I will write a poem
if it kills me.
Even if the line
breaks me.
Even if love
counts its ways.
Even when a
lesser path emerges.
Even if I lie
etherized on a table.
Even if roses are red,
with each petal a cliché.
Even if to be or not to be
isn’t the question.
Even if you tread
softly on my dreams.
Even if there’s water
everywhere but no drop.
Even if I wander,
lonely as a cloud.
Even if no word
rhymes or I
double over in
entendre,
this is a poem,
and I live on.
One more book,
one more song,
one more walk
in the spirit to see
One who swallows me.
The search continues for
Someone I have already found.
This quest of authenticity
resurrects dead poets,
theologians, and sages.
“The heavens’ embroidered cloths”
lie as dreams under Your feet.
I will tread softly on Your dreams.
You said it was all straw
yet I will gather the stalks
you left lie.
I will see the invisible fecundity
in the visible things
set in the dimmed light.
I shadow
contemporary
searchers of light.
Neil Diamond was lost
between two shores
to find out who he was.
Bruce Cockburn’s dance
with the everywhere truth
and the grace to lay it bare.
Michael W. Smith points to
the flesh and blood
of the I Am Love.
Then the great Author
names the lead
the Word.
A book,
a song,
a walk
in the cool of the day
and You show up.
Gerald the Writer 