Saturday, November 08, 2014

To Him

He may be filled with Light with birds with maytimes.
ultra violets, He may be tender as- sudden showers
hinting at snows before they fall and

both at the same instant. who knows.
we know about His lightnings
from the Films.

and from the redundant pulpits
where out of love, they become:
more and more inarticulate...

what of His summers?
the colours of His orchards?
His tangles of blackberry vines

(they may like pies He sighed, and
cobblers: "Let there be berries then" or
creamy valentines from the saints-

the smiling of dogs);

His elephant rememberings, lumbering,
of the Day His dinosaurs failed
to get off the school bus.

charcoal sketches of first-in-flights.

of Time...of coal turned into diamonds-
sand under irritating circumstance,

to pearl

we dream we know
or else, we Deny.

where else could wondering
come from? who among us dreamed
up the brink of day-

all the flowers! rainbows swirled in oil.

oh here on earth where we are bound to stay
until we are not-
where it is not permitted to see face to Face

we make do with certain artists, short of Grace.
but tell me, you who are so certain that you know Him
or that - you cannot-

what Michaelangelo could carve
from any quarry here
the rose veined marble

of His Heart?
the weeping of His auroras...
whenever we imagine He is far away...

or that He never was...

mary angela douglas 8 november 2014