I’m away from my computer and trying to catch up on my sonnet quota on the iPad far from home. The first eight lines of this got published prematurely some time yesterday. Here’s the whole thing, and the other six lines took less than 24 hours.
Sonnet 8: Prayer of a child of capitalism
Dear Absent Lord, Our Nobodaddy,
Dear Particle, or Gland, or Gene,
Who speak through prophet, saint and maddy
and have done since the Pleistocene,
accept my humble genuflection
in awe of natural selection.
Give us this day our daily bread
and roses, birdsong, sky’s vast spread.
Forgive – But I’ve no heart to ask it.
We’ve made a quarry of the Earth
and of its peoples. What’s it worth
when hell-bound in a plastic basket
to say we’re sorry? Don’t respond.
We’ve work to do. No magic wand.