A Poem for Sunday, and Open Thread

 

Christ at Breakfast

The earthy smell of fresh toast wafts, lingers

He sits quietly, His reading glasses perched upon his nose.
The sins of the world, captured in cheap newsprint
bleed into the palms of his hands, dirty his fingertips.

His very favorite is the crossword.

He rises, stretching, pushing chair against wainscoting
Takes His day-old coffee, that long expired brew
to the small microwave on the counter. The warmth
of life is soon restored; He is careful to sip slowly
so as not to burn His tongue.
The eggs sitting cold and raw near the stove beckon, but
He is tired and considers simply buying a croissant instead.

His ear is caught by the sound of scratching, claws on fabric.
The new kitten is on the table, its paws happily raised
against the yellow checkered curtains from the Pottery Barn.
He picks the kitten up, looks at it sadly for a moment.

Admonishes, then forgives it.

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12 thoughts on “A Poem for Sunday, and Open Thread

  1. Tod, if I’m not mistaken, you are an atheist, no?   How could one every read a poem with that title, seriously, when the poet is an atheist?  It’s filled with an ax to grind as well. As a Kelly, you must have had the whole Catholic experience–understandably, that can create lots and lots of axes.

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  2. Tod, if I’m not mistaken, you are an atheist, no?   How could one every read a poem with that title, seriously, when the poet is an atheist?  It’s filled with an axe to grind as well. As a Kelly, you must have had the whole Catholic experience–understandably, that can create lots and lots of axes.

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  3. Theistically? Really? That is quite a take on a stream-of-consciousness wordplay. But just to engage you would require unearthing many demons of past religious scars best left buried. I would just like to add that it is a nice bit of prose to my eye and it stirs a rather nice morningly sentiment.
    Your strange effort at defacing the work is puzzling, but expectable from boredom and ignorance, or some humor perhaps.

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  4. Perhaps it did touch a nerve that I should disclose…
    I wrote a song about my three children and in it I used the line
    “I see my sweet Jesus, and he’s walking down the street… ” intending that the line would refer to the very best part of my own fatherly spirit.

    I cried a little when I wrote it. Which is usually a sign of good work in my writing; if you ask me. So, the line stayed. I knew I would take some grief from those who would stereotype the effort but ten years later, it still gets me.
    It is a little spooky to say or write certain words without fear of retribution.
    Words like, “dumbass” and how could you write such a truly heartless comment? I hope there is a powerful God and that he makes you soften your tone before I have to get mideval on your hiney. Please accept my hug and the hope that you can bury your own demons before posting any more drivel.

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  5. Go Tod, great read today on invisible Christmas War. I suggest a series on the subject. My theory is that there is a war. It is just fought in electronic trenches with opinions raining down from everywhere and not a drop to drink.
    My kids asked me about Santa and I still believe that it is Santa that fills the stockings. Why else would we even hang them?
    The millstone of fact and causal links that combines to make a religious celebration is not important, yet celebration IS.
    I was also glad to find out what the Guiness Thingy is.
    It was always my suspicion that it was a listening device of some sort or an explosive that they could detonate remotely if the beer fell into the hands of a budweiser drinker.

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