Grand father

There are a limited number of concepts in the known universe,
Such that an immaculate conception
Becomes more probable
And necessary.
As the Mother of invention
Drops her veil
To reveal a face filled with stars
Billions of light years away.

I met my grandfather for the first time tonight,
With one knee planted on a stone wall,
Photographing the rolled out green turf,
A red carpet thrown from the open doors
Of Swedenborg Chapel.

It's silent bell dangled like a dew drop
Over lights which called my eyes to commune
At the alter inside,
The tabernacle
Knocking on guarded gates.

We shook hands through gasps of wind
Like your last breaths
From pipesmoke black lungs,
My lit cigarette hanging from
Your guarded lips.

You don't know how hard it was
To convene with the concept of the Good,
Now that God has been blasphemed
By countless computations
Over his name.

Now I begin like you,
With nothing,
An artist emersed in his trade
With a noble and higher cause.

Oh, You know how hard,
And you finally found me,
To tap me on the shoulder,
Just to say
"I am"