Above oceans and snowcaps and tell-tall trees,
Let our spirits roam and have conception
With the vast land below us;
and let us swing and snap to a beat:
how can god move within all things,
there is hatred, pain,
He is tuneless piano, playing in the corner
He is the silent poet weeping some gospel tale,
He is the last drop of desperate bottles of wine,
He is the wave crashing on the rocks,
He is dead and dying,
for He is all of us,
happy and immortal.
so for us, we must have,
dead and dying and happy and immortal.
I won an award for this poem, although the award itself is unknown, I do know it will be featured in the spring edition of Otterbein College's "Quiz and Quill," the literary magazine on campus. Yay!
Which leads me to another project: writing all the beatnik prayers! at least, 1-11....
More more more work, it seems will keep Tony a busy boy this summer.