I wrote this poem last spring when I got the news that my grandmother died, Pat, always said not to qualify my poems, so here it is. God is Not Dead. But he isn’t who he used to be, No longer is his head in the clouds Staring down at us calling judgment To stone the sinners, to drown the damned. Today, he sits upon a cypress stump Crying silently to himself, a cold wind blowing through His salted, worn hair. That rests loosely around his arthritic shoulder. He knows something that we don’t Weighed down by the muddy burden of loss in his darkened brown eyes He replaces his cigarette Inhaling until the embers kiss his fingers. He drops his cigarette and crushes it Beneath his scratched cowboy boots. He’s the only one that’s ever known. Pain is nothing to him who gave his only son. To redeem a world, not worth saving. Insecure, unknowing, afraid. Angry he curses everything in sight. He tears away his handmade denim jacket. Screaming, he shouts to the skies. Shouting to no one, shouting prayers. That no one will answer.
Posted on: Tue, 02 Sep 2014 02:50:21 +0000
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