I’ve bountiful friends if all my written creations are counted
those being my emerging thoughts dappled with blinding truth
each will endure somewhere out in the vast cosmos
even though I will someday take my bodily leave
Call me a dabbler penning primarily a capella
unsure of who or what germinated these thoughts
am I just picking word mobiles out of the air?
or existentially churning over my existence?
I consider my scribblings actually more my disciples
yes, I’m praying for greater loyalty than Jesus received
way past 12, they keep their own emergence time
good company they are although I’ve bid a few farewell
No, I cannot healthy up the lamed and twisted
even if the common cur can be taught to heel
however, water to wine stumps our four-legged friends
hey, so what if I’m not the next word messiah?
It’s true I once goosed Mona Lisa just to see her smile
it happened in church, in the inner sanctum to be specific
provoking “you shat on the Golden Rule, are you settling for silver?”
I blasphemied, “you wanna be on the comp list for heaven?”
Alas, faith, hope and charity used to mean a lot to me
but they broke it off to consort with a twangy published poet
I left to feed the hungry at the sea of Fleur-de-Lis
they raved that my words were nutritious, not so much the story line