CHRIST IN WINTER:
Reflections on Faith and Life for the Years of Winter --
Surely there must be a
place
where unpenned poems go
to talk to one another
about their fate
A coffee house of the soul
Complaining about authorial
perfidy, how some soggy
morning
brain took the time
to place their words in
line
then deemed them too unworthy
to be seen on screen or
paper
Or perhaps, being poems,
they would say
“On screen or paper to be
seen”
Perhaps they write their
own
being themselves
poets in a coffee house
I hold it true, what’ere
befalls
I feel it when I’m but
free verse
Tis better to have rhymed
and lost
Than never to have rhymed
at all
Then they laugh
and stare into a mirror
behind the pentameter barista
behind the pentameter barista
that reflects nothing
John Robert McFarland
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