If not god...who?

[billy]

i've read this a few times and came back to read it a few more. it feels a bit preach and a bit prose and it discusses a religious point. but that said i see something in it. the main crux of the the thing is the lead up to the question which is left unanswered except to the reader. those for and against will have all the right answers as will the the not so sure's. i like that the question and god is left till the last line as questions of this magnitude should left til last lines. while i don't understand the science behind a lot of what was said, i get the drift and that was enough to make me want to take part in the poem and answer (to myself) the question posed. isn't that what poetry is meant to do at times/ to bring something to the table that everyone can take part in via their own beliefs and experiences. i think the fate line is unwarranted and makes the reader ponder a pre question (what is fate) though i suppose it does juxtapose the god question. i can't give feedback on the poem apart from saying it has enough poetic devices to make poetry ( for me a pretty decent poem) whether the science is right or wrong i like the way it's used to counter god or reinforce it/him/her/that. i did think the who in hell part was a bit too cheesy, a suggestion would be

Ah, you say, that must be god…and if not He then...

wish i could have been more help

Whatever else we claim as ours, inside the bag that we call us,
we are more than the hydrogen that suns sublime in nuclear flame.
That simple trick of gravity combined with heat, spontaneous
and without god, makes molten  mass that but for us would have no name.

Yet here we are, named Dick and Tom, agglomerates of fusion fire
held tight together for some time, which in itself is not defined.
At best we say that we pass through, like current through a copper wire;
except, of course, electron flow is by that very path confined.

Not so the spirit loosed from  bonds; valency, like carbon digits,
grasps and grips what has no soul but lets slips through the human essence.
Moved by this strange inoculant, we live and love and fuss and fidget;
time deforms the hands that hook us, dangling over fate’s senescence.

Old age it seems is an illusion, atomic parts remain as new;
the force that binds our bits together will not hold us hale and well.
Who made this plan, this rum re-cycle…building us with such poor glue?
Ah, you say, that must be god…and if not He then who in hell?

Tectak
2014