Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Beer Brats

by Jim Rapp

As a newcomer to Eastridge Estates
he felt obliged to volunteer for something,
so he offered to take Bill S’s place
grilling brats for the monthly Eastridge fling.

Little did he know the brats were required to be
beer brats! His mother would be spinning if,
from her Nazarene grave, it happened that she
could see or know the awful moral cliff

her son had voluntarily fallen from.
No drop of that lethal Devil’s brew
had crossed her threshold; now her son
was popping 16 ouncers  by the twos.

Like Lot of old he’s pitched his tent toward
Sodom, vexed his righteous soul satisfying
ninety year-old’s craving for liquor and lard;
it’s beer-besotted brats that he’s supplying.





Thursday, August 4, 2016

Why I Write this Poem

by Jim Rapp

I’m writing this poem to complete
a chapbook that is one poem short
of the requisite forty half-page sheets,
set arbitrarily as the cohort

easily accommodated by the stapler
I was using at the time I set in stone
the two score pages each poetic sampler
would contain; this the capstone poem.

Ah frivolity, that looks for ways –
mere words – to extend an antiquated
tradition that has long held sway,
though the stapler’s superannuated.


Wednesday, August 3, 2016

The Throne of Grace

(Heb. 14:6)
by Jim Rapp

What is this Throne of Grace
the writer to the Hebrews names?
It would have to be an awful place,
using “awful” with the same

intent that Jacob used when he
encountered Yahweh’s angels
climbing up and down the
ether’s stairways, sending chills

through his being. To think that he,
a thoroughly imperfect man,
running from his sins, could receive
Yahweh's graces, sure and grand!

What is this Throne of Grace
the writer to the Hebrews names?
It is here that sinners coming trace,
sevenfold, the image their sins,

then watch the shadow of a cross
obscure their image traced,
a crimson flood remove the dross,
and know they’re standing
            in an awful place.