fly-by-nite lighthouse

church

I went to church last Sunday morn thought not a pastor spoke. The only choir gnoshed oats with teeth and did not sing a note. With my grandfather, I worked on the sabbath but did not suffer sin. His sermon rich, entwining hope with stories of where he's been. The pews were plastic no need to kneel and neither of us tithed. We talked as men on equal ground; a sense of respect and pride. Nobody swooned and no one prayed, nobody bayed in dread. There was no shouting nor threats of hell, the hour was never more sacred. I went to church last Sunday morn, I did not find it odd- between Pa's voice and the joyous work I felt the hand of God.

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ALL POETRY COPYRIGHT MB TANKERSLEY 2004

My grandfather is 96. This can be about him or about THE Grandfather, God, or the sacred masculine if you prefer. Pa displays many of the virtues I think of when I think about what a man should be. I like to think the god is something like him. The choir, by the way, is made up of rabbits.