I sing the minor deity
of not quite drunken gaiety
whose altar stands where time and place combine to seem just
where clergy and the laity
can speak with spontaneity
And sly half-lit salaciousness seems witticism's height;
When seated in a dinery,
the atmospherics winery,
as everyone enjoys each moment's magical delight,
the conversation's finery
is nuanced, never binary,
and no one who was there forgets that long enchanted night;
One may espouse astrology,
one’s favorite theology,
or claim events evolve without a goddess, dark or light -
there's much more to cosmology
than zealous self-promotions that pretend the truth is trite.
So do not cling so stodgily
to what you hold is modually
unsympathetic sneering when opponents say black’s white.
Our voices may be codgerly
but sing, if somewhat dodgily,
the praise of minor deities if only just for spite.
you have any comments on this poem, Marcus Bales would be
pleased to hear from you.