did I loft
a fastball
when I sit
prepared to catch the things You throw
and what I said
went into center field with me in tow
You are my pull
I follow You
a rote prayer is to start
to open some door I have shut
I should sit in the cart
and let You pull
and drive
and fill
the buckboard with Your treats
and I should sigh
and let go
of the fluff that I call feats
and I should laugh
whoever told
the silly thing I heard
instead of fast deciding
an improper thing occurred
by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
my hands are clasped
intent on what
I need
and what I say
recall the words
get each prayer right
no stray thought in the way
keep out distraction
music shouts
I cannot hear my voice
and then
just then
it seems to me
is this Yours or my choice?
Your sense of humor started with
creating human kind
look how we reproduce
— and want to! —
we must all be blind
the beauty is because You made it
and you made it all
the barnyard
is the place to worship spring
fields, forest, fall
but gritting teeth and closing hands
determined not to laugh
with minds made up to pray
when we ought help to birth that calf
I learn, Beloved
each time I run
into a big, high wall
because my eyes were closed in prayer
did I not see You there
with my eyes clear
You don't need lids
between me and the world
so I will drop
this carapace
into Your grace
I'm hurled
to Whom should I be listening?
are my words
such import
is or is possible
my Love
You've planned Your own retort
if I've shut out
successfully
what floats into my ears
might I miss something You have sent
my soul to melt with tears?
did You just laugh
and did I miss
a joke
while I bit off
my neighbor's words
so focused was I
on —
what? —
