Pentecost

a poem

Hello, Poetry Friend

Credit for the idea that became this poem goes to Fr. Ian Robbins, who gave a homily at daily Mass that mentioned the burnpile at the Catholic cemetery.

By the way, if you’re counting syllables and you think I’m one over on line 8, well, I’m just pronouncing fire the West Texas way: fahr.

Pentecost

The burnpile at the cemetery grew.
How long it had been there, well, no one knew,
although some said, At least five years, with drought.
A burnpile breeds critters — there is no doubt
about that. It’s a grave that needs to burn —
(don’t forget to call the sheriff) — to churn
debris and waste into nutritious ash.
	Funny, how fire can do a thing like that —
	take what’s dead and turn it into incense.
	I’ve seen it, smelled, it, but it don’t make sense.
	My grandfather’s buried here. He taught me
	how to do a controlled burn. He saw me
	down on my knees, with a match and a prayer.
	The Holy Ghost can show up anywhere. 

Happy poeming!

Megan