A God Listens

A draft.

A spire shoots out

like the bare bone

of a frigid earth,

buttress swinging

like wings

a half fossil -

gargoyles too aged to break

from their mold -

      (would have to shed their green,

        their own sky.)

   The earth has an aperture,

     the wind in it rushing.

        He almost sees

        shadows rise

    on something like windows

        like a late flood,

      a cloud entering the blue

            swallowing and sweeping away

            the comings and goings of all life.

      The congregation,

                        and its plainsong

      spills into lanes now,

                  has become a highway,

        jettisoned across the sky,

                   mushroomed into it - up, up, and above;

   it might still be heard in the long history of itself,

        might have folded around the long, drawn out sound

               of a voice - the guttural, the held tone

                        purposely prolonged - 

                  a pitch recognizing a pitch - one fourth of its harmony,

      might have latched onto

                  a tunneling sound in the wind,

      streaming past a pair of doors

            with the traces of a note,

                   that could've been, to someone a few feet away, 

       at a visible distance, mistaken for a choir

                 one eighth or sixteenth of its harmony,

      might have paused in a basin in a desert

                with a slow gradual swaying

    with the memory of the space of a ceiling - 

                the acoustics of the dome

   made to cradle it, shelter it,

           might have quieted

                    in the deafening dark 

                         pit of a throat 

                      that has stopped nourishing itself,

                 that has dried to dust, but still holds

              the propensity for a song, a percentage

                    halved, and halved to eternity,

                           to nothing.

    

Author's Note

A draft, so review away.

Reviews

[Fabian G. Franklin]

So many songs among the spires and steeples, so many bells and calls to prayer across the earth. I sometimes wonder if we aren't one great noise reverberating into heaven or if we can be heard at all above the roar of jet engines and automobiles. I enjoyed the read.

[willweb]

Not only deep but very satisfying to one who longs to create a broader path in what he writes. This show you are not only talented but intelligent as well. Your poem may be a draft but to me it is fantastic the way it sits.

[JustPlainHere]

Thank you so much for such kind words. This means quite a bit and will definitely be helpful when it comes to editing. Thank you again for stopping by, and for sharing your insights.

[Faith Rivers]

Wow! So many thoughts provoked of all that’s come and gone throughout history. If only those spires could talk or send back to us the reverberations of music past. I’d like to be a fly on the wall.