution

to arguments about evolution:

go and feed the poor.

All of you.  Yes, you too.  Off you go.  Shoosh.

***

How many angels dance on the head of a pin?

All of them!

All the time!

Everywhere!

Join in!

***

Brand new Theologica

Theologi – car

Shiny bright

Across the sky it can drag a star

Make day from night

For the toughest labours

of Hercules

Safe for the family

and the Crash of the Titans

Theologica!

(You wouldn’t guess its a hybrid.)

***

Yes, it remains a fact that no matter how often they look in the Holy Book, not a theologian alive can tell me, what does God drive.  The only motorbike in the Bible is the Triumph, though.

I posted a poem about ancient astronauts and relationships with fathers here.

And please remember, the portal to all things Joe Chippish is here.