A man wedged in traffic
has no patience for poetry.
Don’t tell him that the clouds
look like angels today,
as he laments the long trail of snails
that delays access to his next
arena of frustration.
He fumes, like the massive metal beast
whose black, poison exhaust mingles with
his own exhausted soul.
His horn cries unnoticed by that
beyond which he can see
On with the A/C, the CD,
or the DJ’s traffic update—oh,
an accident a mile ahead will
detain him another hour!
Coffee’s cold; out of smokes;
vacation’s still three months away.
Was it an accident? Or was it designed
by some sadistic mind,
this daily round of hurrying toward
always looking for his exit
yet never breaking free?
He’s entered the twilight zone.
It’s the spite of the gods
(he made for himself)
that sends him on this endless trek
only to realize that it’s
Monday morning, once again…
Me, I crunch my way down leaf-strewn paths
as the choirs in the trees
herald with gentle melodies
the peaceful sun of the morning,
enraptured, as if today’s a new creation.
And I’m given patience for poetry.
But I don’t dare “thank God
I’m not like other men,”
condemned to impotent rage.
True, I do prefer our rustic trails
to those highway snails, by far—
but harried, hurried hearts
can also lodge in sacred temples.
And I know that there are still souls
who drive those relentless roads,
who have received their Christ-key
to open the gate to the Other World.
They see the cloud-angels
and they’ve learned the secret of blessing.
The God of mountain-top ecstasies
and inaccessible Light
will speak his own poetry
of wordless, pure refreshment
to anyone who's not yet sold his soul,
who longs for eyes to see
His omnipresent artistry.