I often write about religion, owing to a rather odd upbringing. While I’m not always comfortable vocalizing my thoughts about Christianity (at least, the peculiar variation that overshadowed my youth), I have no problem commenting on it through poetry.
Cranberry the Younger, Repent!
Old Cranberry Jones wishes his son
would quit marrying cutlery and get
on with his life, cartoonish though
it be—how many 30 year olds do you
know with ex-knives and ex-spoons
hanging around the farmstead begging
for a mere touch, a passing glance,
anything from their erstwhile lover?
I know only one: Cranberry the Younger,
seemingly dedicated to driving his father
to the grave before his time and to loving
utensils, which God clearly forbids in Ye
Book of Life (the Book of Death is kinda
okay with it) so HARKEN, CRANBERRY
THE YOUNGER! MEND YOUR WAYS!
REJECT TABLEWARE AND RETURN TO
YOUR FATHER’S FORGIVING BOSOM!
But we know he won’t do that, don’t we?
He lies in sin even as I write these words,
a den of iniquity, bright-shining as metal
in the mouth of a brace-toothed girl, and O
that he would simply love such a girl! O
Heavens, look down and bless those who
follow and direct those who don’t, especially
Cranberry the Younger for whom we now pray
and most definitely don’t wish would die today!