17 December 2017

The Speck In Our Eyes


File:The American Museum journal (c1900-(1918)) (17537527214).jpg
Source

. . . but she doesn’t even attend . . .
To the wide sky through the windshield?
To trees turning, children tossing balls,
flattened plastic bottles curbside,
prescriptions for the grandmother,
New Year’s tips for mailman, trash cans,
dead buds on rose bushes, street signs,
matches, veteran on crutches, your
words, a small inner voice, her god?

. . . but he doesn’t worship . . .  Our
robes, rings, churches, money, God?
Who he loves and what he reads? 
In community and sacred spaces?
     Maybe he hears words in the wind,
     in traffic, inside.  Perhaps he sings
     his psalms alone, savoring sounds
     falling off lips into cheek cavities,
     living rooms and oceans.

. . . but they don’t practice what we . . . 
What we tell them?  Babel,  hic et nunc!  
God speaks and at once all hear
in their own tongues as promised. What
would you say in any tongue for any ear?
What was your earliest experience of the divine? 
What is your image of God?  What 
daily food sustains your faith?
What call do you hear and follow?



  A revision of "Faith" from 2012



My blog poems are rough drafts. 
Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast


3 comments:

Peter Chast said...

I like that.....

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Beautiful! I especially love "maybe he hears words in the wind"......i love this poem, Susan..

kaykuala said...

What call do you
hear and follow?

This is most searching even knocks against the conscience, Susan!

Hank