The Poets Are Silent
There's another poem.
Flowery and beautiful
Of great things it speaks
Of Love & Mercy & God
Rosy pictures of the world
They give. There's no pain,
Not really they say.
If you try hard enough.
Maybe they're just better than me
In love and in contemplating
The glorious divine. But to me
It seems to be only sap & crap
Why do these poets not sing
Of the realities of life?
Do they not see God in those too?
Why this disconnect?
I read of the Eucharist
But not of life as a race
Grime & grit & metal
Thundering towards victory or wrecks
I read of the struggle of faith
But not of war. Blades and
Bullets amidst Blood and bodies.
And a rosary battered and bruised.
I read of love but not of the widower
Sitting in a chair weeping
Because his life has been torn
& his faith shown a stack of cards
I read of childlike joy
But not of the child on Easter morn
Who comes to the sudden realization
That his father is truly dead.
I read of Mary's joy
At the angel's words
But why not Joseph's terror
At exile and uncertainty?
Are these not equally worthy
Of verse and song?
Are the poets insufficient
Or simply indifferent?
Your sickly sweet words
Are fine for the satisfied choir
But for the thirsting man
They are only dust
Leave your coffee steaming
Leave your laptops humming
Leave your protective safety or
Leave us alone
Humble yourselves among suffering
Perhaps suffer yourselves sometimes.
Did not Christ come among the people
And share in their blood and pain?
Oh Muse, speak to us
Of overwhelming grief
Of noble defeat and death
And the divinity within.
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