Thursday, May 13, 2010

Nothing Missing

They tell me that I’m missing something—
Never what that is,
But it’s something—something major—something big.
They tell me God could grant this thing—
Apparently it’s His—
And they chafe when I don’t give a flying fig.

I don’t miss the wings I’ve never had
Nor gills I’ve never tried
I don’t miss a pair of antlers for my head
And I can’t imagine missing stuff
I can’t have till I’ve died,
When the people who are telling me … aren’t dead.

Should I miss the influenza? Should I
Miss the measles, too?
I’d miss polio, except, of course, I don’t.
There are many things I do not have
Which I will not pursue—
If you’d like to add religion… well, I won’t.

Of course, I’d miss my son or daughter,
If I were left alone
And I’d miss them till the day my heart gives out
I would miss the many friends I have
And others I have known—
That’s what living, and what loving, is about.

But I will not waste a single moment—
Not a single breath—
Not a heartbeat, cos it’s more than what it’s worth
In missing things religion says
I’ll find out after death—
I don’t want to miss a moment here on earth!

For Sastra, for this comment.


Brownian said...


Trou said...

I was reading Pharyngula and an argument erupted:
(What are the odds of that… a godly priest corrupted?)
A noble concept was, one claimed, to simply believe in belief.
Just imagining eternal bliss would bring anyone relief.
Then, whack! ( like a chicken with no head, yet flapping)
comments flew about, o crap, more cyber yapping.
But Truthmachine had slammed the gavel making a closed case
and he meted out the verdict; plain as nostrils on a face.
“Without a brain to function it’s impossible“, he said,
“To think of anything at all - especially when you’re dead!”
And then I understood the koan I had pondered while I studied
Why religion had nothing for me, ’spite a god man gaunt and bloodied.
“What is the sound of one had clapping?” had me thinking for a while,
But thanks to TM I have my answer, and knowingly I smile.

I have thoroughly enjoyed your poetry and at times am inspired to give it a whirl. Crap, it's hard. I don't know how you do it. This little effort of mine was like passing gall stones and it reads like it too.

How about I just enjoy your writing.

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