The Hell Butterfly

The Villanelle Trilogy

I’m still out of original ideas, and I have a weird stubbornness which won’t allow me to post about Valentine’s. M24 ended a message this morning with a happy Valentine’s, but that’s the only mention I’ll make of it. Instead I have chosen to share a trio of poems in the villanelle style that I used for my creative assignment last year. I was rather proud of them and it got me a not-so-bad grade so I guess they were okay. They are supposed to be in the following order, like a series. Here goes.

If He existed like you preach

If He existed like you preach then why
does all this pain exist on earth and how
can He let all these hurting people die

because if He existed surely I
would see the world once bad but better now
if He existed like you preach and why,

if everybody suffers when they try
to make the pain subside and “God!” they shout,
can He let all these hurting people die

when on a bed of nails His Child did lie
and on that cross he hung, would He allow,
if He existed like you preach … O why

would His almighty self not simply cry
and take it back and leave his head to bow.
Can He let all these hurting people die?

Where suffering on His creation thrives
why doesn’t He bring all His greatness down?
If He existed like you preach then why
can He let all these hurting people die?

Dear God, the Writing Hurts

The writing hurts, dear God, the writing hurts.
With hands I dig the grave of our creation
And underneath my palm the paper burns.

The sentence is for life; the court adjourns,
The hammer falls. No chance for my salvation.
The writing hurts, dear God, the writing hurts.

They sing their song: the choir never learns.
I choke on smoke: the flames of my damnation
And underneath my palm the paper burns.

Lord, hear my words, I swear I will convert.
This ink – it stains my fingers in frustration.
The writing hurts, dear God, the writing hurts.

My pen, it used to love – now it only spurns.
I clasp the contract; slave to my temptation
And underneath my palm the paper burns.

Then, to my deadened eyes, the page returns;
Once blank, yet now foretelling devastation.
The writing hurts, dear God, the writing hurts
And underneath my palm the paper burns.

What’s that Sound?

What’s that sound, that roaring from above?
Could it be Him, trying to talk to me?
I lean from the window, looking for His love.

Is that His rumbling, loud and wild and rough?
The sky pulsates it. I turn my eyes to see.
What’s that sound, that roaring from above?

Perhaps behind the plane that blinks on, off?
I arch my neck, lift hands and pray it’s Thee.
I lean from the window, looking for His love.

I cannot see. What if He called my bluff?
For if it’s He, I truly will believe.
What is that sound, that roaring from above?

I asked for help, whatever He could think of
and maybe now He’s on to file ‘T’.
I lean from the window, looking for His love.

Will I have faith though, when push comes to shove?
A silly notion, I’m sure you will agree.
But what’s that sound, that roaring from above?
I lean from the window, looking for His love.

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