INSTEAD EMBRACE

First, a note: Tricia tagged me with this poem.  It moved me deeply as I read it.  I thought it very well done.  Then I began to recognize the language.  I checked: it was my own poem, written and forgotten.  What a wonderful surprise!  It is difficult to be objective about one's own work and self-doubt comes at times like a tsunami.  How wonderful when a poem comes to life.  Thank you, Tricia.

I.
So
perhaps it is wise
   we have put away God.
Those first lands
   are they not deserts now?
And the new lands
   are they not ruled by greedy men?

Perhaps it is wise
   we have turned our backs
   and walk away inured
   to the cries and wailing.
Who are we to shed useless tears
   when the black slick inundates
   the manicured lawns
   when the water ignites
     beneath the kitchen tap?

Let us scoff together
   at those fumbling scriptures
   written by many in many lands
   whose inadequate words slip like fingers
     on the glazed edifice
     of dreams now deemed
       ineffable
       and impossible.

Let us not shudder to consider
   every fruit dropped into darkness
   from the splendid tree of Evolution
   will require the miracles to renew
     we no longer underwrite.

What is a tear beyond salt and sorrow?
The skies are clear in springtime now,
   no longer darkened by clouds of overwinging
   Passenger Pigeons.
     whose fatal flaw was to come
     to the call of distress.

Can we be far behind?

Perhaps it is best we put away God
   in every language, in every land
   even in translations that leave no room
     for a divine being.

II.
Perhaps it is best to put away Hope
   who takes her sweet time to appear
and what good if she is not pregnant
   beyond pauses?
We've had our fill of promises;
of fulfillment
   not a bite.

Turn up the empty lights
and the music of hysteria
   where there is no room for silence
   nor lingering.

Rivers are stolen.
The sandy bellies of great seas
   are naked to the powerful
     indifferent eye.

Take those words like righteousness
   tag them with disdain
   scourge them with easy cynicism.

What room in our language now
   for what is lofty
   beyond this concrete plane?
We have no time to imagine experiences
   each unique as a single soul.

With each fallen fruit and tree
   more sand blows across our imagination;
like the parting of true lovers
the long longing songs
   of coyotes and whales
   grows more distant
as we embrace the rumble
   of gasoline and war.

        --West Wind
          27 May, 2013