Lightning from my fingertips
Tonight I beheld the lightning
rending the night sky
like a neon razor blade
slicing through blue velvet.
Enveloped by thunderheads
of bulbous bodies
like unto a giant Man o War
pulsing through a black ocean
the bolts, like glowing sword tips,
penetrate through gaps of cumulus
in explosions of white, deep purple
and the residual coral pink
of a sleeping sun.
I am so small…
standing here observing
a warring of gods
elemental gods
thunder gods.
Oh, and the grandeur,
how can they not be gods?
And yet
did they not originate from me?
Are not the hues
woven into that tapestry
created by my eye?
Was it not the condensation
of my tears
that nourished that parched cloud?
Was it not the spark
from my fingertip
that energized that
blazing fork in the heavens?
Am I not them,
and they me?
Perhaps “The Carpenter” was correct
when he said,
“I and my Father are one”
And so then
from these Titans viewpoints
do they observe me
and perceive themselves small?
Extending my arms
I put the fingers
of both my hands together
forming a circle and realize
that the giants in the sky
fit nicely in the center.
Such small, angry gods.
I pray they stop their bickering
lest one day I stop feeding them
my tears and life’s spark
and starved
the hungry gods will become
no more than faded yellow highlights
in the back pages
of an old man's memory.
Midnight in Jackie's Garden
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