I guess I have a deficiency. God never
said boo to me when as a boy I stood
straining in church with muscular endeavor
for the sweet squirt of salvation. I never could
see why He spoke to this or that old lady,
sending her, hallelujah, down the aisle.
Was I alone in the congregation vile?
Or was their claim of spirit something shady?
And now when I read poets who simply Know,
drinking their imagery from God’s own cup,
whose poems "just come," and then, like Topsy, grow,
whereas I always have to make them up,
with never a tremor saying Break this line
or Save this phrase, regardless of its beat,
hear no obscurities which seem Divine,
and, knowing not God’s measure, still count feet,
I yearn that reason give me some relief
(besides those lapses when my mind, not soul,
is not so much inspired as out of control).
Non-linear God, help Thou my unbelief!
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Unchosen by Judson Jerome )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- God has been biting his nails again, Mandolyn ...
- Forsaken, Clara Keiper
- LONELY EBOLA, Egbe Chris
- ABROAD في الخارج, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- People Confusion Is, Is It Poetry
- Titbit Of Tit, Saanumi ikujuni
- which button makes me disappear?, Mandolyn ...
- hold me with both hands, Mandolyn ...
- we were made for love..., Marshall Gass
- The piano tutor......, Marshall Gass