Papa Poet

It has been a while between posts. This poem has been struggling to survive in the neo-natal nursery most of that time. For those who have never been to a Laity Lodge retreat, you should go. If not for the speaker or the worship or the refreshment, then for the last day.

The Last Day

The last day is unique
we meet in the ober room
over head waters and scenic
hills, beyond the blue of never
after a song and prayer
we step to the edge
the breath-taking edge where
the pastor breaks bread
and proffers wine for us share.

Every time I tear,
this time I break, “Why?”
lingers the question
central in my soul where
it needles a trying ethos
to reconcile an incontinent
id with an ego-
maniacal brother to throw off
or melt the manacle.

Off hand ecumenity,
Christ followers from faith
divides all met in unity,
one table not my heritage,
yet now my bent, the break
could be release of judgment
on my soul, from my soul
a letting of blood, a filling of God,
so one may sob at atonement.

More likely mortality
the eternal rift of self
from he who is love
and lovely, to see
my disparate sin self-
wield the knife,
cut the umbilical so
from self recoil
so from man and God.