I want a life less theoretical,

More praxis than hypothesis,

Where prayers get labelled for what they are:

Wishes, hopes, hungers, fears.

Grant me please, a present God,

Substantively sensed, comfortably close,

Like a noisy next door neighbor,

Not an alien from some far galaxy.

Let me hear Him sing through a shower’s fog,

Out through an open window,

Life’s joy-filled effervescence

From knowing how the best to cheat death.

I want to stand in patient que,

Along some dusty unpaved road,

Where the poor’d anticipate His touch,

And there, let HIm heal my mind.

I know too much of sepsis,

Microbial morbiditie,

Set loose at Eve’s first bite,

When knowing good, she still chose evil.

Nowdays, the holy’s fodder for the scoffer,

Truth, terror for trapped;

So, keep your distance God,

And don’t return, just yet, to unclean Eden.

Turn off Jonah, unplug Noah,

Let death perfume this late, late party,

As orchestrated addictive stuff,

Constrains to self-destruction.

On another day, once filled with hope,

I dared mention without swearing,

The sacred name Immanuel,

And pled sweet Jesus’ presence.

Almost to bed, I hope the night is friendly,

And let’s me wake to light,

Knowing nothing of eternity, I’d still welcome 

One more tomorrow, if in it I’d touch God.