Please

 

Prayer used to be in Latin, on my knees,
a penitent at early mass, censor swinging, 
incense wafting, the feeling of holiness
so close, so close, mea culpa, mea culpa,

or in the choir loft, singing the Magnificat,
heart soaring, voices ringing through the church,
prayer set to music and the rustle
of angel wings.

Then years of no prayer, only surviving,
when "Help!" was sometimes all
that I could manage. After that came kindness,
trying to do some good in the world,
prayer in action, feeling distant from
whatever God there is, just doing
the best I could. (I think God could
see me, trying.)

In my old age, a great weariness,
as I watch what humankind has wrought
on this planet and each other.
How to pray? And will it help
when a madman rains bombs down
on innocents and threatens to blow up
the world? "Please," I say.
Just "please," because way too much is wrong
for ordinary prayer to heal, and God 
must shake her head watching the madness
going on below, when "please"
and "help" are now the only prayers
I know.

inspired by the poem "Prayer" by Jacqueline Berger, of Wild Writing.