| Bette Cerf Hill | ||||||||||||||||||||
| Poetry Library | ||||||||||||||||||||
| Lettered Here and There - © Bette Cerf Hill Clear blue sky down to trees in full spiked with wooden poles tied with black wire Birded, here and there. Long grasses lean into the road leveled for traveling among mail boxes Lettered, here and there. Who stripped the tree to carry the black wire? Who gouged out the road? Who opens the box and puts the writing in? Who opens the box and takes the writing out? Hope, here and there. Despair sometimes under the bending grass deep between the lines hidden in the boxes random as a universe of bright days and starred nights Waiting, here and there. |
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| The Secret Garden
The secret garden |
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| Prayer - © Bette Cerf Hill Tragedy dries the throat And leaves a shaft of grief A column of ashes Deeper in our collective soul Then the buildings stood tall. When tenants did not leap Into the blue, indifferent sky Nor run for their lives Nor cover their mouths, Nor cry, scream Nor turn to silent dust of stone. And others did not Spend their days sifting rubble For a fragment of hope A whisper of life to find only Human fragments of despair. We plead God’s mercy Who is scooping up the souls of suicide pilots To sit at His right hand. The true God Always on both sides of war, His cloak the cover for a billion wrongs. Death to thousands in a single hour Is progress for the primitives Christian, Muslim, Jew Who destroy the living for the Promise from a few Who say they know God’s will. Holy Father, in whatever tongue, Leave us alone to wander through our short day And love each other And not you, Prince of Peace, Messiah, Savior, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha, Yahweh, Zeus, Ra, Jesus, Nor self-appointed interpreters All who stop our throats with ashes On a sunny Tuesday Under the vast and innocent Perfect and empty Clear blue sky. |
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