Demonstrations Healing Chronic Illness Poetry

Going To Church

Going To Church

(inspired by our president's 
walk of shame from the
White House to the church)

Like a BOSS
I know where to pray
on the mountain
with the Babylon of
rocks and boulders
on vertiginous peaks

Twisted Limber pines
much older than me
Flowers that no one else may see
succulent white liquid
petals, wet desert daisy
tiny... pink... stamens
(sparkling eyes) drowning
in the vast crown
Rooted in dry gravelly ground
Short-stemmed like me
Cutting every corner to
conserve energy
for the grand, miniature display
My heart is rejoicing automatically

Holy people praying on TV
The virus is culling our weak
Be a humanist and
take care of the herd because
we all have our turn to die

The Bishop is in a hurry
The Rabbi is pedantic and brief
The Imam is rapping woke poetry,
long relay races of chosen words
You know who I preferred

My god is nature
I wander

A sea of boulders
rising in a swell,
cradle isolated,
contorted, short,
oxygen-starved trees

Granite corners, pink
enclosed by black
Shifting layers like petrified cake
Broken, clefts everywhere
The crack in Mummy’s skin
is where the faeries live
Small people in colourful
clothes, hats,
happy cartoons,
garden gnomes
in a receiving line

I only feel them
and the need to laugh
when I come near
I sit with them,
sprawling in the pew
The church is warm and
protected in the gale

Liquid black gold running
the side of a crevasse
Twinkly granite under dark moss
Shadows straining
in the high altitude wind
scouring the earth
Not even big birds are out
The sun is close,
will these wings melt
before I bring the
benediction back
to my herd

-Celia Quinn