Original Poetry

Here is a poem I am working on.  Do you find it offensive?  Have you suggestions? -- Doc

Mooers Camp--
Meeting, that is.
An artifact of the American Holiness Movement, circa 1900.
Part I
Enter on this shard of Old Route 11,
This old, reverent, antique heaven.
A Valley of Dry Bones.
Those bones, those bones, those dry bones.
In Beulah Land I can connect nothing with nothing.
The past is foreign to the present.
The present foreign to the future.
The language of Canaan,
Is no longer spoken or understood here.
Dick and Tilly's sign Holiness Unto the Lord,
Is large enough, for goodness' sake.
Yet no one notices it.
Is this where the ring meetings were held?
When were those religious plaques removed from the trees?
Where are the giants?
Where are the heroes?
Where are the exhorters, the shouters, the intercessors?
It was good for our fathers.
At least they said so.
It has taken them all to Glory, leaving us behind.
It looks like a fair--
Holy Fair, not Vanity Fair.
The vanities are proscribed here--
Smoking, drinking, swearing,
Cardplaying, movie-going, Sabbath-breaking,
Lipstick and toenail polish.
The larger vanities were much more difficult to abolish--
Preferments, husbands, wives, lands, children--
But the evangelists tried mightily to do so.
Mr. Worldly Wisdom, Lord Carnal Delight, Sir Having Greedy and Pickthank
Came to laugh but did not stay to pray.
Part II
Can these bones live?
Prophesy to these bones, O Son of Man.
I see a cloud the size of a man's hand.
There's a sound of a going in the giant pine trees.
The thunder growled and murmured.
Did I hear a voice?
No, only thunder.
Yes, there were words.
I picked up a command, "Look Not!"
It went on, "For water in broken cisterns."
The thunder cracked and spoke--only to those who have ears to hear.
"Rend your garments of custom and conformity."
Send the power, O Lord.
A bolt of lightning struck the ground.
The electronic voice ceased.
The neon lights flickered and failed.
The incense of darkness filled the temple that had been a huge skull gaping,
Its benches suffering rigor mortis.
Lamps appeared on either side of the mourners' bench.
They flared, spreading fire over the altar.
Souls assumed bodies, bowing and moving forward--a live coal for each lip.
A baptismal shower followed the lightning.
Great Chazy River,
My home is over Jordan.
Great Chazy River,
I want to cross over, into campground.
At the ringing of the matins bell, manna will be served in the dining hall.
Ring out, wild bells,
To the morning sky.
Peace with oneself and with God.
Ring out the old, ring in the new.
Love for the divine in all creation.
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Joy—strength to become saints.
Converging on the feast,
Snatches of song.
Come and dine…
He who fed the multitude…
To the hungry ones He calleth
Come and dine.