Another Sunday Poem

Once again
I find inspiration
on a rain-soaked
down South,
sitting here
cozy and snug
while the
pouring cumulus
streams up like
a white freight train
from down beyond
the stretches of
the Galveston coast.

I seem to have
some connection
to Sundays
beyond the
scope of my imagination,

it is a day
that has fed
my mind in
creative ways
more times
than I can recall;

strange for
a man who
makes no claims
to religious scholarship,
nor whines
that he
knows God on
a personal level.

A small saint
living a quiet life
among rural solitude,
I am,
one no longer driven
by the urge
to stand out
from the masses
like the buttress of
a pirate's schooner,
ripping through
the world
with smoke and thunder
spouting from
every breech and orifice,
the ocean
flowing red in
my wake.

Were I given
a moment
to ponder, I
might envision
the stark nature of 
great souls
who settled
this rainy plain
where I find
myself this day,
locked in embrace
with sweet Dame Muse
and her
voluptuous offerings,
her worthy belly
pressing the
spine of my
simple offerings,
her breath
sweet on my cheek.

I might see
the great swamp
rise like
Satan's cesspool
from ground
plowed by
the twin tines
of Time
and Circumstance;
plowed and
packed hard by
desperate ages of
thundering hoof beats
and the
bellies of a
billion foul serpents
woven through 
tall grasses.

A glancing back
past the edge of
the grave might show
an advance of
creaky encumbrances
filled with
meager belongings
riding on wheels
of hope,
manned by
fortitude and a lust
to know what's beyond
the next rise
or mountain pass,
what paradise
lies waiting with
sunny arms open wide
and trees
bent to the ground
with fruits sweet
beyond knowledge.

The tide of man
came slowly at first,
like the first bare
tug of the moon
on the ocean,
the first time our
shiny orb slung into
its circuitous route and
carried its
magic around
the world;
no thought that
it came from
the bed of the sea,
this perfect round
sphere pocked like
the faces
of those who
survived demon fevers.

I have come
to believe that
all Sundays are magic,
and more so
as we draw near
the dawn of
a new millenium,
and I have
come to believe that
all days are magic,
and that nights
are magic,
and that life itself
is magic

even if
at times it is
wasted on us.

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