Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The American Preacher

It must have been in the middle or late fifties that
a famous preacher was coming to our town,
a big circus tent was erected beside the evangelical church
to acuminate the throng.
This was pre-TV time, and there was no entertainment
except walking in the park and feed the birds,
this man's appearance was rock-star news.
He spoke fiercely in English and a person beside of him
translated; it was so odd many people were
in ecstasy hollered hallelujah, and prayed with the preacher.
He was a gigantic fraud of course, and my mother said so too
but she was a communist and disliked America.
Today, in a newspaper on the net I read he had died at ninety-nine.
Billy Graham was his name.
Wishing for you, yearning,
Looking upon you and reading those horrifying words.
Why? Why do you do this to me?
Those five words I dread each time I spend time with you:
“Unable to Connect to the Internet.”

A Drop Fell on the Apple Tree—
Another—on the Roof—
A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves—
And made the Gables laugh—

A few went out to help the Brook
That went to help the Sea—
Myself Conjectured were they Pearls—
What Necklace could be—

The Dust replaced, in Hoisted Roads—
The Birds jocoser sung—
The Sunshine threw his Hat away—
The Bushes—spangles flung—

The Breezes brought dejected Lutes—
And bathed them in the Glee—
Then Orient showed a single Flag,
And signed the Fete away—
 Jan 2018 Tom Conley
 Jan 2018 Tom Conley
I get happy sometimes.
Right now I'm happy.
I like it.
It's refreshing.
The happiness fills me.
Right to the top.
I love it.
I'm just happy tonight

— The End —