A Parable” and Other Poems

A Parable

“A Parable” and Other Poems

Todd Sukany

In spite of the rainbow and slight mist a lone cricket out of ten thousands seeks refuge from jumping into the wall but ends up crushed under a sneaker

Part of the Pattern

“There are no creatures you cannot love.” —Tom Hennen

Tom Hennen knows that frogs talk to God. He’s sure they listen too.

A sign on the highway labels this prairie as a preservation project for protection of the climate; their sure language calls to the deep reclamation within each of us.

Shining insects and cottonwood leaves share secrets long past our ears, past the stars even. Hennen joins in, pens gems to help us be.

They Have Their Reward

Beginning before dawn and pressing into the darkness, the field follows a script. Weeds and flowers, separated,

to the left and to the right. On the day after the weeds gathered themselves into tall stalks to honor the other stalks,

a sea of lilies, like a garden of blood drops, bow low before an oven filled with unleavened bread.

Tree Hugger

I spoke with a bonsai sunning itself before the cafe window (yes, we have that type relationship) and she, Amy, was feeling quite “beautiful.” I asked how she arrived at this state and she snapped, “I am not like Piercy says ‘small and cozy, domestic and weak.’ I have a just and correct amount of soil, water, and care. My branches and new growth? Snipped by shears held in his hands.” I suspected nothing actually hurts a plant, so I made such an observation. Amy released Romans 9 and I hid once more behind coffee and today’s news.

Closing the Distance

So many poets push the best words together into tiny pieces of art that sit on desks or on a dust-free shelf in the frontal lobe.

They, too, expect the word to drift down into the heart, just like the One Who's waited much longer and paid a much greater price.

Still Waters

Of course, sweet reader, you thought this poem should take you deep into Psalm Twenty-Three,

where the good shepherd would be, guiding you with a rod to your noggin and a staff to the aft,

where you’d be comforted by oil dripping off your chin and onto your new sandals, (though wearing open loafers in a pasture is sticky),

where the cup in your hands is now crimson with Merlot,

where goodness and mercy chase you down like a kitten does a feather, but this poem will offer none of that.

The Profit

Fallen into this calling, I scour the desert floor for locust, interrupt prayer for a honey hive.

Milk and honey. Who ever considered locust milk? Energized once again,

I shout a message as unfiltered as my food. Repentance.

As popular now as pillows of rock,

rivers of blood, the smell of wet camel hair. A daily discipline worth losing one’s head over.