“Who are you?” quaked the snail, as he pulled in his head, “And what do you do so close to my bed?”
“I am Theta, the static, the lover of snails; I am careful, my dear, not to step on small tails.”
“I am Theta, the mover, the shaker of pails; which are empty, my dear, of snails with small tails.”
“Who are you,” quaked the leaf, as it floated so free, “Did you cause this great gust so I fell from my tree?”
“I am Theta, the static, the lover of trees; I am careful, dear leaf, not to crush such as thee.”
“I am Theta, the mover, the shaker of trees; it’s your duty in autumn to flee from the tree.”
“Who are you,” growled the fox as he dines on his fare, “What gives you the right to approach my snug lair?”
“I am Theta, the static, the lover of beasts; no way would I ever disturb you in feasts.”
“I am Theta, the mover, the shaker of grounds; I’m here to enjoy your wonderful sounds.”
“Who are you,” asked the man as he held his ground firm, “who dare to approach my claim to this berm.”
“I am Theta, the static, the lover of land; I’m pleased that you have this wonderful sand.”
“I am Theta, the mover, the shaker of forms, but berms are for you to have on your terms.”
“Who are you,” cracked the lightening, as it burst through the clouds, “beware of my power or I’ll have you in shrouds.”
“I am Theta, the Static, who admires your fury, and your spark that leaves a body to bury.”
“I am Theta, the mover, the element shaker; I can cause many storms; just call me a quaker.”
“Who are you?” boomed a voice, clear out of the sky; in my world you live and then you will die.”
“I am Theta, the static, just a visitor here; from a god such as you I have nothing to fear.”
“I am Theta, the mover, the creator of form; in my world I create gods as an everyday norm.”
“Who are you?” asked Alice, as she fell down the hole; and why am I here and where is my soul?”
“I am Theta, the static, and not in your book; but all I will teach you is next time please look.”
“I am Theta, the mover, the shaker of thought; but a greater creator than Carrol I’m not.”
Pat Krenik, July 5, 2008
Friday, April 30th, 2010, 12:36 pm | 
Essay & Poetry by Patricia Krenik | 
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Pat Krenik
May 4, 2010 at 8:43 pm
That is very beautiful and surprisingly humble in the end!
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May 7, 2010 at 12:48 pm
lovely poem
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May 8, 2010 at 6:34 pm
That was good. When I poem, I dont rhyme.
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