Impossibly High Standards

Just to be present is a blessed event, Arguments about form are just chatter, The hour it arrives always filled with portent, No competing high purpose will matter. For writing a poem's like creating life, An honor to just assist in its birth, To battle with muse, fight with clarity's knife, What could there be more important on earth? The paper we write on is like Holy Ground, Our ink honors life, its fragrance like myrrh, To grind mental gears is a world shaking sound, Images form, suggest God's passing blur. As rainbows crown rain that brings life to the plain, So does new poetry honor its source, Heals the soul, mends the heart, abolishes pain, Moves emotion along God's refined course. Poems that all of our emptiness purges, Poems like river banks guide our essence, Until, at long last, humanity merges With the vast sea of God's exuberance. Brian Johnston April 29, 2014