I Hope the Bus Stops Here

Today I climbed on the Poetry Bus for this week’s international tour. While the Totalfeckineejit rests those busy brain cells, Rachel Fox of Scotland stepped into the driver’s seat. Her challenge: Write a poem about a favorite word, then report back to her. My all-time favorite word is “hope.”

Grapevine bud break, Easter morning

Hope in Nothing


I lift my hands,
good strong hands
and they are empty.
They make me think
of old grape vines
butchered for winter
resting in the field
and each is a black
cupped hand
raising dark fingers
heavenward.
While the sun
and the rain march
over the land,
the old vines wait
through endless days
looking up at God.

He does nothing.

Row upon row
of bare black hands
supplicate, wait,
bereft of all
that makes a grape.
God is silent.
There could be
no god
for all they know.
They are prepared
for the long haul,
to be dead wood
forever.

My good strong hands
are barren, while
God does nothing.
I am tired
of lifting them
to silence.
There could be
no god
for all I know.
Spring marches
past, bringing
nothing.

nothing
nothing
everlasting

One day the sun
climbs out
of the hills
and a bud
breaks free.
Groping
black fingers
keep reaching
to God.
Row by row
the empty hands
stir.
Nothing ends.
The filling begins.

*****