Poem: “Why Do You Say…?”


Why Do You Say…?

Why do you say that Man is the king of creation?
The robe is too wide for his meager, rickety frame, The crown of a king is
royal for his skull’s dimensions, When a summons arrives he can’t even
remember his name

Not upright nor wise despite Linnaeus’s flattery, Swooning over the features
he sees in the river, Wasteful, violent, crooked, stupid and slatternly,
Devoted to drinking and drugs which demolish his liver

Father Confessor, what can you be thinking of?
Listen my son, all that you say is true, Yet this ungainly creature, like
God, is given to love Free in the choice to refuse it, like me and you

What of the destiny that we know nothing about That waits in the spaces
beyond the invisible day Where the stars of the zenith welcome the soul with
a shout – What of us then, my son, when our future sweeps us away?

July 6, 2011


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