Mind astray reading the
words on a wayside pulpit-
so awkward a prophet-
bumbling knowledge-
the acidity of a stunted worldview.
Are you simple as this?
So explainable by twists of phrase
and pithy wagging tongues
of a bored and boring populace?
Or do you exist in more than an
ever-changing, plastic-lettered,
scared domicile of homicidal
banalities; meant to be smart?
Might you reside in the
memory of a deceased relative
who died in pain but lived in promise?
Do you dwell a lady’s kiss
at Summer’s first light, balefires lit,
anticipating your rise?
Have you been heard in silent want
upon cold gray steps, with brothers'
saffron robes dragging the freezing floor?
Or can you be found in
a painted representation of a savior
dangling, bleeding, rescinding all sin?
Do you feel anger when forced
in containers or bound in
dead leather as the pages of a book?
Can you smell the petals of
an opening rose; waft along the breeze;
yourself the perfume of floral fascination?
How does it feel to be an enigma-
an unknown quantity
straddling an absolute world?
Have I seen you in my daughter’s smile;
my son’s face in the morning
when I am home and it’s Saturday
and what's past is left in proper place?
I care not how you were conceived;
how to ratify your existence; define your mystery.
I seek only your presence, not to fall by the wayside-
no pulpits, nor altars, nor prayers, nor kneeling.
* * *
Since I took such a long break between posts, I thought I'd
try to write something new. That didn't work out, so I went back to a past
piece & edited the hell out of it (or maybe into it, depends on your
worldview.) One of my pet peeves are those little blurbs that appear alongside
the road on church marquees- wayside pulpits- that are supposed to be witty. To
me they epitomize the general dumbing-down of religion in this country.
