sermon on the grounds

Mary Christ was a latte girl
With her love of the machine
The deus ex machina; the clever device
And that secretive mysterious squirt of vanilla
For a burst of inexplicable sweet rapture
Innocent, immaculate and also indulgent
She would take her drink long and slow
So as to brace her against the morning chill
After her children had gone off and away
As she was left alone; even Joseph gone
She could then play at being a child again
In her own personal native pastoral
Wrapped in a warm Navajo blanket
Warding off the ersatz Jerusalem snow

Mary Magdalen however, took hers black
Only beans and water from the well
With her seven devils and oily feet
Keeping colder council than John
She preferred the hard dark mirror
To such trapping and amenities
Reflecting a hot bitter truth
Thus she saw her and her lost loves
Scrying through her nightly domain
As she was left alone; even her savior gone
Fading series of late night passion plays
Leading to inevitable awkward awakenings
So she was sought beyond the mystery
And suffered through to the next cup

The third Mary of the trilogy
Oh wait; which was she?
Mary Shelley of the resurrection
Having tasted all life’s poisons
Sown together into one big quilt
All that alchemist’s fire and brimstone
Scrapbook moments of wanton passion
Mad May Day dances with dangerous poets
Adorning and adoring the age old pole
Only to be left alone; as even love had gone
Having watched her husband's heart torn
From his broken lifeless body
And thrown as it was to the fire
She probably preferred a simple hot tea