I visited a Christian shore town. ✝️🌊
I just wanted to relax—let my hair down,
To attune with the Spirit—
Breathe in Mary Jane’s breath,
Ascend to Psyche’s haven—
A heaven of holistic healing. ❤️
Smoke was wildly whisping, 😚💨
Like incense, a priestly offering,
As I found myself vibing it—singing. 👩🎤
A psalmist singing God’s glory.
The Lord—my mortal’s heart inspiring,
Nay! Conspiring—
My heart overflowing with joy.
But wait. Oh boy. 😳
A lawman approached me— 👮♂️
Raptured, I unaware—
He could see I didn’t have a care. 🤷♂️
“Sir, that right there,
You cannot be out here doing.”
I looked at my joint, back up at him, 😚💨
“Why sir, this here is my medicine—
And I am just staying right over there”
Besides this is legal here.” ⚖️
Looking straightly, lawman smiled, 👮♂️
“You know what town you’re in?
Are you not from here, or around?”
This here is Christian ground ✝️
And people like it quiet 🤫
Here in this holy people’s town.”
Damn.
Sunday worship must be weird, ⛪️
No singing in the pews; 🚫 🎶
Pantomime preaching,
Where silence is practiced— 🤫
Any offenders policed— 👮♂️
And praising ne’er appears, 🤦♂️
All, of course, in Jesus’ name. ✝️🙄
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
Tittu
Poet’s Note:
This poem was inspired by an encounter in Ocean Grove, NJ — a historic Methodist Camp Meeting town once filled with shouting Methodists, revival fire, and exuberant praise. The irony struck me: the same ground that once shook with holy noise and “shouting Methodists”, has become a place where silence is enforced and joy policed. Holy People’s Town wrestles with that clash, between living Spirit and lifeless piety.
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