Saintly

He saw the destruction on the telly
and heard the screams on the radio
he knew what he had to do
signing his letter, goodbye my love, shelley

He took to the air in a rigid silver bird
and flew it to where the light of hope was dim
he vowed to give his life, his soul
not to follow the capitalist herd

He landed in the sun drenched lands of aid pleas
and found water was as scarce as the will to go on
he silently muttered a prayer
asking for the lord's help, he was on his knees

He built a well for a night and two days
and never touched what wasn't his deep down in that well
he again prayed for the lords help
but none came, perhaps he was in a daze

He taught god's unforntunate creations his mother tongue
and did so until his throat was hoarse with achievement
he placed his hands together and pleaded for the lords help,
though the words just, in the air, hung

He walked all day to return with a small bounty of food
and handed it around fairly, without any for himself
he lay asleep, in his fatigued ridden state, and for the final time asked the lord to listen
but again the lord ignored the actions of the good

Bring on one angel; bring on ten
for this man, lord, is what a true saint should be, doing; not preaching
but maybe that is why you ignore him so consistently lord
for he be more saintly that you, amen

© Copyright of Ben Blackburn - Known as "Ben" on this website. This copyright stands for all marked and unmarked poems and quotes on this website written by Ben Blackburn. Partial or whole parts of the poem may only be used or reproduced under the autherisation of Ben Blackburn. May I stress that I have also taken precautions out of cyber space to copyright my work also.