An Ode to Question 6

I will be voting in favor of gay marriage come Election Day. Here are my sentiments on the subject in poetry form.

Ah, this too shall pass —

all the fuss about marriage.

Cast to the dogs everyday — that institution —

by married men and women —

fighting over children

like dogs barking over bones —

fighting over house keys, car keys,

bank accounts —

airing tons of grievances

for onlookers and lawyers

as spectator sport before

laying to rest in divorce caskets

their vows —

"In sickness and in health,

for better or worse,

for richer or poorer,"

a bunch of lies rolled

out for the ceremonies in church.

Like God is watching! Yeah!

Come on!

What God wants to waste His precious time

on man or for that matter woman.

Isn't God above poking His nose —

in the carnal holes

where men explore their ephemeral pleasures?

Should be! I'd like to think —

if there indeed is a God — that God is no voyeur.

He hasn't written the rules of engagement

behind bedroom doors

between man and woman,

man and man,

or woman and woman.

God does not care — I should hope —

to micromanage the sexual proclivities of humans

and the preponderance of evidence suggests

we are pretty much on our own,

in the matter of whom we love and why we prefer

one gender over another —

that was written in stone,

not according to a chapter or verse from a Holy Book,

but according to science

we're the creatures of the hormones

we met within our mothers —

so why do we give our brothers and sisters

such hell when they are drawn to someone

of their own gender — and why do we spin

such acrimony against them — as would shame God —

if there indeed is a God — it should —

that the most confused and confounded among us

would assume the precarious position

of interpreter for God

condemning forefinger pointed

as proxy for God — the most dogmatic among us —

would claim to know how God thought or thinks —

what a sad mess for God —

what an embarrassment —

as He on a long vacation from the foolishness of men

wanders among the stellar hatcheries bewitched

by His own handiwork — if He doesn't He should —

if He isn't He should be — far from the madding crowd — God!

Usha Nellore, Bel Air

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