I have been struggling a lot with mental health. Unable to write. Yesterday I at least managed something. Hopefully today more will follow. Two short tries at poetry. One was written by my soft toy. I'm not sure he's written a poem before and he's very pleased with himself. The prompt - which I only half read - was about creation myths.
The photo, only marginally connected to the poems is of a monk in prayer. He lives at Hulne Abbey which I'll blog about soon if I can manage it.
My
Literalist Life
I
was there:
From
the moment at which light was spoken into being
To
the tranquil potential of a populated planet
Breathing
in silent anticipation as the seventh day dawned.
I
was one who found imprisoned joy in the story.
And
not just a story. A life, an unquestioned reality.
When
the garden was planted I watched, wide open eyes,
As
my three-in-one creator sowed full grown trees
And
with a wave of his hand lifted prairie grass to stand tall.
I
saw as dust became man, rib became woman.
Traced
my own lineage back through royalty to Eden.
With
horror I saw the serpent, cunning as politicians
Hiding
lies under truths, consequences under promises
And
their own damnation under press conferences.
I
witnessed the apple, the folly of the bite, Elohim's just wrath
And
felt the pain of inheritance, damned sin in my heart,
Then
walked with my parents as we were cast out of Eden
Only
to spend each waking hour trying to locate my paradise.
A
poem by Blob Thing (a special soft toy)
Salford
sanctuary, sewn with love
Knit
together in my creator's room
From
scraps.
Thread
for my face, white wool filled,
Made
in one night as the year changed.
New
from old.
Empty
flesh, unnamed, just a fluff lump.
Until
brought to life; given meaning
By
love and madness.
Held
by creator, by saving person too,
Spirit
rushed stuffed stitches and smile.
I
am friend set free.
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