Sow ponderous are wee
The nature of God
And
God of nature
Never two be the same
As one
Awe weighs
Whichever becoming
Created in won mine
Weather mirror mortals
Or I am parish-able being
A quest in during
Too haves
And halve knots
Regarding the spirit of what matters
Neither helled fast
Nor celestially slowed buy death
And aft-er life each claiming
Stern up trouble
Figuring the other’s sale is rigged
Know cents in fallowing
What is billed of star board
Oar all is port
As solid grounds a mast
Exceeded only by wind
Assumptions and renunciations
From the back spew and affront row
A mist
The sow called
Whys
Only wandering
How does it awe end
I am prone to venture into the dangerous arena of speculation on the nature of God in efface of skepticism and the idle juggernaut of cynicism. This poem is about awe, that and much more. I view awe as a primary experience of what I would term spiritual or mystical. I find awe uplifting. Dissecting life rarely leaves life still living. In do coarse, most arguments about God or any sublime reality devolve into reductive thinking and defensive emotional stances, regardless of one’s belief in common ground or sacred spaces. I am skeptical of any view of humans as solely common ground. I am also skeptical of the races of men to lay claim to the sublime spaciousness that is sacred. Awe is elusive. The spirit is like the wind, as we know not where it comes from or where it goes. I suppose that it would not be an unwarranted characterization to say the awe is my religion. Of course, awe and wonder are the enemy and antidote to dogmas, in this dogma eat dogma world wee in habit. Sow, this poem is a bout finding a place where awe does not end, where awe is not exiled from our ideology of the moment. May you ask wise as you wander, and as you find awe that you are seeking, make more of it.
