Watermark

And I grew up in a

little white house on a

little white street

and every sunday we drove to church - 

I can still feel every

bump on the road, still smell every

room of that church 

 

and my whole life,

every moment,

every breath 

I was searching, seeking, looking, walking, running

everywhere I could 

 

you see I was trying,

trying to find God

and I looked for God in the mountains

majestic and strong. 

but their snow-peaked tops didn’t sing for me. 

and I looked for God by the river 

the one that ran right outside my little town 

I listened for him in

the running, weeping waters

I listened for him in the

giggling rain that fell on my roof 

in the humming wind that ran

through the trees outside my bedroom window 

 

I tried seeing God in the forest

trees - bold, never apologizing for their place, their stance

but their roots caught my ankles,

like bones reaching from the grave

 

so I went to the city,

thought I’d find God in the eyes of the homeless 

like that last poet I heard so eloquently speak. 

yet I looked and i

looked and no matter how many pairs of eyes i looked into,

 

 I could not find him. 

 

so then, I ask, where is he? 

 

pulse beating faster and faster, blood racing 

 

WHERE IS MY GOD? 

 

Blink. Breath. Be still. 

 

And I realized I don’t know. 

 

I can write some sweet shit about feeling God in the rain or the wind. 

Or the birds melodious song or the breeze in my fucking face. 

 

But where is he really? 

 

Is he in the war? 

blood running from the mother’s gouged

eyes onto her child’s

hands. soldier screaming for

breath, realizing that his only hope for

life was stolen. taken with that one wrong step, that

one wrong move. 

 

and the starvation and famine,

fire and flood. is he

in any of those??

 

And i’m sitting in the library of a million books - 

all who claim to be able to 

answer my question 

but they’re all just sitting there, sitting, sitting, sitting. 

not breathing or moving or being. 

just claiming, hypothesizing, ---- thinking they know it all.

 

WHERE IS MY GOD?

 

is he in the covers of the newly raped girl’s bed? 

 

purity lost, stolen, 

ripped out of her by hate and black.

 

or the fingertips of the murderer? 

soul screaming for help, 

lost in the canyon of why, 

lost to the confusion of his mind 

 

then.

then I see the father

of the daughter whose soul was burned

by another.

he walks into that jail cell,

takes this man’s face in his hands,

holds him close and cries. 

 

is this God? 

 

And I...

 

I can hear him in my little sister’s voice when she whispers,

 “I forgave him.”

                         “I forgave him a long, long time ago.” 

 

the inflections in her voice make my heart

stop.

the earth stop moving on its

axis. 

             and forget hatred and abuse. 

blood and gore. 

 

there’s a song that lifts. a life that gives. a peace that knows. 

 

he’s the singer,

the poet. the giver. of love. 

 

and I know you’re saying, don’t get all sappy on me now. and i won’t. only tell truth of WHO MY GOD IS. 

 

he’s the breather, the restorer. 

he moves, and dances and sways.

in the refugee camps and

prison walls. the murderer’s heart

and the father’s arms. 

 

and I can hear him humming

through the laughter of the rapist. 

 

see his breath in

the chest of

my mother,

beaten and

torn down

and aban-

doned by

her dad. 

 

he’s the lover. 

 

love. 

that word so abused and lost, forgotten, misused 

 

I’m not talking about the

love that makes you want to

kiss that boy so hard he forgets his

past. 

 

or the kind that makes you wanna

sing a song by the fire,

take a walk in the meadow. 

 

It’s his love. 

God - 

the one and only true, 

only holy, righteous,

 all-knowing, all-forgiving. 

 

The love that redeems, restores, and is. 

it’s his signature, his watermark, his solo.

 

God is here.

 In breath and life.

 In darkness and pain.

 In the church and the rain. 

 

you just have to stop trying to 

see, 

hear,

touch

or smell him. 

 

Simply stop. 

Be loved. 

 

Stop 

and breathe.

 

Comments

thisispoetryproject

Wow. This poem oozes passion like a volcano spits out lava. To this day, I haven't yet read a poem as powerful as this one. You are truly gifted. In fact, I would appreciate feedback on my poetry from you, if it wouldn't be too much to ask.

Thank you for sharing this incredible poem.

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