The fisherman

Times I wish to be back, hauling

nets, often unfilled, inevitable

smell of fish on my hands, my hair,

my clothes, my feet, what my father

said I was born to do, hothead that

I was.

My enthusiasm, my bravado,

tamed, three times

tamed.

No bravado now, when I stand

before crowds, before priests,

only words, measured words,

quiet words marked with a conviction

I did not know, then, words

coming from external to me, shaking

my very being before embedding

in my heart.

Words.

The word.

Three times I lied

three times I denied

one time I ran and hid

They listen, not all, some

only hear, and afterward

I stand amazed at what

God does with liars,

and deniers.

This poem began with listening to a sermon on Acts 3:1-10 and 19-20.

Photograph by Petr Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

The man in the pew

The man in the pew

in front of me has

a twisted collar, and

he’s unaware of it,

surely, or he would

fix it, surely, or if he

does know, then, surely,

there must be a point

to it, since no one

deliberately twists

a shot collar, surely,

do they? I barely resist

the temptation to straighten

it, and I resist the temptation

to lean forward and tell him

his collar was twisted. Wasn’t

the sermon on the Good Samaritan?

Photograph by Junior Libby via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.