Pastoral Poetry

Since January 1 I've been keeping a "poetry journal" . . . writing a poem each day as a kind of reflection or history.  Most of these, I'm finding, are just snippets of observation, snatches of conversation, or pieces of uncompleted thoughts.  But about twice a week I end up with a decent piece of work.

I thought I'd offer here a poem I wrote the evening of March 13 . . . when I was called early that morning to respond to a tragedy here in Brownsburg.  This poem is pastoral . . . and I suppose it reflects the helplessness that pastors often feel when they are thrust into dark situations or into the depths of human grief or misery.  One often struggles to find the words or the actions to make God known . . . and that is what this one is about.

Here is my 3-13-12 journal entry.

Superman

When the phone rings I don my special suit complete with tie
And drive across town to the railroad tracks where a man has died.
The fire chief and police meet me there and ask that I
Escort the company of family to a room nearby.

They are stacked there--tear on tear and friend on friend--
Anticipating that my super powers will bring a swift end
To the injuries they bleed and that I will soon defend
The innocent and offer explanation for what they cannot comprehend.

But I have no answers and my weakness is my might.
My speed is touch and without x-ray sight.
My cape is tattered, and when they ask me to explain their plight,
My words are mine--and these are kryptonite.