
1.
In every bishop’s cathedral
just before the nave
racks of sparkly flames
in little glass cubes
defy the cold darkness
lit by believers in need
of hope, miracles or
maybe in memoriam
inches from the nearby
coin box.
With an all-powerful God
what have you got to lose
with blessings and dreams
possible and cheap or free,
waiting for your wish?
So I wander in, doff
my cap to show respect,
and from the many
tiny fires select
a worthy wick,
take a taper to ignite
its nearest neighbor
just as one fervent
soul afire with faith
might inspire another.
2.
I’m but a dry wick at faith
in a world too far gone,
too big for me to save.
Blocked and needy, this poet
hopes to save his poem.
A God who made a world
with just a Word, begot
a world of words
far beyond the borders
of a modest poet’s brain.
While plunking down
my meager coins, I pray
that if this poem lay dead
like Lazarus with Martha
mourning at his tomb,
God may cure the ills
that killed it, and bring it back
with words, perhaps not like
Dante’s, but some that better fit
and make His angels smile.