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The Unchosen

 

I guess I have a deficiency. God never

said boo to me when as a boy I stood

straining in church with muscular endeavor

for the sweet squirt of salvation.  I never could

see why He spoke to this or that old lady,

 

sending her, hallelujah, down the aisle.

Was I alone in the congregation vile?

Or was their claim of spirit something shady?

And now when I read poets who simply Know,

drinking their imagery from Godís own cup,

 

whose poems "just come," and then, like Topsy, grow,

whereas I always have to make them up,

with never a tremor saying Break this line

or Save this phrase, regardless of its beat,

hear no obscurities which seem Divine,

 

and, knowing not Godís measure, still count feet,

I yearn that reason give me some relief

(besides those lapses when my mind, not soul,

is not so much inspired as out of control).

Non-linear God, help Thou my unbelief!

 

Judson Jerome

 

 

From The Village: New and Selected Poems,
Dolphin-Moon Press, (c) 1987.  This poem is in the
public domain.

Background by Jelane

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