This rewrite of "What of God?" introduces my attempt at writing in iambic pentameter.
Out there, deep in the forest, is a pack
Of wolves that gather for the midnight feast.
Perhaps they meet to fight the daunting lack
Of heat and warmth found in their houseless home,
Hidden far from our abode which we leased
From some old fat cat who now lives in Rome.
And we, with all our money, all our art,
Are more than merely wolves and so raised
High above them to play a loftier part
In acting out the story of our world.
Although we always try to seem unfazed
By life when we are grown and first are hurled
Down from our birthplace, when we are first free
To make a name just for ourselves, alone,
Deep beneath the overpolished sheen we
Still need to feel the warmth of cherished friends.
No one is made so entirely of stone
That they don't get lost on life's twisting bends.
And even out amongst the scattered stars
The circling planets all are clustered tight.
With mighty Jupiter and war god, Mars,
Both watching as their kindred pass the Sun,
And, preening, bathe within Her fearsome light
Until the day when Her long life is done -
Then the great Nova will burst forth in flame,
Consuming all the Sun had nurtured for
Age after aeon. That fire, with its name
Betraying the true reason for the Sun's death:
New stars will be born and life, fresh and raw,
Will grow from its all enveloping breath.
Surrounding us is a tremendous sea
Of invisible, omnipresent power -
The hidden, seething substance from which we
All are made and which gently carries heat
And light from the burning sun to each flower,
Each plant and each tree, and all those who seat
Themselves down on the Earth; or those who walk;
Or those who fly in the infinite blue.
This power, which forms the bright and gleaming chalk
Of the cliffs and the everpounding seas
That crash on their sides, is alone. It too
Yearns for friends to comfort, or hear its pleas.
And so, long before matter bawled its birth,
Long before the great Sun burned at Her core,
The vast and lonely sea pulled in its girth
And grew ever deeper and denser - grew
Into itself until it burst and bore
Its children: an explosion of lights new
To this, our truly universal stage.
Of matter is Man made - a substance born
Of power; every one of us is an age
In the weaning and brother to the tree.
And, when we die, our heat returns, forlorn,
To the all embracing arms of the sea.
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