Tennis Champs—but Why?
Tennis champs for Yahweh—not dress-up—not pretend—the real thing big time—
But why?—the years go by and still they render to themselves the puzzle—why?—
The glitter, glitz, and money—the fans who them adore—the blinding light of fame—
Was it for the poet they never knew?—a philosopher-poet sequestered on the hilltop?
No longer active is the gift of prophecy—miraculous—reason there is to know—
Yet hints the case of the Williams family—logos gnoseos—a word of knowledge—active—
And further—special assignment active—singular to boot—as wild yet as tennis champs—
It tells—yet lacking ‘why’ in the particular—chosen ones in obedience not understood—
O goobermeister—ding-dong man—take heart—your track is thus affirmed—a fleece—
One of several I will need—I wrestle like a joke—yet singular remain in heaven’s eyes—
Twenty sonnets still don’t tell—hope have I—rich room for six to fill the alphabet—
My hope impelling grasp—numbers from the blue sprinkled with request—
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