Poem: Sweet Deal

 Deities are nomads – clapping wanderers

spilling and spouting wisdoms 

                                                  on slopes, in tents 

until enough of us sanctify a place they can call home.

A cellar, a barn, church, temple or tabernacle –

out of the weather, 

                                 in from the hillside –

upgrade the boulder to ornate altar.

Polish the halo beneath a good roof.

But then they must come up with lessons and parables.  

The pressure is on  . . .  make us believe 

in fresh fables where ours are stale.  

Keep true returners hungry for allegories, mild scolding.  

Threaten malevolent blights and plagues.  

In my eleventh hour. 

                                   I long for them to extol us, 

and reward with more than sacred snacks –

restore with blessings and love.

A beneficial arrangement, and comfortable chair.  

Gold and shekels in the plate.  

                                                  Occasional myrrh.  

Fried chicken in a basket.  Socials.  Folding money.  

Seventh day adoration.  Got it made . . . 

plus two weeks off with praise. 

                                                by Sam Barbee