I Pink up the phone and say Yellow

God called me on a rotary dial phone with the piggy tail cord.

That is how we met, unofficially, when I was just five

my grandparents took me to a church

and the man in the middle, his name was Revren was happy

to be the center of our attention, he beamed and bowed

although I remember details like pulling out the tiny threads 

from a cotton lemon dress. 

The bald man, Revren, wearing the dark dress, 

a stage costume, I guessed having been to the theater 

much more, before-

he handed me the receiver of the phone, and shouted 

{He 

wants to talk to YOU!}

Grabbing the phone, 

I held it up to my ear like a shell,

no ocean, hell, just a loud sound called a dial tone.

When I handed it back after Revren asked me what He said,

I simply shrugged and muttered, { I don't think he was there-

anymore.}

Revren bald man shouted to the audience-That

i {did NOT BELIEVE}

{Pray} for little me, but I did see

i saw the light 

through the stained glass panes throwing yellow strokes 

liberally down the aisle

and understood others don't see this

from over there, it may be blue. 

My grandmother who had been a teacher,
slapped my hand
for unraveling her homespun delicate
pinafore
No reason. 

Image credit By Tyne & Wear Archives & Museums, titled 'The camera was great but her new phone wasn't working (1964), [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Of Men Making Magic

Killing witches did nothing
for Satan's side
Jail is not the auditorium
where Gods cheerleaders
throw their pom-poms around;
spitwads bounce off the moral walls
poking holes in the purgatorium.

Across the tracks the church is full
by now book club fans discuss theoreticals,
hypotheticals, troubadours spin shiny cups and
card tricks, knowing every card stacked
in your deck
making deals,
the full house faces are flushed
out of the heat, in sweet retreat.

In World War We All (mostly) agree
its purpose is based on property
and perceived utility all the while
Heaven becomes swarmed with infantry,
infiltrated and besieged by Heroes
overthrown by horrors and darkness.
Military men like barter chips
that crumble through the slit
the hourglass of invention
that contains all your broken
bones
ashes
Was
When
 On that grave
forever day
a clump, a stall,
not a grain did fall
God noticed
and did nothing;
graciously watching as We
built molehills into mountains
that crumble back into the Sea.
God was content
with this practice in futility
feckless and spinning silently.

"The Forties
and in the desert cold men invented the star." -Franz Wright


Image of painting by Gerrit Dou [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.