Prayer*

And if I am a Christian, I am
the least of all. Well, that’s
for sure. I love these words in Romans:
neither death nor life

nor angels nor demons not as a verse
affirming my faith, but I love
them for sounding like Poe: Neither
angels in heaven above,

nor demons down under the sea.
Also, I am convinced
that hell’s not a place, but a journey,
heaven’s not earned, but spent,

and prayer’s another name for song.
Demons dither when
I pray unceasingly through song.
I am persuaded that when

I die, the best of me will drone
eternally in tune
with gratitude for every song
I’ve ever sung.
– Dana Wildsmith (alto)
* From With Access to Tools

Jubilate

Glory be to God for my imperfect mother
whose Irish temper tempered by gentility
blazed from time to time, reminding me of what
should not be tolerated.
Praise be to all that transcends temporality
with such a stubborn streak that even when unfounded,
grounded my defense of what I know or need.
All hallow to her humbleness, which made me praise
her more than daughters do and set me on the path
of watching for praiseworthiness. Let me therefore
sing praises for my mother’s singing. Her perfect pitch
and purity of tone keep me trusting
to a yet unsilenced goodness  in the world.
– Dana Wildsmith

Dana Wildsmith lives with her husband Don on a farm in the toe of the Appalachian range in north Georgia. She teaches English to non-native English speakers; her students being one of the greatest delights of my life. She is the author of six books of poetry and one novel. Her environmental memoir, Back to Abnormal: Surviving with an Old Farm in the New South, was a finalist for Georgia Author of the Year. She is widely published in both literary and commercial journals and has served writer-in-residence at several national parks.