Sometimes sort of a poet

My Circle

There is a void in my beliefs.
I've named this void George
After my Father.
I question George
Who interrupts me with his silence
Like a black bird on a bust.

Should I make a thorough study
Of the things I do not believe?
Know the Jewish holidays
and the stations of the cross?
Hindu taboos and the teachings of gurus?
Greek and Egyptian deities?

With this lore, I should find a way
To create my own god
Using leftover pieces of fish and leather
To bind my rite, sing my psalm,
Ponder imponderables.

What is consciousness?
Why me? Why now?
George consulted Science,
Who didn't know why red is red,
And gave no answer.

I beg the question
Not to be answered in a lifetime:
In the end, is there an end?
Either way, will it matter
From whose teachings I fall away?

revised 4-14-02              --Harlow B. Staley