Poetry

Waiting for God

by

Nathan Fincham

On a rusty bench within a woodland park,
I still wait for God.
Dressed in blue on a seat of brown;
my thoughts are wandering
throughout a poetic rhyme.
In spoken style I said out loud,
“…my faith was a rock,
a stone to throw,
my arm I cock
and into a pond its goes…”
A bright midday lights my lyrical mingling,
as I squirm patiently.

Down a paved path that parted the trees,
the forgotten daughters play.
Three sparkling spirits jump rope;
their dresses fluffed like clouds.
Every beat of the rope in perfect time
with the song they sang for me,
“It’s raining!
It’s pouring!
The young boy is snoring!
Clear his nose!
And pat his head!
So he can sleep comfy in his bed!”
A late eve breeze caught the souls,
to send them on their way.
I was left to hum.

Nearby my bench is a lifeless lake
where the wealthy fishermen hunt.
Hooks of money and hooks of blood,
yet they wonder why they fail.
On the bank I see a tired gray man
and overhear his conversation with himself,
“To me,
this can’t be
that I’m not dead
instead
of alive and well
to survive in Hell…”
The lovely dusk leaves
and so does he.
This man is unable to wait like me.

A train station sits deep within the trees;
I know the sounds of the nighttime train,
for I hear them whenever I sigh.
On top of tracks that run away,
the impatient people leave.
The Conductor always screams,
“Come on board
and wait no more;
I can see you on that bench.
Get right up
and give on up;
on speeding logic we dance…”
His voice drifts off as dawn comes on
and again I sit right here,
on a rusty bench in the park;
I wait for God.