In the beginning, once upon a trend

dates and legends were soaked in ale

wrapped in fables to suspend

belief – a drug, when exhaled

hung on moveable feasts, trailed

like titillating cuisine.

Religion, that flash of fiction hailed

God at the table of Myth. Serene


Jesus, Lennon and Elvis contend

that they’d just left their buildings, regaled

fans with magical mystery to fend

off indistinction. Faith can’t fail

it burrows deep and fame impales

the stalker, weakening the gene.

Worshipping people unveil

God at the table of Myth. Serene


in God they trust, they work hard, spend

lifetimes eating fairytales

wearing thin excuses to defend

the pain of lost prayers and stale

promises as horror prevails

like a peat fire underground, obscene

in its offensive wail.

God sits at the table of Myth, serene.




Faith in you and fame are bound, nailed

the weight of fear roasted, keen –

sons of Man become suns. All hail

God at the table of Myth, serene.



Ballade (pronounced  ba-LARD) is an old French form, popular in the 14thand 15thcenturies and has only had limited success with poets writing in English.

It has three eight-line stanzas followed by an envoi of four lines. Last line of the first stanza becomes the refrain. The envoi is generally addressed to someone, such as a patron.

Each line was supposed to have eight syllables but English poets usually deviate from this – I did too.

The End

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