I am a former editor and retired social worker living in Sonoma County, California. My life includes one husband, one son, enough friends, too many doctors, and a volunteer job that requires petting puppies.
SCHOOL FOR THE GODS
The adolescent deities took their seats with jostling,
Showing off their blooming strength,
Trying out the thundering voices
That sometimes cracked instead of roared.
The teaching goddess shook her head.
“Accepting godlings, graduating gods,”
Was written on the school’s celestial gates.
What a long way these young ones were from majesty!
First lectures on the stuff of stars, then projects:
Plans on paper, presentations to the class.
Divine spittle and wads of paper sailed across the room.
Order was restored and they were sent to Lab.
“A fine job, Yahweh.
The blue waters, now separated from the land,
Make your Earth shine like a sapphire in the sky.
Have a good vacation.”
“Gods and goddesses, please take your seats!
We have important work this term.
You are the chosen few.
The gods who failed Creation now will work for you.”
Yahweh created swarms of living creatures,
Some for the land, some for the sea, some for the air.
And the teacher said that it was good.
Elective: creating creatures who talk back.
(Many fledgling gods omit this part.
Who would blame them?
Plants flourish and then perish,
Beasts run gracefully across a world and die,
Never troublesomely asking, ‘Why?’)
Yahweh sculpted models and discarded them,
Then, vain beginner that he was,
He made a humankind that looked like him.
“Be fruitful and multiply,” he told them.
What a paradise Earth was!
The teacher said that it was good,
And he has rested all vacation.
Some Poets I Know
The hiker explores the natural world,
examines life’s precise detail
and sends us photographs.
The climber struggles upwards,
shifting weight from phrase to phrase,
driving words like pitons into rock.
The tightrope walker knows he'll sometimes fall,
but teeters bravely on a line,
willing to risk it all for a metaphor.
The deep sea diver surveys the scene,
takes a breath and and plunges
deep inside himself.
The pedestrian stays close to home,
walks paved streets
and relishes the curbs.
The needle skips and hops
Within its encircled space
And fills the empty cloth with color.
So have you pierced the fabric of my life
And enriched my empty heart
With embroideries of love.
©2014 Wendy Freborg