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  • Michael Barnes

A Dirty God

My palms pressed together

Praying towards a dirtier God.


The presence of which is greater than my

trivial perception.

I perceive

my own shortcomings

standing next to a towering oak.

My lids close hard and my eyes burn,

and I see nothing--a visual black.

My mind’s eye sees what may be

the sunlight trickling thru the leaves,

a gentle force of air makes a path through its branches.


I have heard talk of a clean God

with no name

or some man's name,

in robes, in sandals,

on a throne, on a cross, on a cloud, looking down at me.

I have not seen this God.

I see a dirtier God.

A companion who supports

frolicking on its lush greens and rolling down its hills.

A dirty God who houses the weak and the strong alike,

and has seemingly never-ending space for more.

A God who holds it's roots close,

and let's wings set us free,

and releases seeds into the air

to nurture a recurring growth.

A savage God yes, who summons the water,

who tumults the air, who thrashes the trees,

who picks up homes and crashes them down.

But after it all, it never ceases

to provide nutrients to those who are broken.


On a sunny day, I feel this God shining on me,

for once I was cold, but now I am warm.

I pray to a dirty God.