based on the poem "I Believe" by Elizabeth Alexander and retooled by 'me'.
The Gospel, I tell those who pass,
is peculiar. It's the Good News
in which we find our true selves
(though Sterling Brown said
"Every 'I' is a dramatic 'I'").
digging in the clam flats
That mud, sinking mud, we call life
For the shell that snaps,
emptying the proveerbial pocketbook along the way.
Good news is what you find
in the dusty crevices of your heart,
and under sandaled feet,
Which hardly seems the place for Gospel to be.
Overheard on the bus,
God in the details, the only way
To get from here to there.
Good News (and now my voice is rising)
is not all love, love, love
and I'm sorry the dog died (even though I am).
The Gospel (here I hear myself the loudest) is the song
which makes the human sing:
"Are we not of delight to each other?"
This poem, in it's original form, was shared with me by one of my dearest and truest friends and I am eternally grateful for the ways in which it continues to speak to me.