Sunday Service
How like sermons certain poems are
but empty of the pointed sticks
of sanctimony. They focus instead
on the wonder and terror of the world
in words stolen from the ordinary
for the work of awe and trembling.
How they all beat the small drum
of the word within the world
compelled to speak its way into being.
but empty of the pointed sticks
of sanctimony. They focus instead
on the wonder and terror of the world
in words stolen from the ordinary
for the work of awe and trembling.
How they all beat the small drum
of the word within the world
compelled to speak its way into being.
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Author's Note
Something for a Sunday
Other stories by Gary Hardaway
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Like it. Brilliant opening.
A fine countenance! *
"How they all beat the small drum
of the word within the world
compelled to speak its way into being."
**
Captured in the light.*
Thank you, Neil.
Thank you, Matt.
Thank you, Rachna.
Thank you, Tim.
*, Gary. I really like this: "...the pointed sticks
of sanctimony."
Thank you, David.
I too like the stanza Rachna picks.
*
Thank you, Bill.
Good piece.
Thank you, Sam.
*Good one.
Thank you, Brenda.
Good work *
Thank you, John.