Lukewarm

I was raised in a lukewarm house where things
had a tendency to come and go but some stayed,
put down roots, and became memories a boy’s
mind stuffed in its pockets like receipts.
As a preacher’s son I knew well the exile’s thought
about being spewed out of God’s mouth for such
tepidity, but I also knew the Revelator wrote of
blooded-bridles and dragon-tails so I heard his words
as those of a dreamer, of a boy much like me.
In a house not too hot or not too cold (maybe just right)
I could carry a tune in the youth choir on Sunday evenings
then Monday morning carry a spiral-bound notebook
covered with Farrah Fawcett in that only begotten
red swimsuit for after all, I believed, she was an angel.
If God should’ve chosen to spit me out there was nowhere
I could be spit apart from His presence, not the wings of
the morning nor the uttermost parts of the sea. I learned
this mercy, for I was raised in a lukewarm house.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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4 Comments

  1. mike graves on August 21, 2012 at 12:25 pm

    by two of the kindest,most genuine people i know

  2. Diana Trautwein on August 21, 2012 at 4:34 pm

    Oh, let’s HEAR IT for a lukewarm house. And thank God for it, too. Thank YOU for this one, John.

    • thebeautifuldue on August 23, 2012 at 11:06 am

      I appreciate you stopping by, Diana…yes, thank God indeed.

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