I enjoyed being featured in this artsy, gritty, and a bit noir. The Pedestrian Press.
God at Sundown
by Mark Tulin
There is no god at sundown,
no savior who’s gonna
fix the holes in my boots
and cook me something to eat
No voice that echos in the soul
on my lonely walks at night
under bridges full of litter
and streets that smell of piss
There is no true god
that bides his time in honesty,
that welcomes a hungry straggler,
heals the body’s burns and bruises,
and champions the weak and lost,
and those who seek comfort
from the blustery winds and fire
There will be no greeting
once I get to heaven,
but more of the same filth and shame,
bubblegum stuck to cement,
broken parking meters, abandoned buildings,
cowboys with busted spirits
and horses laboring from the heat.
I mean no offense to the city, but that is how I feel when I am in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Sorry to the the folks who love that area, but it kills my soul.
Love that final stanza!
Your poem is definitely gritty. Powerful.
You’re welcome, Mark.
Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
A nice poem, Mark. Atmospheric of the poet’s angst in the downtown of a city. But I hope that you get a greeting on
ce you get to heaven.
Thanks for your kind words, maurice.