So much godliness, you’d thought,
would have calmed us down,
turned us to the Lord’s Prayer,
a certain sparkling, abstaining
from sticky horror or
the lion in the lair.
That iron-clad, you’d said,
it’d have moved us up a notch,
a gain in evolution–still what
does it mean, I had to ask, when
all is a feeling, an unshaken belief
in doing the right thing.
And rightness lies about in
a few words of prayer? We’d keep
watering the garden, playing hose.
Careful in the arrangement of rooms,
assailed by doubt, sticking our
necks out, seeing the rainbow.
It’s been a while. My mind’s focusing elsewhere obviously. Yet I do return. Why? For clarity, for discovery, for connecting. Is that what writing does? Does writing serve that kind of purpose? Yes obviously. It clarifies the mud, even if the proposal is …mud itself. Yes. If you’re not muddy you’re not being real. If you’re downright dogmatic, you’re…a stick in the mud. But clarity is a wonderful thing, is it not? Like for days, for years, for decades you’re stuck in some quagmire, and then one day you feel lucid, and the sun is sparkling. It’s a little exaggerated perhaps, but maybe you’re discerning what I’m talking about. And writing? Perhaps it’s a bit like that. That’s something for your poem to address.