“There Is But One God”

“There Is But One God”

There is but one God, one sea, one me,
One in exigencies, and so it is that we may be forgiven,
Forgotten for what some imagine, they who live in
Fear of all things independent, not bound by seas
Of visions circumcised by death, itself; cities, and a panoply
Horror honed with golden trumpets on the silver screen, driven.
Spent., the albatross, the unicorn, innocents that live in
Flights of fear or fancy, real or paginated manuscripts of fantasy.
Those of science, these of fiction hoard by dint of circumstantial
Weakness in the face of simile and metaphor; laurels and the oak leaves
Crown the brow of meretricious habit born of years excused
Yet forsworn by tedious repetition and nothing left to use.
Given, then, both time and choices, now–eternal wherewithal–
They magnify pathetic phatic lives
displayed as prayer rags grown limpid on the breeze.

4 responses to ““There Is But One God”

  1. One, and unique, this thought goes to some heads, making a mockery of the uniqueness as if that is a given … I felt washed out like a dish rag at the end, tossed aside. (Mind you, as I love green you had me interested from the start)

    • That “given” seems to be one of the best-kept secrets on the planet. I am amazed at times with 7,000,000,000 souls on this earth, that so little seems “unique” at times within humanity at large, so buried are the many in collective hiding, blending in, and pure camouflage. Yes, well, the “dish rag” aptly applies to what I feel so often after visits with or from just about anyone I know at present. Of course, I don’t burden anyone with that fact (except, of course, in my sonnets), but still, usually, upon arriving home after an “evening out” with friends and acquaintances, that feeling of relief when at last I am at home is unmistakable. Generally speaking, one of the reasons for this and similar feelings is that since around October of 2009, the rapid rate and sheer magnitude of disasters and catastrophes reported on the news has been so great as to actually come to the attention of the average man on the street. I have the feeling that some Adventist groups amongst the hundreds of sects in both Christian and Muslim arenas must be having a field day. It appears that once again, the “end of the world” seems at least worth investigating even if absolutely no one has any intention of doing anything either about the situation or in preparation for it. That “given” uniqueness is, however, a major key to calm and even to relative internal piece. Who, for instance could see that leaf or that particular dog and not be glad to be alive?

      Blue is my colour, but I will settle for a deep, rich, dark forest green any day. I have a bottle of body wash that was given to me some years ago as a kind of “get well” gift by the staff of the school in which I happened to be teaching when I was off for illness and it sits to this day on my bathroom counter, unopened, revered both for the thought and, equally important, the beauty of its colour, that specific, rich dark forest green that has an almost electric or neon quality to it.

      Hope all is well with you, Madame Pen.


  2. as always John, your reply is a wonderful read, as is your poetry. I can relate to the keeping of said bottle of body wash, sometimes something appeals and is kept, untried, unused and sits there, a testament to the past, (a) present. ( Cringe !!) , and kept for the future. :-D, I had something similar but a relative opened it and alas ’tis no more. Forgiven quite easily, as I pictured scenario in my mind with said bottle crowning a certain head!! … Dark Forest Green? I can almost taste the quality of the colour, which makes me wonder at my sanity sometimes. but then I shrug … which brings me nicely to your last question, I am feeling my way through the loss of my girl , it’s harder than I ever imagined it would be, because though the warning signs were there for all to see, I turned a blind eye, and acceptance is not an option apparently, for me. It had to happen, she was ill, it did happen, and she died four weeks ago, and I accept it, I do, but somehow I’m crying all the more. Apparently I should be over it by now, or so I’m told. Mind you, if I don’t think, I’m ok, so there you have it, an option. I’m not thinking … xx Zombie Pen xx

  3. Oddly, I don’t think I ever really got over the passing of any of the three Jeffreys, dogs from my own past and even today, the major reason I don’t have a hound is that I really cannot abide losing another one and, equally, there is at this point the added thought of just how a fourth Jeffrey would react when my own time comes if he survives me. You can’t imagine just how Babe, Pig in the City affected me since that little short-haired miniature fox terrier with the wheels provided for his back legs was the spilling image of all three Jeffreys. Now, I cannot hear Saint-Saëns’ third symphony [the organ symphony] without seriously thinking about my last Jeffrey in particular….of course, I also cannot hear that organ movement, the final one, without thinking of pigs and orangutans, not to mention, ducks, geese, cows, horses, and an assortment of mice with decided musical abilities; it’s playing now as I write. (I finally found a version of that portion of Saint-Saëns’ symphony that puts the organ where it belongs, on top:


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