Saturday, February 13, 2016



Feed me something that sticks
to my ribs; fills my belly.

Pour me a cup that’ll buckle my knees.
Let me hear shouts of Jesus

among the wooden pews.
I want to flatfoot to a fiddle tune,

boots scraping a raw plank floor.
Daintiness is for tatting doilies.
Utter me verses blunt and thick,
rough as a cob.  My house is the one

where my grandfather entered the world,
made of chopped-down timber, daubed mud,

a stone and mortar hearth. It’s where I first
look for rudimentary comfort and warmth,

to find the treasure I was promised
lies buried somewhere beneath.

O child of God, there are as many paths to God
as there are souls in the universe.

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