Pride Comes Knocking
Pride comes knocking at my door,
“Let me in,” smooth voice implores.
Relentlessly he knocks and pounds;
His noise throughout my house resounds.
I stand at peephole and debate,
Should I let him in my gate?
He’s dressed so fine, he’s known quite well,
And with such persistence rings my bell…
Yet I know that once invited in,
This guest is loath to leave again.
He’ll want to stay and sip some tea,
And fill my ear with pleasantry.
He won’t inquire how I have been,
Observing I look fine to him.
And leaning close he will confide
That he belongs here by my side.
He likes to say that we’re the best,
Comparing us to all the rest;
He whispers that we’ve done quite well,
And, oh, the stories he can tell!
His words like sugar in my tea,
At first seem rather sweet to me;
But as he shares these morsels free,
A quiet Voice breaks reverie:
“Whatever goodness you might find
Is dealt by hand of God so kind.
I find our teatime quite a bore–
It’s time to show this guest the door!”
No, I’ll not let Pride in today;
I think we’ll send him on his way…
©2006 by Patricia S. Baker
First printed by The Deronda Review, (Fall/Winter 2007)
Pride Comes Knocking (Again)
Again I heard persistent knock;
I peered through peephole, then turned lock–
for on my porch was wounded Pride,
pierced through with arrow in his side!
I quickly opened wide the door;
he staggered in, collapsed on floor.
I gasped, and knelt down, horrified,
“Oh, tell me, who has hurt you, Pride?”
And as I tended bleeding wound,
I listened, thoroughly attuned
to tale of woe so sad I cried;
how could they do that to poor Pride?
I asked him if he thought that he
might like to sip some healing tea.
He, smiling, got up off the floor–
already he was not so sore.
And as we sat and sipped our tea,
he shared more tales of pain with me.
I wept some more; he sighed, and said,
“You know, I guess I’m better dead.”
“Oh, no!” I answered, “You’ve been wronged!”
And so he bled, with sighs prolonged,
on tablecloth and napkins white
while we both pondered his sad plight.
Then suddenly a whisper stirred
the silence and these words I heard:
“Though wounded, he is still no friend
who bids your favor without end.
The heart that entertains this guest
finds neither service nor My rest.”
(Now whisper edged with gentle roar—)
“It’s time to show this guest the door!”
Pride groaned anew as we got up,
holding out his empty cup—
but once again that Voice and I
showed Pride the door, and bid goodbye.
©2009 Patricia S. Baker