Okay, this is a real poem, –Ready..set..GO!

People are paramount, in God’s eyes, how He sees us..’cause if God was a magician, he’d a-sawed us in two long ago (in twain, to put it in other words). And the universe would have gone,

“God! Jesus! was that an accident? what you just did to the humans?? what’s up with that?”

But it will never happen; and with God there is..no accidents, and he’s not going to bisect us. No tricks. He is our creator and He has a plan; and he’s not going to sell us short to some cheap, creepy jerk at one of these cosmic yard-sales:

“How much you want for that pile of dust?”

“They’re not for sale.”

No, we are too precious for that:

“You are my dust, I chose you, I paid the price for you, and I’m keeping you..I’m taking you home!”


You are the poem.

You..were standing by the shore. I saw you in a dream. You, motionless, looking out, expressed all that is. The moon..over tides, –a ship, passing on the horizon, size of an ant, were more within reach, than your shining hair, and eyes. You are the poem.

I turned to notice palm trees, their fronds waving shadows to a gentle breeze, as birds, circling above, plaintive..raised cries to the heaven. And when I looked back, seeking for something, a perfect vision..the poem was gone. You were the poem.

Awake, I reflected. In ocean’s bosom lie wrecks of ships that did not escape the dead aim of a determined enemy, sacred places, engulfed..dreary hulks, where once strode young men in suits of blue on solid decks, doing their jobs, in storms and in sunshine – residents – calling to their brother shipmates, in passing, “Ahoy, Mate!” –other boys, Americans like them, who scribbled their dearest intentions in letters to sweethearts, carrying photographs, of them they knew..and of mothers, back home, fixing meals. This was real love, mixed with a sense of dread, the expectation, “..we’ll all meet our maker, someday.” Some wrote poetry..poems that lived in storages, trunks in attics beneath beams..with uniforms, decorations, and other souvenirs (the stuff of poems).

Twisted steel towers, and ruined turrets (guns now silent), anchors, and rusting aircraft are the sole evidences remaining of these, treasures..beyond reach of all, but the most skilled and determined divers, resting, near the foot of one of many scattered atolls, a hallowed place of honour, –hidden memorial to sailors whose lives were committed to the deep, many, many years it makes..a sacrifice for all, so some may live free. These were men my dad broke bread with, daily, and fought alongside of, brave men of the United States Navy..sailors assigned, in time of war, to the USS Ommaney Bay, CVE 79

YOU are the poem. ~c.

Christopher and Joseph Robertson, August, 1955..nice couch!

Published by scrunchymacscruff

Thank you

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