THE RESURRECT

Lazarus in Larnaca grew slowly old

And died again. On the fourth day

Nothing much happened. The weather

Was quite nice though

And seven children picnicked

Under a blunt-leaved maple tree

Eating almonds and cheese and apples.

BEFORE THE WRECKERS COME

The unread poem deteriorates;
Children break in, stealing punctuation
To sell as scrap. A lone comma remains,
Frantically trying to make it appear
That the poem's still a going concern.
Vagrant words slip in; the metre,
Once stern and unforgiving, is humble,
Running errands in exchange for drinks.

SUFFICIENT CAUSE

Not cat, not surgeon, I
Have not much thought I
Might be God, travelling incognito,
Even to Myself, through the world.
Still, if the Universe proves
Fond of a joke and I
Wake up as Lord of Creation, I
May incarnate for reasons
Other than those of tradition.
Having failed many tests,
Including some I didn’t know
I was taking, I would be loath
To test Mankind (which, by and large
Has done well by Me).
Nor would My first priority.
Be salvation (Not, mind you,
That I’d want to set Myself
Against saving you all; it just
Wouldn't be high on My to-do list.)
No; it would be from wondering
How sawdust smells when it’s fresh
And dancing in a ray of light
Or what it is to hold a child
Or to be a child and be held.