Here we go, it’s Final Jeopardy, this one’s for the win:
“Doing the same thing over and over and expecting
Different results.” And oh, this is it! The answers are in!
“Insanity,” quoth Einstein, which he ought to, respecting
The fact that he is, of course, a genius. But I, poor me,
I answered: “What is practice?," happy with the crowd of fools
To be numbered; and I won, morally speaking, you see,
Because insane though I may be, I remembered the rules.

He may be too smart to repeat any troublesome task,
But like a good, simple fool, I had a question to ask.

In memory’s unobserved corner there hides a small boy
So tired of sorrow he no longer cared even for joy.
With a wounded child’s wisdom he thought it to be prudent
To take Mister Spock and make himself the Vulcan’s student
Not because Spock was very stylish or outwardly cool
(Though he was cool); but rather, tired of feeling like a fool
He set out to tread this path, the unsmiling Vulcan way
He sought to do what Spock would do, to say what Spock would say.
He made his mask the untrembling visage, sans all motion,
Took for his own that grave face ungoverned by emotion,
Because even if it felt like interiorly dying
This inhuman discipline must beat unmanly crying
For a Vulcan’s arched eyebrows and a Vulcan’s pointed ears
Were worth the trade considering the dearth of Vulcan tears.

Generations from now, your mark made upon God’s green earth,
After dozens of celebrations of your day of birth,
On that day when you, old now, exhale your last whispered breath,
And the bed on which you recline becomes your bed of death,
When your poor wingless soul is snatched up in your angel’s flight,
And naught but our Lady’s mantle guards you ‘gainst the cold night,
When you find yourself stripped before the Just Judge and His throne,
And now without defense are made all your past sins to own,
When the book of your life is read, when there rings in your ears
Your virtues and your vices, strengths and stumbles, all your years,
When there’s room no longer for excuses, appeals, or sighs,
When through your tears you are forced to meet His great fire-lit eyes,
You need not wonder how He’ll greet you; I know it, I think:
“Thanks daughter, for I was thirsty, and you gave Me to drink.”

Lady Hill wears a dress woven of lichen and grasses
Waving glad with limbs of wind-blown trees to each who passes,
Grandfather Valley returns your greeting with echoed call
While with ancient sloping arms he reaches, embracing all,
Your brother, the rolling Plain, his hair wet with morning dew
Reclines amidst the rabbit-holes, promising something new,
Friend River surges laughing at tadpoles, their comic style
One of countless wild jokes which live, breathe, and dance without guile,
Tribes of toads together take up the chant they all know well
While fam’lies of crickets sing of secrets they have to tell,
And Old Mountain’s granite grimace becomes a sort of smile
As the clouds that crown him blush, bright King Sol setting meanwhile,
When all these wonders you are promised, and even more shown,
How canst thou, O weary traveler, ever feel alone?

Elijah was going to meet God
He grabbed his wallet
Zipped up his hoodie
Set his phone to “vibrate”
Stepped outside and hailed a cab.

When he got to the theatre
He made sure it was the surround sound
3D picture with the reclining seats
Extra butter on the popcorn
But God wasn’t at the movies.

So he plugged in his headphones
And he cranked his Spotify playlist
And he laughed at his favorite Youtube videos
And he texted the smartest people he knew
But there wasn’t an app for this.

So he ganged up with his friends
And tramped from bar to bar to club
And he danced and drank and ate chicken wings
And the bass nearly shattered his ear drums
But God wasn’t at the party.

Then Elijah found himself alone
And there was a sheer silence
A screaming silence
A whispering silence
The neon faded and the noise died

He hid his face
When there whispered
A still, small voice
The question of God,
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”

He only gave one new order
Only once did he say,
“A new commandment I give you,”
Kneeling on the floor
Washing his friend’s feet
Betrayed by a brother
Abandoned by the rest
Bound in chains
Enduring false accusations
Forbearing mockery and laughter
Flayed alive by terrible scourging
Crowned with thorns
Mocked further, reviled
Judged and condemned
Crushed and burdened
Marched up the hill
Dragged up the hill
Nailed to the tree
Hanging, suffocating
Forgiving
Dying
Praying
Dead
Heart pierced
Still giving
“Love one another,
As I have loved you.”

That’s all

The monk sat in his temple
Swathed in his saffron robe
While incense wafted through the air
Somewhere a gong could be heard, in the distance
Pristine, austere, noble
With all the trappings of wisdom
With the aura of enlightenment
With the odor of sanctity
With the nobility of humility
And the pilgrim asked him, are you poor?
“No,” said the monk
“For I desire nothing,
Cling to nothing
Long for nothing,
And so I am free,
Even rich
As though I possessed
The whole world.”

Francis sat in the dust
Covered in a beggar’s rags
While the scent of sewage lingered near
The coughing of the poor was heard, all round
*****, abject, neglected
With all the trappings of homelessness
With the aura of his friends, the sick
With the odor of his brothers, the abandoned
Having forsaken nobility for humility
And the pilgrim asked him, are you poor?
“No,” smiled Francis
“For I have found Him whom I desire,
I have cleaved fast to Him,
I am filled by Him,
And so I am free,
Even rich
For I do not need the world
When I embrace its Master.”