brown boat on snow covered ground
Photo by Yaroslav Shuraev on Pexels.com

This Ark Named Earth

Our ship, this ark named Earth, sails though the dark sea skies,

on angels wings, heading home to the soul of God.

His pulsar heart pulses amidst

the conflagration of the constellations.

Cryptic radio waves speak His tongue,

dots and dashes of fractured light send His S.O.S. home,

Save our ship, Save our ship,

a message sent to the souls of all,

but mostly for the ones who‘ve lost control,

who hang onto the outside hull with broken nails. 

Our common scream shrieks from within,

 waking in us the inevitability of death,

a shared hope lost, a dream unfulfilled,

is that a person falling off our ship so high above?

This ark, this Earth, rides the solar winds,

a unique planet given by God, or

has God become passé, a big-box store,

a grand concept who was once and is no more?

The wonders of Him still exists,

there are brain globules that grow eyes and

can conceive the world in unknown ways.

There are lions in the deserts, and Bigfoot, everywhere.

Orbs in the sky might be U.F.O.s,

perhaps they know what we don’t know.

Are we just a tourist destination for interstellar travelers?

A pit stop to change alien tires, to recharge

their unknown energies amidst our thunder storms?

This ark is laden with pestilence, disease, and sorrows,

with war, famine, and frightening tomorrows,

and still we hope, for hope is what’s left

when our time is up, when we begin to fall out of the sky.

Already the ark rides on slowing tides, known paths

might be our sad demise.

God’s voice rises from the burning West,

 softly crackling pinecones whisper, God is here.  God is here.

 A small child asks, is there a future for me?

We will need good people if the end is near.

And that is all that can be said, a response

that feels so shamefully lame, but true.

‘They are going to slaughter us!’

cries a soul at the end of the line,

read by an anchorman at quarter to nine.

Our compassion, our concern, reaches out,

for we all know life has a beginning and an end,

and the end is such a final descent.

God loves all those who have lost their homes,

for we were all refugees at some point,

God loves the stranger in a strange land.

The seas begin to rise to reach the skies,

while the slap, slap sound of God’s giving waters,

whisper, I am here.  I am here.

And there’s a rainbow past the lightning storms.

About Lisa Tremback

I started writing in Elementary school and was published in school and local newspapers. I graduated from Columbia College in Chicago and studied under the poet, Bill Knox. I have been published at Colorado State University's underground newspaper. I enjoy writing almost every day and love to write about my relationship with G-d.

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