More Troublesome Poetry

The dog in the photo belongs to friends. He's the kind of dog I'm thinking of getting, a Mini-Pin.
Hyperactive, tendency to run and jump into his
humans' arms.

If I had a Mini-Pin, I would not read poetry to him. Dogs develop all sorts of dreadful diseases when humans read poetry to them, anything from rabies to heartworms. The one good thing what happens when one reads poetry to dogs is that the fleas get bored and fall asleep, and fall off the dog.

I am pasting the remaining poems from my sonnet sequence: Does the Clay Ask the Potter.

V. Doubt

One more poem, or two, or maybe three
will trace the lines God writes upon my heart.
Here among the sisters who feel called
to serve the diocese or serve their God,
I find myself compelled to try to see
if God has plans for me, if God has words.
I need a saving touch upon my head,
a feeling that can save me from my doubt,
a sense that God is real despite my doubt,
a courage to believe though many doubt.
I’ve ditched old Jesus time and time again
but it may turn out that he’s my friend.
I am reaching for him while my ears
suck music as a treatment for my fears.


VI. The Metaphysical

If I ever learn, the singer sings,
what my heart already knows. I think
I need to sing these lyrics to myself.
I wreck my head by trying to find out
the very simple truths that dwell in me.

My poetry is metaphysical
only when I let go of the science
I was raised with, when I turn my back
on my parents scorn of what is mystical.
Letting go of all this makes me happy.

I think of all the people far away
that I would like to see, to whom I’d say
it’s not just some unhealthy quirk of mine
that I am drawn to God, to the divine.


VII. Loony Tunes

Jesus, God—these two names are those
that many people we would call insane
seem to exhale every time they breathe.
Truly, people such as these have many thoughts
that we’d call loony tunes. For does it matter
if we stir our coffee left or right—
I know a woman who would pray and ask
this very question. She would ask God and Christ
literally for approval of each step she took—
to touch, avoid each sidewalk crack? And then
there are those who’ll wear the holy book
as loincloth, and no thread from head to foot.
Can we know what God has said to these;
Dare we give or take their right to be?


VIII. Delight

The music’s stopped, I’ll rest my tired ears.
In the silence I will call to God.
Gilded Christ hangs like a clever kid
showing me a trick he’s learned to do.

Life and death, death then life again?
Does Christ have anything to teach at all?
Should I learn from my own rise and fall?
Should I live my life as if it matters?

I don’t want to be a cynic or
be ungrateful for the many blessings
or turn whiny every time I’m sad.
I’d hate to point at life and say it’s bad.

I find delight in God, as many don’t.
I say take this and eat, but many won’t.

I'm aware that there are people in the world who find mental illness less threatening than
religion. If this is the case with my readership, so be it. I can only be myself.

---Harriet.