Rasma Says

Musings, deliberations, flashes of unaccounted for brilliance…

Poem Composed at an Airport

The clouds are the kind
Jesus would come on
in the fearful midwestern sky
of a June summer.
The kind that brought with them
guilt, and a strong knowledge
of my unworthiness at witnessing
anything as beautiful as rapture.
Here the radar towers
do their best to bring down
the spectacular, and the man
with his tiny ridiculous plastic 

spoon no bigger than a thumbnail
is scraping at yogurt,
scooping it into his saliva
filled mouth. Something
crunches within his jowls
and for a moment I hate
all men, mankind, the business
kind engaged in the endeavors
of spoons and yogurt and
telephone calls, as if
no judgement will ever fall.
Then I remember. There never
was a promise in the clouds,
those were only water color paintings
on paper thin Bible pages.

Information

This entry was posted on 15/03/2012 by in Uncategorized and tagged .
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