Piled Up: Prayers of a Desperate Mother - a poem.

Note: This poem continues my exploration of a monologue-style poetry featuring a narrator who is not myself.

I just hope that these aching prayers don’t go to waste—

piled up at Your door

like newspapers when the resident’s away,

graying and disintegrating below

while the new ones plop on top.

It hurts my feelings, you know—

Is Anyone even home?

Or arranged like Christmas presents

that You just shoved in a closet,

wrapped in a hundred pretty ways,

looking lost when Christmas decor is taken down

but not them. Not them.

Eager shininess loses festivity, breeds confusion.
Did You forget to open them, God?
I wrapped them just for You!

Don’t save them as keepsakes—

what they contain I care most about.

Receive them, unwrap them, redeem!

Or like warm goodies left on Your stoop,

baked fresh with care.

Don’t You dare repackage them as day-olds

and profit on them secondhand!

Or at least haven’t I been the persistent widow

going before the judge—

pesky enough that he grants her petition

just to make her go away?
Haven’t I at least been her?

I want this soul to find You,

I know it’s what You want

even with free will, there’s more that You could do—

Bring believing friends, reflective moments

a cherished memory or a bizarre encounter

to make divine love inescapable, irresistible.

But years go by, and no such things occur (that I hear).

So, discouraged though I am,

not knowing what else to do, I go on piling

papers,

presents,

pecan rolls,

petitions,

—whatever my prayers resemble most—

at Your door...

in hopes for something more.

 
©Ellen H.