Finally, the unison
I've sought for years:
tenor, alto,
bass, soprano,
backs straight,
heads held high,
faces dappled in
stained-glass hues,
eyes wide and gazing
towards the heaven
to which we offer
our hymns of praise.
No more bickering
over robes or liturgy;
our spirits have beaten ego
and entered into agape.
One of the altos
slips over, so I
prop him up against
the side of the pew.
Every single singer
sends up a note so pure
only the angels can hear it.
~~~~
Scott
H. Urban grew up traveling the world as an Army brat, but somehow appropriately
landed in the Cape Fear region of the east coast. His dark verse has been
collected as Night's Voice and Skull-Job. In the 90s, he
edited the small press poetry zine Frisson. New work can be found
in the forthcoming collection Cemetery Poets (due 2003). By some
fluke, his family has not yet kicked him out of their Wilmington home.
Scott
H. Urban grew up traveling the world as an Army brat, but somehow appropriately
landed in the Cape Fear region of the east coast. His dark verse has been
collected as Night's Voice and Skull-Job. In the 90s, he
edited the small press poetry zine Frisson. New work can be found
in the forthcoming collection Cemetery Poets (due 2003). By some
fluke, his family has not yet kicked him out of their Wilmington home.