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I have cried those violent prayers
hurled them, venom filled, cursing
all the powers that be - but aren’t.
Seething in the roiling pit of rage
alone amid the nothingness of all,
yet still felt the presence of a
something, a texture, a tenuous
touch of windblown curtain brush
against my clenched and hateful
fists.  I pounded mercilessly on the
sands of doubt’s mirage, laid siege
the bastions of the liars, fled in
fear of a power’s lack of power.
A strength now shown so weak,
a vision’s searing heat laid cold,
an emptiness so full it led to
barren desolation, blank and
blackened dreams.  I wept.
Not for me but for he who was
sacrificed so that I could become
me, for the child denied his chance
to live free of me, my hate, my rage,
my past, my pain.  And so my prayers
are violent and loud in an effort to
awaken a deaf and distant God.
My prayers do not beseech forgiveness,
nor toss bouquets of unwarranted praise
to acquiescent arrogance.  I pray not
for others who are capable of praying
for themselves.  I pray as violently as
the wind blows, as heatedly as the
desert sun, as proudly as the leaves
of Fall, as meekly as the buds of
Spring, as coldly as the glacial gales.
I pray with the passion of the seasons,
the faith of a bumblebee’s pollination,
the hope of the sightless mole digging,
the love of the shrieking Eagle’s devotion
to the air currents.  I pray as a Lark
who sing in empty canyons hearing
only the reverberation of his song.
I pray – for praying is the song of life -
and life - its voice.

John G. Lawless
9/3/2014

for Regina Riddle - Prayer poetry contest

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