Tag Archives: God



Setting: Catholic religion class at school.

Characters: New teacher – a man. A bunch of 9-year-olds.

Open discussion about covenants. (Based loosely on recollection, don’t shoot the messenger!)

Girl in my daughter’s class, with genuine curiosity: Why are all the priests men? Why are there no women priests?

Teacher, gently: Well, you see, Jesus was a man, and his apostles were men, and…

Several girls in my daughter’s class: But his mother was a woman!

Teacher, full of kindness: Yes, but she could not have brought Jesus into the world without a heavenly Father…

Red-haired girl: He couldn’t have been born without a mother, either.

Teacher, softly: Yes, you’re right… but, maybe, you know, if some priests were women, then the men in church would stop paying attention to God and stare at the pretty priest…

My daughter, mumbling to herself: But the same can be true the other way around. If the priest is handsome…

Boy seated next to my daughter, searching for a solution: Maybe men are just uglier than women!

Red-haired girl: But if the women were really ugly, could they be priests then?

My daughter, musing after class: What if all the priests were women? Then there wouldn’t be any male priests to tempt… 🙂

(Ah, the dilemmas, quandaries and predicaments that arise when children are allowed to think freely. 🙂 Which, thankfully, they are.)

The Racket


Once in a blue moon,

beauty settles into my soul

like a swallow in its nest:

gracious and quiet and fertile.

Mere seconds later,

hordes and hordes of selfish people

with steel-toothed hounds and motorized wheels

come rushing by,

hurling themselves at the air, at the landscape, at other people’s souls,

a merciless stampede

raising the dust;

an unleashed army of carnal restlessness, a cacophony of hubris and outrage,

charging headlong, chasing the next empty minute, the next self-righteous cause,

cutting open words they don’t understand

and letting them bleed to death.

In their tow, the bee is sucked out of its flower,

the sweetness of honey is said to become unpalatable

and cross-pollination impossible.

I let them pass,

envy not their rapid advancement,

their heedless lack of regrets.

In God’s love, I am nourished.

Copyright 2020. A. Sepi. All rights reserved.




dear God is so annoyingly old-fashioned

that he’s gone

thousands of years without

an upgrade in design.

we are obsolete.

we continue to be born with hands –

tools for tactile emotion –

even though there is no one to hold,

even though there is no one to touch,

even though everything is nothing

but plastic.

God, can’t I have a built-in keyboard, instead?

please, I’ll be nice…

clutching our laptops we toil

happily away into the dusk

into the dark

into certain death.



At the heart of the world


at the heart of the world

there can be only silence.

the solitude

of contemplating God.

at the heart of the world

there is

a slight summer breeze,

the purple sweetness of acacia snowing down

(dry blossoms piling quietly by the curb),

the glowing peace of the evening,

and church bells scintillating.

at the heart of the world

there is

an ocean of womanhood.

the Red Sea of love and voiceless despair,

the lonely, gentle caress of a virgin

for her child.



Îţi curge infinitul pe la cusăturile hainelor,

Prin ţesuturile care îţi căptuşesc inima,

Prin buzunarele gândurilor.

Umbli lăsând după tine

Plete, plete de infinit,

Pe care unii calcă cu picioarele, împiedicându-se,

Ca de nişte cozi imponderabile de şerpi

Iar alţii îşi împletesc din ele funii

ca să se spânzure.


Când deschizi pleoapa,

Se zbat înapoia ei îngerii

Ca fluturi captivi într-un borcan.

Sunt coloraţi.

Dimineţile de dinainte de lume picură rouă


Şi plângi.


Tu doar umbli mai departe, nepipăibil,

Eu cad în genunchi înaintea trupului meu ofilit,

Înconjurată pretudindeni de oamenii aceştia sănătoşi

Pedalând pe biciclete

Iar ţie ţi se deşiră, deşiră, deşiră

Hainele a infinit.


Sănătate de carne, sănătate de vânt?…

În abisurile tale mă împing curenţii termici înspre cer şi zbor

Sănătatea altora e din carne, veselia lor nu ştie mâinele

Iar pe mine mă înjunghie, la fiecare aplecare,

Acul cu care m-ai cusut de tine.