Haunted Sabbath

Again I wake on a clear blue Sunday
morning in the Christ-haunted United
States of America and join the throng
--if twenty percent can be considered
a thronging--that passes through the wide doors
of its tired multitude of divided
denominations, all of which lay claim
to the same Jesus, who doesn't transcend
their ceaseless bickering, their politics,
conservative exclusion, liberal
inclusion, their prosperity preaching,
their doomsday teaching, their self-righteousness.


I go wakeful into this Sunday night,
which is also Halloween, preached against
this morning from thousands of pulpits
while some souls starve, commit soul suicide,
seek peace, belonging, comfort in trouble.
After two thousand Christ-haunted years,
what does it mean to follow? to serve?
This Halloween night I left the lights off.
I sit in the dark, an old cat purring
on my belly, listening to the clocks tick
in syncopation, listening to the dogs'
reverberating barks in outer dark.





Well, that about does it. I didn't make a poem every day of October, but by my count I went 21 for 31, which I guess isn't a bad percentage. I learned what I hoped I would learn, that I can write something almost every day. Not that it's going to be good, necessarily, but--for a man who fancies himself a writer--anything is better than nothing. At least I can create something most days that's potentially worthy of rewriting and rethinking and rewriting again.

Thanks to those who read these and put up with my musings.