Heaven and earth, a poem

Heaven
My heaven has no
passionless harp-strummers,
no starry-eyed cloud-walkers,
no Peter handing out wings at the gate.

Not a white-washed temple nor marble mansion,
nor misty stage.
No silent mass of robes and halos, no.

My heaven bristles and glows!
My Zion teems with busyness and greenery.
Its people sparkle, inside-to-out—
stone-skippers, kite-flyers, these.

Music, yes,
but not only church choirs—
   in someone’s garage
   guitarist and drummer
   nod laughing at each other and tap their feet,
   while ’round the piano gravelly voices dance.

Worship, yes,
but not only rows of saints sharing hymnbooks—
   in the studio
   an artist completes a sculpture,
   and crowds applaud the Giver’s gifts.

My heaven is
a place of orchestras and didgeridoos,
sixteen-inch softball
and a tug at the end of your line,
children twirling under the fire hydrant
and couples waltzing the ballroom floor.
It’s a land of milk and honey
and ham on rye;
Sunday mornings,
and Saturday nights,
and all the purpose-filled workdays in between.

No dream, no ghost,
no drifting spirit world.

My heaven is real.

[1990]

Heaven_Earth_570

Storm (a poem)

storm poem

Storm poem
Just before midnight
the rains arrive—
furtively first,
their stuttered patter
stopping
starting
while thunders rumble
distantly.

I wake and wait,
knowing the storm will shake me.
I sigh and sleep,
knowing it will pass.

Voice

poetry writing

poetry writing

My trembling voice
chokes
faints,
intimidated by the grand chorus.

Swept by the swell of elegance, I stand
shamed
swirled
awed
into
a a a a a silence....

Such a harmony!
of light and sound.
Winged words
soar delicately
while
I
can 
only
limp
on 
feet 
of 
clay;
the tremulous music pierces,
leaving my heart gasp-
ing for breath.
Such beauty stings.

And I cry.

Where is there room 
for my tinny notes?
Where is there place
for my small voice?

How can I sing?
a
a

But into my silence
enters my
Lord,
my Lord, who
touched clouded eyes
and gave them light,
who
turned lifeless limbs
to warm flesh and muscle,

who sang the very stars into being.

My Lord
opens the door
and invites me out.

He asks me to sing.

NaPoWriMo

poetry writing