Why does my wife not read my verse?

Screen Shot 2019-03-04 at 23.50.33

Why does my wife not read my verse?

She’s surely not averse

to phrase and lines she reads at work,

her daily dose of prose that lurks

on paper and email I’ve heard her curse.

Poetry, you scheming rat,

you promised you’d deliver

a feast-seducing habitat,

a song to make her quiver,

not a sour look, nor petty spat.

Oh, why does she not sneak a peek

to see what I have written

in Moleskine notebook fit to tweak?

At least she’d know what has me smitten

the day I dared to plumb the deep.

There’s much more depth in me

than fake illiteracy.

I’m a minor chord, a malady.

I’m a scribe in search of melody,

a cloud of nature’s ancestry.

May she not pass like a Pharisee

How does an Unbeliever pray?

Not on my knees with head all bound in thorns,
not in a pew prostrate before a god,
not stooped, nor bent, a sinner supplicant,
a poor unworthy man afraid to say:
Like as the eagle soars astride the wind,
like as the river flows from spring to sea,
like as erratic stands upright and firm,
a worthy creature proud to stride the land.

No more a child beset with guilt and shame,
but grown attentive to the joy of light,
humble as dust and underwhelmed by night,
a star that shines and whispers love to all.

We move in prayer, our talent in our verse,
we celebrate in time the universe.