Sonnet: Plea to a Rorschach God
by John Kendall Hawkins
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All the noise. O hear my plea! All the noise.
All the noise in my head all of the time.
Perplexed angels of mercy, turned to crime,
can't turn back the visigoth's equipoise.
Rome's on fire, folks are haruspicating,
sifting through the pulled guts of Keats and Yeats
looking for answers. Consulting the Fates,
eyes aglow in the dark, nictitating.
I was a catholic child, saw the rose
at the heart of being, while Bach played soul --
a sad piped gestalt that made us feel whole
and we were tears of Jesus in repose.
The Golden Rule's enough, in principle,
but God's glad love is not invincible.
