Without Our Will…

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Not even gods can separate the things

Of time from timelessness, the times profane

From holiness.  Our Tuesday times have wings

If only we attach them.  Tuesdays strain

To let us make them sacred — if we will.

Perhaps the Christ is born on Tuesday night.

Perhaps the angels and the heavens spill

Their anthems then from archangelic height.

Yet sacred means taboo.  Because of that

We fail to find the feathered courage to

Embrace the hovering strength.  Our souls lie matte,

Not iridescent, shunning heaven’s coup.

  We choose to keep our Tuesdays as just days.

     We banish clutch of holiness’s rays.

©  Phillip Whidden