Rev. Gerald Dillenbeck Poet Political Verse

Dubious Miracles

My EarthMom used to stand easy
at our kitchen sink,
looking out across our fertile backyard
vegetable garden,

Rising from humbly short
but brilliantly red/green
bodhisattva radishes
inside white but spicy,
not the least bit sweet privileged
with vanilla nonperformance,

To the back soldier rows
of sweaty yellow corn,
husky green
and stalky tall
militaristic Northern erections
toward seductive southern sunlight,

While my WaterBearer 
SeedPushing
WeedPulling Mom
leisurely savors cold well water
drinking away thirst 
from her misty blue metal cup.

One uneventful summer hot afternoon,

this solitary woman time
industriously revisited
until deeply worn into secular purpose
out of sacred meaning,

without turning toward gay son me,
or any other optional auditory audience,

She reconsiders the Messiah's most mysterious miracle
to her open
but first and last questing mind
was turning well water
into wine.

"I've tasted patriarchal wine,
For quenching
my life's returning thirst
for wet youth
and sacred beauty
and satisfying truth;
I don't believe it's an improvement."

While I didn't admit 
thinking it hungrily unfit
here neither
too airy there,
I'm not so fairy brownbred sure 
about lasting mindbody health
with those cheap white capitalist wafers 
either.

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