In order for the gospel to go it also must come.

come Jesus come.
go Gospel go.

Good poems are like winter
When the fierce wind
Strips trees to X-rays
Nailed to the blinding blue

When the rain scoured air
Cleansed and clear
Pared down to Nothing
Reveals everything

When world, warmth-stripped
Left uncaring, cold
Shakes us awake
From our ambiguous dreams

Good poems are like winter
Much removed, little left
But those few remnants scream
With blood curdling power

Mine-
A hole in the dirt
Begging one dig deeper
No matter what the cost

Yours-
Such a joyous word
Laughing as it gives away
What can n’er be lost

Every single moment I spend with
You
is like
a really bright moon
and
a brilliant bright sun
coupled together
and crushed
into one.

I would not buy this
Even if I had the money
Which I don’t
I would not buy you
Or you
Or you
I have no doubt
You would probably all sell yourselves
For the right amount of money
Even then
I would not buy you
I simply
Don’t have the stomach
For it

Time it seems has stood still
for us to admire

the purple budding flowers
in spring

the red
and yellow leaves of Fall

or the moss-covered headstones
in the graveyard

behind a quaint clapboard
chapel

we are not at a crossroads
there are no pivotal decisions to be made

we are free
to keep spinning the wire rack

flaring the nostrils
smelling sponging

and sometimes chewing
the scenery

getting lost in the wash of Americana
and nostalgia

Whit Howland © 2020