The House of St Barnabas, a poem by Greg
Written for, and performed, at his Employment Programme Graduation Ceremony, April 2017
House, not the music I listen to,
the one that sits on the edge of the square
edifice to its surrounding, it stays firm grounded
even though it took some pounding in many wars.
It has its flaws
but still gets a round of applause for its cause.
Charity of course.
A well-run organisation consists of many nations and strangers,
no longer strangers or dangers to each other.
But more like sister and brother, huggers and lovers,
that help each other find their true
No stealth just true wealth
which is hidden so well it may take
twelve weeks to open your cell.
But once you do, you’re more than brand new,
not just a waiter, bartender,
boss, ex-offender, vendor,
big spender or an office attender.
You’re bourgeoisie, in control of it all,
somewhat like the paintings that control parts of the wall.
Big, medium, small, you’ll get that attention,
you’re more than just you,
you’re the house resurrection.