Poetry

THE LORD'S MIGHT

by Walter Boswell
01/29/19
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The Lord’s Might

Following a day of passive reason

                in a reminder of unconscionable sin:

might he remember to forgive?

Breathe in once to feel and thrice to forget.

As into life’s debates he casually wanders,

                through my secret groves and sacred gardens,

                through dangling vines, stony channels,

                                before streaming thoughts of lost faith.

I do not mind the intrusion as much

                as the insensitivity to the earned passing

                                of my many trespasses.

Society

How can anyone condemn the innocent, the imperfect:

                the lion and the calf, the cheetah and the antelope,

                the lauded killer and the humbled prey –

committed in their pursuits, but pledged to their preserves;

                caught in the cycle of murderous sin,

                while in the tinder of their drought-stricken land?

Though springbucks jump and the leopard access trees,

the neck of the giraffe stretches

                and arches out over the grassland,

                can only far away see with little notice

                the coming wildfire that consumes them all.

Lying Down

You cannot sustain the lie – either before or after visitation.

                But should you ever acknowledge the truthfulness of the Word,

do not so on the morrow, or the next day; or the day after that

                enter into serious conversations with the intention of

                                debating one person’s ideas versus another,

                or setting off one line of argument in opposition to another.

It is in this way you were born and suckled.

It is in this biased state and stunted reason of growth

                that you have always swam the turbulence of popular belief,

                                                facing the riptide or across it,

                                                                splashing the waters,

                                                                foaming up the waves,

                careful only to keep your nose, your sense of self-certainty

                                                                above the surface;

                                while 95% of your body swirls about in the mixed tempests,

                                                the mutual contrasts of drowning fellow opinions.

At some time you must learn to walk,

                or at least attempt to stride like Peter,

                                above the apparent misgivings

                which currently engross your faithless mode of thinking.

Otherwise …                           otherwise your kind must die.

                It must become illegal to ply the illogical,

                to taint the passport oceans of truth

                with false identity and even feinter hearts of being.

Dr. Walter Boswell

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