Tuesday, March 1, 2011


My grandfather lived to be 97. Throughout this time he was my father-figure, role-model & constant friend. This poem is about him but can be expanded to mean THE Grandfather, God, or the sacred masculine if you prefer. Pa displayed many of the virtues I think of when I think about what a man should be. I like to think the god is something like him.

The choir, by the way, was made up of rabbits.

* * *

I went to church
last Sunday morn though
not a pastor spoke.

The only choir
gnoshed oats with teeth
and did not sing a note.

With my grandfather,
I worked on the sabbath
but did not suffer sin.

His sermon rich,
entwining hope
with stories of where he's been.

The pews were plastic
no need to kneel
and neither of us tithed.

We talked as men
on equal ground;
a sense of respect and pride.

Nobody swooned
and no one prayed,
nobody bayed in dread.

There was no shouting
nor threats of hell,
the hour was never more sacred.

I went to church
last Sunday morn,
I did not find it odd-

between Pa's voice
and the joyous work
I felt the hand of God.

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