Unanswered Prayers

Unanswered Prayers

A pictureque faded red barn,

sun-stained and time faded,

 reposes amongst shady verdant poplars

with natty squawking chickens

running beneath,

chased by a ginger-haired boy

In riveted scuffed denim overalls,

in a cloud-studded breezy scene

encompassing a white clapboard

farm house festooned inside with

gingham on windows

that overlook vistas of tall corn tassels

with fat crows

roosting in field boundary bushes

to no notice of lazy cows

grazing in adjacent pastures.

All parts of a pastoral picture

on an old farm bureau calendar

tacked up on a grimy gray wall

inside a linoleum floor kitchen

part of a shack next to the coal fields

in rural Pennsylvania

where a work worn woman

in raggedy flowered chenille robe

irons her one “good” dress

which she will wear to her

only social outing at Church Sunday

where, amongst her too loud

“Hosannas’,” she will pray for a day

when that farm would be real.

                                                                                                       -Jerry Wendt 2016

Of Consequence

Flags flew full staff today. 
Here was no cortege,
nor muffled cannon barrage.
Flowers were omitted,
and no one wept,
for it was a box elder bug
that passed from this realm
in my bathroom
where it sought warmth on my floor.
A flailing of legs,
turning round and round in futility.
slowed to a halt.
A death-held carcass remained in front of me .
But this passing caused me pause,
as bigger part of a grand plan.
 Because I bore witness
and wrote this eulogy,
a commentary of  transition,
this hapless creature
that was not the less of myself,
and belonged as much as I ,
will realize profound legacy:

a life of notable consequence
within these lines.      

                                                                                                                Jerry Wendt 2016

Enigma

Enigma

( Finding God in a 1956 Buick)

Moist cool grass cradles me lying face up in shaded lawn spot on a hot summer day when a muted rumble, not a vibration as with oncoming train, rouses me from lazy contemplation of my mind’s formed personifications in puffy clouds above me. I sit upright.

 Here comes a looming large shiny black chariot, too grand to be called a car, dripping in chrome and presence, as it eases under boulevard canopy of dappled light to curbside in front of me, with just a muffled protest of white sidewall tires voicing a scuff against curb, gliding to placid halt.

Then silence. No movement.

Curious, I stand, and walk slowly toward this ominous arrival.  I see my reflection in opaque windows that prevent me from looking inside, even as I press very close.

Then, a whine, as glass recedes downward, releasing cool, conditioned air smelling of French lavender and freshly washed sheets from inside, into my flaring nostrils.  I am excited. What has this conveyance brought here?  A learned judge?  A celebrity?   A lost soul?  Curiosity leaps unbridled in my heart as I lean yet closer. 

Only one sits on the commodious leather rear seat, facing away.  I fully feel the coolness now. It is like viewing a sanctuary inside there. Calm and shaded and mysterious.

“May I help You?”  I implore, anxious to see what character has arrived in this magnificent sedan.

No response. No turn toward me.

I shudder. Goosebumps. What lies in store?  What does this being want of me? What is his purpose? I feel strange, but calmer now, as if a peace has shrouded me.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, this richly dressed, almost formally enrobed figure turns, and the face slides from veiled shadows into my view.

I am transfixed, startled, astounded. And scared shitless.

I am looking at myself. It is my own countenance gazing back at me. It is I.   How can this be? 

Before I can rebound and formulate a question, there comes a smile from the “car me”

“No thank you, I am just looking,” comes in voice, or maybe a thought, or perhaps from intuition.

 I cannot discern if actual words were formed.  But I can feel the presence.  Whatever the format, the delivery came with a sense of omnipotence, of reassurance, of all-feeling, all-seeing.

Frozen, I watch the window rise with a soft whir and then a solid thud as it closes, again shutting me outside, alone, to ponder it all, as the car pulls from the curb to continue down the boulevard.

Shapes and light slide me back to the now. I am lying on the grass, looking up again at clouds.  Did I nod off? Was there ever a car?

Or did I gaze ever so briefly into God’s eyes?      

                                                                              - Jerry Wendt 2016

6 levels of Photoshop to portray this graphic of "God in a '56 Buick"