So Jesus walked in and asked Which bunk? and she said I was planning to stay on my own and Jesus said Silly you can’t do heaven alone.
They went water walking and parable talking.
Demon casting and prayer fasting.
Jesus got some great fashion tips. He threw those crusty old sandals away and hasn’t worn white since Labor Day.
He admired all her (decent) photos.
She read all his books.
I think they like each other.
I was going through old poetry I wrote and found this. I think I wrote it but I don't know for sure, so I can't try to get it published. If it's even good enough for that, I don't know. If anyone thinks they know who wrote it I'd be glad to know. But I'm fairly confident that I wrote this, and I took the liberty of making a few revisions tonight. It sounds like my poetic voice, with short bursts and with careful attention to sound. I also like to try on poetic personas who are different from my usual personality and behavior-- sometimes jubilant, sometimes even whimsical. And moreover, my best poetic muse has always been the Incarnation, the immanence of God with me and with other losers. The great reversal, the lovely surprise of the Christ who hangs around precisely the people religious folks think he would avoid. Reading this poem again made me find that muse. Whether I first wrote it or not, it makes me want to keep writing now.
It just struck me there's something just right about not knowing if a poem is yours. Real poetry ultimately belongs not to the poet, but to everyone-- like nature, like God.
They went water walking and parable talking.
Demon casting and prayer fasting.
Jesus got some great fashion tips. He threw those crusty old sandals away and hasn’t worn white since Labor Day.
He admired all her (decent) photos.
She read all his books.
I think they like each other.
I was going through old poetry I wrote and found this. I think I wrote it but I don't know for sure, so I can't try to get it published. If it's even good enough for that, I don't know. If anyone thinks they know who wrote it I'd be glad to know. But I'm fairly confident that I wrote this, and I took the liberty of making a few revisions tonight. It sounds like my poetic voice, with short bursts and with careful attention to sound. I also like to try on poetic personas who are different from my usual personality and behavior-- sometimes jubilant, sometimes even whimsical. And moreover, my best poetic muse has always been the Incarnation, the immanence of God with me and with other losers. The great reversal, the lovely surprise of the Christ who hangs around precisely the people religious folks think he would avoid. Reading this poem again made me find that muse. Whether I first wrote it or not, it makes me want to keep writing now.
It just struck me there's something just right about not knowing if a poem is yours. Real poetry ultimately belongs not to the poet, but to everyone-- like nature, like God.
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