Metapoem

Claimed the Mad Hatter
in his best natter,
"A poem, you see,
inevitably
must have meter and rhyme;
else it's only part-time,
being merely blank verse,
thus suffering the curse
of being virtually indistinguishable
from prose."

The March Hare replied,
to bolster his side,
"Professor, your point
is way out of joint
with poetry books.
Now surely that brooks
my proposal that poetry,
in complete probity,
is more in the thought
than in how it ought
to be formatted."

Alice broke in to aver,
"Really, guys, I swear,
I can recognize a poem:
When I see 'em, I know 'em.
But that's not what matters.
Art's more than spatters
of ink on the page.
The question to gauge
is knowing a good one.
When the poet is done,
he thinks it terrific.
We might think "horrific".
How then can one know?
Is that why it's so,
that poets aren't read
till after they're dead?" 

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

A Gift of Faith*

I remember that night,
though the details are gone,
save the dream.
I suppose I had prayed,
"Lord, I believe. Help my…
unbelief."
I do not really know,
but I certainly had
little faith.
In the dark of the night,
I dream night darker still:
No one safe,
I am posted outside,
my family fast asleep
in their beds.

A large, mean man appears,
with a large, mean dog; they
look for me.
He has his guns and knives.
The dog has tooth and claw.
I am scared:
I, the "man of the house",
standing guard, no fighter,
no weapons.
Then I hear the calm Voice:
"Fear not. They can't see you."
So it is:
They march right by my post,
seeing, hearing, smelling
all but me.

Above, the bright street lamp,
sole illumination
in the dark,
should be pinpointing me,
except when his shadow
looms over.
He's now one foot from me.
I think I’m smelling his
attitude.
The Voice says, "Relax, now.
This genuine evil
can't find you."
And the marvel of it
is that I do relax,
feel no fright.

They move on, leave our home.
The Voice says, "Now do you
comprehend?
I am always with you.
There will never be a
thing to dread,"
I awake, the fear bone
surgically removed from
my psyche.
Since then, I've had no angst,
through all of life's joys, pains,
and losses.
Never fear. It is true:
He holds me, He holds you
in His hand.

Have you known miracles?
I cannot otherwise
describe this
confident, complete peace,
sure knowledge that, in truth,
what's precious
is truly protected:
every thing of true
importance.
Nothing can separate
me from His love or His
protection.
And I pray that you too,
may yet receive this gift
of His faith.


 

*Poetic license notwithstanding,

this is a true story.

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.