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The Church of Claude and Pilot
by Johanna May
In the landscape of bliss
all rustlings are prayers
crisp as white crunch
underfoot,
comforting to new arrivals,
stomping away the last stains of sorrows
synchronous to each bell toll,
there is a church it says
somewhere
within mountlings of snows,
or unknown street corners
or
inside
found again,
like mythical terrains
we’ve long given up
would show.
01/07/2013 Posted on 01/07/2013
Copyright © 2024 Johanna May
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 01/07/13 at 07:36 PM A marvelous rediscovery of sacred places. I really enjoyed the vocabulary in this. |
| Posted by A. Paige White on 01/07/13 at 10:01 PM I LOVE the picture. I knew a pair of kitties named zippo, shoot can't think of the other one's name... I enjoyed reading the poem with the picture in sight and then reading it deliberately refusing the picture to see if it changes how the poem reads. It does add depth and dimension. Even the title changes meaning without the picture. Enjoyed this. |
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