Poetry

The target of poetry is the soul. The goal is to attract the soul like a flower attracts a butterfly. But sometimes it is a thistle on which the butterfly lands. Who can predict the pattern of a butterfly’s flit? Poetry changes our flit plans, not always predictably.





Sunday, February 01, 2009

Sorry For God

Sorry For God

Today I felt sorry for God
Sad that He can't wonder
Soon as He see's something interesting
A catalog data base kicks in
And omnicience knows all
About everything
Must be awful boring
He knows all the reasons
A baby raises his tiny fist
Wondering "what is this?"
God knows to His everlasting ennui
But there's one thing
Gets God going
Makes His metaphorical blood race
Quizical look of wonder
On His metaphorical face
When some fallen puny human creation
Raises his hands in worship
And full of elation says,
I love you God my maker.
Worth a universe of stars and planets
For that one star, one planet one person.

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