Credere by Dick Jones

Three Drops from a Cauldron


If God did not already exist, it would be necessary to invent him. (Voltaire)

‘He’s God, cried all the creatures…’ (‘The Owl Who Was God’ by James Thurber)

If there has to be a God –
no option on the broken
road, the bridge of sighs –
then let it be a dancing god,

like Shiva, but a voiceless one,
indifferent, treading out
the double loop, the bee’s infinity
of weaving round and round until

the measure’s known by all.
Or if not the dancer,
how about a singer?
One who cants in tongues,

a lingua franca from the
furnace heat (ex corde vita),
singing the blues, sean nos,
la duende, passionate, engaged,

yet powerless to lift the curse
of Sisyphus, or block the juggernaut,
or move the stone. These gods omnipotent,
who claim our praise and swallow

our prayers like hungry birds,
are dreams that draw
on the…

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