Perhaps
God is Waiting for a Hallelujah
prim,
proper—nearly stoic,
people
lined into orderly pews,
dresses,
stockings, ties, and suits,
voices
keeping a low-key rhythm
with
mouths opening and shutting
like
good little fish,
the
sacraments are in tidy plastic cups,
the
offering baskets dutifully passed,
the
three-point sermon tied with ribbon,
but
what
if God is holding his breath—
what
if he’s waiting for a little stirring,
a
little swaying of the hips,
hands
waving to heaven,
heads
thrown back in abandoned;
what
if he’s waiting for a glory-hallelujah,
waiting
for feet to dance like David did
before
the Lord,
and
what if God came down and stormed
the
pulpit with a hell, fire, and brimstone
sermon
that shook the rafters, raised the roof,
and
what if he said, Can I get an Amen?
Enlighten
Me
oh,
great one
full
of knowledge,
I
am waiting—
a
blank slate
designed
to absorb
your
every thought;
impart
your wisdom,
use
big vocabulary;
I
love it when you talk
Dictionary;
I’ll
spend nights
dissecting
the meaning;
you,
oh, cosmic one,
on
your seat next to God,
how
have I survived this long
without
you pointing out
my
every imperfection?
I’ll
kiss the ground you walk on,
now
that I have seen your holy shoes;
where
would I be
if
not under your feet?
The
Real Planetarium
back
on a blanket, torso exposed
to
the summer’s falling dew,
fingers
trace the constellations
as
if they’re all brand new:
the
Big Dipper spills some soup;
I
taste it on my tongue;
Andromeda
and Gemini
sing
a song I’ve never sung
Ursa
Major prowls for food,
yawning
as she lumbers by;
Orion
shoots an arrow;
I
blow a kiss to the sky
Phantom
Pain
Like a severed limb—
they
say you can’t feel
the
pain,
yet
pain jitters like needles
stabbing
the missing section
of your heart,
the
chunk that broke off
and
shattered like fine crystal
three
seconds after the midnight call,
two
seconds after the blood drained
from your face,
one
second before time
cracked
like a walnut
into
then and now.
Impromptu Childhood
Rain
peppers my windshield,
headlights
on, wipers swishing.
I
pull into the parking lot,
summon
the courage
to
disembark—so much
for
doing my hair today;
the
drowned-kitten look
is
most unflattering.
I
sigh, grab my umbrella,
getting
wet before it opens.
I
start to sidestep a puddle
but
have a sudden fit
of
inspiration—regression
maybe
and
I stomp, as hard as I can
then
jump to the next puddle
and
stomp it too;
I
must look like a woman
gone
mad—but I continue
from
puddle to puddle
utterly
soaked to my bones
and
happier than I’ve been
in
a long, long time.
Arvilla Fee teaches English Composition for Clark State
College and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She has
published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including
Contemporary Haibun Online, Calliope, North of Oxford, Right Hand Pointing,
Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human
Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. For Arvilla, writing
produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other. To contact Arvilla
or to learn more about her work, you can visit her website: https://soulpoetry7.com/
These poems are fantastic, well written. Thanks for sharing them 💕
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