Hearing Plain And Simple

Well, part of this poem came to mind during church this morning, so I went home and wrote the whole thing out. I enjoyed writing it, and it was good for me to think on such things, which makes it, for me, a successful poem.

I expect no one had ever noticed

before that day that I had ears,

and that they worked, worked well

enough to overhear the terms they used

to introduce me by proxy – to call me

“town idiot” implies a measure of ownership

my fellow citizens weren’t willing to take.

I was and am Dave, Pete and Mary’s

stupid son; before I even saw a cross

I knew I was the one my poor parents

had to bear, something shameful enough

to make the ladies of the First Baptist Church

across the way cluck their tongues

and clutch their brood of chicks close

whenever I was in the yard; Poor Peter,

poor Mary, bless their hearts; if I had a son

like that I expect I’d’ve died of shame.

My folks were always good to me,

never hitting me like the preacher

said they should, I guess they figured

if the Lord meant for me to have

any sense, he would knock it in himself.

That doesn’t mean they gave me much

attention ever; I was fed, cleaned, and clothed

each day, and put to bed each night;

other than that, I was just the first dot

in the long ellipsis between my parents.

Still, I was glad they didn’t hit me much,

and at times they’d get the notion to take

me somewhere for a while, some carnival

or maybe to the cinema.

I guess that’s why they took me,

age of 12, IQ of about the same

(one of the neighbor’s little jokes),

to go sit at the church picnic.

I sat, and the sun was hot, so a group

got the idea to go down to the river,

I guess to pray and sing and dunk themselves

to be refreshed by the handiwork of God.

My mother said to stay behind and help

sort the food, to carry what was needed.

As I stood there, among the paper plates

of fried chicken, corn, and potato salad,

I found I had ears enough to hear

the words someone shouted from the river –

He came and died that we may live,

no matter who we’ve been,

he died and rose so we may come to see

that newness of life in him which he spoke of.

Why, it’s so simple a child could understand

what I’m saying! So come on down,

come to this river and be drowned to death

in sin, that the Lord God may raise you up

into a bright and glorious new life.

I heard with my ears, and came running,

the plate of sweet white corn in my hands

forgotten as they dropped by the path,

and I saw the man whose voice I heard,

a mountain of white suit sticking up

from the water, black bible waving before him,

a Cheshire-smile gleaming at all who stood on the banks.

No one much was moving, so I bust right through,

stumbling through the mud so I could be

made new. That fat man stared down and grinned,

Boy, you want to live for Jesus?

My tongue too slow for any words,

I simply looked to nod;

he forced my thick head under,

and brought me up alive.

It didn’t make no difference, they still said I was dumb,

but I guess that don’t much matter,

now that I got the sun shining so bright

inside my rickety ribs; it’s like I’m always full

of good white bread and fresh cold milk,

not spoiled on fancy stuff, just enough

so I don’t need to wander around.

The preacher still says to hit me,

but that don’t bother me at all,

I know he don’t mean malice,

and I know enough for me,

that Jesus knows my name,

that I’m not some random idiot

to him, but one face that was before his eyes

when he carried that cross of his own

and went off to die.