A Poem by Peter C. Venable: "2-18-78"


A childhood Bible fossilized

in a cinder-block bookcase

between The Whole Earth Catalogue,

Man’s Search for Meaning, and a razored-out book

camouflaging a stash. “To believe or not believe”—

the question percolating for months.

This evening I drive to Chapel Hill,

streetlights dopplering by the open window.

A thought blazes through thin space on 421N:

“Are you going to accept Jesus as the Son of God, or not?”

My voice yells out the window “Yes—yes!”

The next night a dream surfaced:

I grasp at a slick, stainless-steel dome,

while above layers of propellers

on the same axis rest motionless

as I slide into a huge vat of gritty crankcase oil.

Spectators above cannot reach my oily hand

and I sink deeper into quickoil


I know I am safe in Father’s hands

as oil turns into warm water. I float,

a buoy, in the womb of God.

© Peter C. Venable

The writer has written both free and metric verse for over fifty years. He has been published in Ancient Paths, Windhover - A Journal of Christian Literature, The Anglican Theological Journal, and others. But poetry is merely a hobby; he is a retired clinician, volunteers at a prison camp, seniors’ center, and food pantry; sings in the annual December Messiah, and is graced with a happy family and Yeshua.

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