Thursday Poets Rally: Dear Adam and Eve

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This poem was supposed to be for week 1 of the Poetry Picnic, but I didn’t get it done on time, so instead I humbly submit it to Thursday Poet’s Rally (two weeks later). Let me know what you think!

 

Dear Adam and Eve

 

Dear Adam and Eve,

 

Are you real or make-believe?

Did you exist in connubial bliss,

in a garden where only peace exists?

 

Or were you a seed implanted in

imperfect man’s head 

to explain all  the living and dead?

 

Myths spread to the ears of babes,

generation upon generation, 

a scribe writes and it passes to nations.

Did fiction become truth?

 

Was it 6 thousand -or 6 million-years ago,

you clothed yourselves in tree leaves

and from paradise told to go?

Why today your children suffer the same?

Our forebears’ sin forever our bane.

 

Or were you not Adam and Eve,

of dust and rib conceived?

Instead bang and poof, 

apes learn to live under a roof.

A new world constantly changing,

new insects for the naming.

Life made by God either way?

Only God and fossils can really say.

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Day V: Jesus Saves

Lily remembers. You must be Christ-like, they  told her. Ugly, scrawny little girl. Those were the days before she became a hopeless heifer. Save someone, they said, but who would save her?

(Author’s note: Here’s 50 cents. Call someone who cares. You are depressing me. Write about bunnies and kittens, Lisa, or go home).

(Author’s more profound note: No, I ain’t dissing Jesus).

Blogshorts III: Tears

Image via Wikipedia Don't ask why Zemanta pulls certain images up. Mind reading? Somewhere in my mind is the knowledge of liking Lucky Cats . Chairman Meow?

The angels collect the tears of everyone who cries each day, giving every droplet to God.  God puts the tears into a jar and closes the lid, watching to know the pain. Mothers watch their children slowly starve to death. Elders ruminate on their regrets. A boy  scrapes his knee on the sidewalk. A rejected love and love over felt. God shakes the jar, loosens the lid, and somewhere it rains.

(Author’s note: What a bunch of boo-hoo drivel. What are you, 13? I’ve found more moving works on the walls of bathroom stalls) 

Poetry Pot Luck: Three Lukewarm, Albeit Symbolic, Poems

Here is a helping of poems for this week’s Poetry Potluck.  http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com. Tell me what you really think, will get around to changing “freaking’ on my last Potluck offering and answering everyone too!

 

 

An Ambidextrous Life

 

My interests are like my hands, ambidextrous;

And I have never met anyone else ambidextrous.

I take up my pen with my left hand,

but use my scissors with the right.

I think it’s day but secretly wonder  if it might be  night.

My thoughts make rain in the sunlight,

and stars that  glimmer in a tempest.

 

Sometimes   I’m an old woman,

sometimes I’m a little girl.

The piece that doesn’t fit the puzzle,

the flag that won’t unfurl.

I want to belong to being me,

to not care about the difference,

it will be less lonely,

peace in my mind’s resistance.

 

Wishes

 

Do you ever wonder what happens to the wishes

pinned to pennies

tossed into a fountain?

 

The pennies settle

on the bottom,

do the wishes

settle there too?

Maybe the wishes

float to the top,

hope rising.

Maybe the wishes

turn envy-green,

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corroding like copper coins.

 

If the pennies are stolen,

are the wishes

snatched away too?

Maybe the wishes for love

never come true.

Wishes to restore a life distorted

never again will be whole?

But no.

A penny is just a penny,

you reassure me.

Wishes never really go away.

 

Rapture Not-So-Ready

 

Betty was rapture ready, but Veronica got left behind.

 

 

I  have a confession to make,

as  though my very soul is at stake.

I have to admit,

and hope I  don’t  roast  on a spit,

or, hell,  just throw me into a pit,

where for eternity I will sit;

But I really must admit,

This Rapture thing.

I’m not so ready for it.

 

The Fundies have their bets on 2012,

the Mayans did too,

Someone says this May without delay,

Weeeeee!!!

 

as birds drop from the sky,  FLOP!

I’m not so ready for the Rapture

or those raptors falling down, eww.

 

Blondie sang about the Rapture,

Dante put in his two cents on hell  too,

Will the  Left Behind authors  laugh

when I know not  what to do?

Rapture,  I’m not so ready,

mercy for me  I implore you.

 

Will I really have to watch

as others disappear in the clouds,

knowing that in heaven I’m not allowed?

 

I try to be good,  God.

But I am of the world that you put me in.

I don’t want to be left behind,

but I don’t want to leave yet either.

I want to love someone and be loved ,

I want to matter somehow in the world,

and maybe be an author (eh, why not?).

Alas, I’ve done neither.

I’m not so ready for the rapture yet,

can we postpone it  a bit?