Tuesday, March 1, 2011

church


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

thought 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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