Doug Blair Poet Blank verse

Almost a Monologue

Son, you come to me
Praying
This New Year's Day
Taking stock perhaps
Seeking direction.
You sense it's hard
Routine job
No great challenge
No great thanks
Disabled wife
With large demands
Children left the nest
Friends few
On the horizon
No formal church connection
No desire either
In that direction.
This your 65th year
Will work, yet
And you wonder
About significance
And legacy.
Many large names
In your ken
Are gone
And all but forgotten.
What do I want of you?
Fidelity
Equity
Honesty
Patience
A listening ear
A smiling disposition
Words in season
To downtrodden
Or confused.
Oh, and there are your writings
I haven't forgotten
Touching a small readership
Glorifying my Son
Holding forth my Spirit
Some of the works 
Have pleased me
Proved that you were 
Listening
Meditating
Praying
Studying
Waiting
Passing along.
And in such writings
An inkling for you
Of what I really want:
That you worship me
Utter my name before others
And the hope that comes 
From my Son
The real life that comes
In my Spirit.
And do it where you are
That factory
That family
That neighbourhood
That marketplace
That readership.
And when you are ready
Perhaps a turn
In the road.
Don't rush
You have barely begun
Your service
In me, for me.
Do not ever fear
The sand in your glass.
You were not born
In some exotic place
Neither am I sending you.
So Son
Remain
Worship
Occupy
OK?
Happy New Year.
In my Now.

https://issuu.com/dewane/docs/receive_his_monologue

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