Sometimes
Sometimes the fork hits my tooth and the bite falls back to the plate—
Sometimes the whiskey whispers, ‘There is a better way’—
And then poor ol’ Elijah says, ‘A wooden poet can yet breathe’—
‘He can kick a door that opens’—‘he can hold a set of keys’—
Ears and eyes—touchy rough and smooth—smells and tastes—all five—
poetchilde sighs—
People precious in the eyes of God—choices of their own—required—
One beleaguered and so little—not a savior—not twigging on his own—
Not the rhetoric of Christendom—not “the mother church of Christianity”—
Not the mental spires of the Vedas—the triune gods o’erridden by the utmost all—
Not the compassion and eloquence of the Buddha—om mani padme hum—
Nor the prayer flags speaking—to the spirit world—to the breeze—
Rather a wooden head
Suddenly bursting poetry.
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