Dear God,
To make a poem of you, to limit you to a word or phrase, no matter how beautiful, would be to emphasize or dress you in rags.
Flower drum chant man eyeglasses tipped on a nose, eyeball darting over gray plastic frames singing the chant – Good God, Glory God, Hallelujah… I am amen and the silence that follows.
At a distance God might as well not exist!
Close-up – in the action of darning hope to Joseph’s Multicolored Dreamcoat; god is not so important as the connection of a smile, the outstretch of a hand, or the laughter of poor minstrels strumming blues chords.
This God knows, but cannot teach.
In the holy name vestibule where well-worn versus and vespers are practiced, children die of hunger… and intellectuals ask with scoffing mockery “God allows this” all of us missing the point entirely.
God is not in the word, no matter what the original parchment states. The word is a description of something manifest, and what was manifest was an action. Therefore by my decrepit logic, God is an action, not a scribble.
As far as I am able to understand God has no need or desire or even time to attend to forming for me, or of me, a plan. It is for me to form a plan to act towards or in accord with God.
It is for me to journey to the mountain… because that mountain cannot precisely be reached I am to journey forever, towards the eclipse of two conjoining ideas; that of reason and faith.
And I am to find a way to enjoy this… and I shall!
1 One Poet 4 Man 