Larry L. Dill's   New Hope Journal   Personal Essays and Public Opinions since 1979           April, 2005
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				Selected Theological Poetry (Sort of) by Larry L. Dill Little Prayers and Broken Promises Part of learning how to write poetry is learning how to talk about God. Learning how to talk to God as if he really were listening. Poetry is always trying to break out of itself and be free like a prodigal son. But it always comes back.  Limping. Asking permission one more time To use the language of love For some selfish reason. And God always says, “Go ahead.  But stay in touch.” --from Blues Journalism (1993) Time Before Time Like Taaroa, the Polynesian god, I call to the four corners of the universe And nothing replies and I realize that I alone exist and must create my own world. Light, seed and incorruptibility. It’s just me of course, talking to myself, Wandering along Congress Avenue Toward the river and the sun. It’s a nice feeling though, Because I have not yet created time. --1993 The Pain of Nearly Knowing The trials of age have begun for me: A prolonged pain in my arm, Unresilient skin, Emotional decline, Bifocals. The forty-three years behind me, A photo album, poorly maintained, My life seems chained To some unforgiving tree. But not yet drained of its hot blood. I’m as frightened as a child beginning school, Filled with terror and doubt, Not knowing at all how the end will be played out. What we do with the time we have left Is a certain measure of our courage. Resolution in religion is alright. It’s not the same as zeal. It’s pure poetry toward the end, I suppose. Formally fictionalizing the way we feel. --1987 Eve Pale night. Stars. The Hebrew god waiting For me to come out and look up at him. He smiles about the women and their ways. I’m afraid of them. He’s all I have left. There was a time when I would Have shown the stars to her And we would not have mentioned him. We would have know that he was there, Smiling, mute, unconcerned, Paring his nails, his work done, The rest—Love—up to us. She came to not caring about the stars. But only about my conception of him. She wanted him down out of the sky. So she came at me with her indifference. “I don’t care about your poetry,” she said, finally. And she cried. --1985
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