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To the Ancient Mariner
“O Wedding-Guest! This soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea;
So lonely ‘twas, that God himself
Scarce seeméd there to be.”
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
O, Mariner! What pain you felt—
The sea would neither freeze nor melt,
_As you abjured the Cross!
Twixt life and death you could not choose—
And nought could make flat waves betoss.
Now lost, I plumb your heart for clues:
_Why kill the albatross?
What gained you to betray a friend
And do so without thought of end?
You saw the bird, placed quill to bow,
_And did not think but shot.
Your aim was neither high nor low
Your mood was neither cold nor hot
_Nor eye too quick nor slow.
This crime you did with nary cause,
With ill regard for life or laws—
_It seemed just random whim.
Yet I myself have done such things
And caused deep wounds to life and limb.
I’ve suffered all that conscience brings
_As hope turns gray and grim.
An impulse is a thing of dread
For it can leave a strong man dead
_Or drowning in remorse.
I’ve spoken words that I regret
And then let hatred run its course.
Poor Mariner, you ache and fret,
_But I, Friend, suffer worse.
You killed the albatross. For shame!
But I was there to share the blame
_And so we’ve both worked woe.
Though with a word you killed the bird
That made the ocean breeze to blow
I came to echo each harsh word
_And helped your crime to grow.
O, Mariner, I’ve failed your test:
He prayeth best, who loveth best
_All things both great and small.
I’m much too full of buried rage
To pray. My Friend, I’ve hit a wall;
And in this bleak, regressive stage
_My heart feels closed to all.
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The Nicest Guy in Town
The nicest guy in town cleaves to his mask
To virtue-signal when he leaves the house.
This mask can heal the World—an awesome task!
So don’t you dare complain, you scofflaw louse.
The nicest guy knows out of all the land
He is by far the smartest and most kind.
You lesser beings should give me a hand
For I’m the last best hope for all Mankind.
He claims nobility in all he feels
And idolizes people wise men hate.
He studies them and then he subtly steals
The attributes of those he’d imitate:
A dash of Greta Thunberg, some Obama,
Some Newsom and, of course, Kamala Harris.
He’s far too lofty to engage in drama
But loves to subtly sneer, mock and embarrass.
He’d never try “to win one for the gipper.”
He claims conservatives are part Rasputin,
Part Lizzie Borden, hints of Jack the Ripper
And spiced with Nixon, Genghis Khan and Putin.
The nicest guy! A rock-star! Such a stud!
Judgmental, too. His measured, Vulcan feelings
Fall on the floor with a resounding thud
And mask misanthropy and double dealings.
He says he’s a philanthropist but shies
From those who disagree with his conceits.
He says he worships truth but vaunts such lies
As help him earn a boon in billed receipts.
If you are not pro-choice he thinks you’re dim.
A cell is just a cell. Divide. Delete.
His ideology means more to him
Than all the friendly neighbors on his street.
Some go to churches. Sometimes he’s invited.
But no. He laughs at them behind closed doors.
Such superstition! Fairy tales! Short sighted!
I pity them, these uptight, upright boors!
This man’s convinced his bullshit doesn’t stink
And that we should be dazzled, should bow down
To him. Insanely he still thinks we think
That he is quite the nicest guy in town.
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Three Times Before the Cock Crows
“Then he began to curse and swear, saying ‘I do not know the
Man!’ Immediately a rooster crowed. And Peter remembered
the word of Jesus who had said to him, ‘Before the rooster
crows, you will deny Me three times.’ So he went out and
wept bitterly.” —Matthew 26:75
I vowed a life of faithfulness to him;
I’d share the punishments that might ensue:
Humiliation, torture—even death.
Up till today I’d given him my all—
My home, my friends, my work—all that I knew—
My treasure and my muscle, mind and soul.
But when he was arrested… My fear grew.
The moment when I should have stood for him…
O God, the many things I should have said!
“You heartless, faithless soldiers—take me too!
For I am his disciple—fiercely proud
To be his student, follower and friend!”
But, God forgive me, I was not that man.
I failed. My courage failed. I was untrue,
And so denied him once, then twice, then thrice.
What makes it even worse—that he foresaw
How in my weakness this is what I’d do.
This cowardice of mine… How could he know?
There’s no more goodness in me. Not one trace.
And though He may forgive me and show grace
I cannot bear to show the world my face.
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Brian Yapko is a retired lawyer whose poetry has appeared in over fifty journals. He is the winner of the 2023 SCP International Poetry Competition. Brian is also the author of several short stories, the science fiction novel El Nuevo Mundo and the gothic archaeological novel Bleeding Stone. He lives in Wimauma, Florida.