God woke in His bed in the usual way:
His dry eyes bloodshot, His beard all astray,
His tongue dry as sand, His lips chapped a bit,
His nose curls in from the reek of armpit.

The being who, to a universe, gave birth,
His attention held on one tiny Earth.
He showered, made coffee, checked His email.
A billion prayers in varying detail:

“Dear Lord Above… Your Grace…
Your Holiness On High,
I pray now with respect;
You’re the best; one swell guy!
This matter is life or death,
So help out your ol’ pal, Jeff!
I ask for a gift of love-
A Yamaha YZ450F!
And if it’s no trouble,
And in your power to do,
I’d like it to be white,
With the trim a navy blue!”

Other prayers were vague and some unfinished,
“Help me,”
”I’m hungry,”
“My sales diminished!”

Thousands received with each passing second.
God could not ignore the work that beckoned.

Not feeling the spirit of the work ahead,
And hearing the call of His warm, holy bed,
He raised one fist high and made a decree,
“Today the number of miracles I perform will be nine!”

He’s God. He doesn’t have to rhyme if He doesn’t want to.

He tried to print them, but his printer jammed,
And it’s toner was empty, so it was damned.
It’s electric soul is sent to Hades,
Forever printing rare gross maladies.

“Why did I try printing?” God asks himself.
He used some cloud and paper from the shelf.
Just a small tap, each sheet filled in tandem,
And so He printed 9 prayers at random.

The skies did part, and lo, the Lord descended.
As he flew low the skies above were mended.
He would not risk our precious Ozone, you see.
You might say he’s the original hippy.

First Becky Lander, who prays for a kiss,
Her crush is football star, Leotrim Swiss.
So God raised his palm to Becky’s forehead,
And beneath his breath, a small prayer he said.

“O, Young Becky… So naïve.
A kiss really is not hard.
A man’s lust will trip him up;
Hoisted by his own petard.
Leotrim’s eyes will tell his heart,
And his lips are sure to follow.
His emotional depths are not,
His personality: hollow.
But if he’s what you want,
I’m sure that you know best.”
And then he snapped his fingers,
He had enhanced Becky’s chest.

“One down; Eight to go. Let’s see who is next.”
He held up the papers, scanning the text.
“Michael, in London. Age: Seventy-Four.
Status: Widower, Just opened a store.”

The Lord donned His glasses to read the prayer,
He says He doesn’t need them but look here!
Obviously without them he can hardly see!
Oh crap! He’s angry. Let’s continue, shall we?

“To the Father of Jesus and the shepherd of this flock,
I’m a simple man, God-fearing with tears upon my smock.
My store is losing business and my bills are piling high.
I’ve had no customers here all day, and I’ll tell you why!
It’s Hubson’s store across the street; He’s taken this too far!
Lowering prices! Better products! Service above par!
I can’t keep up with that! But with a little luck…
You will answer my prayer and smite that smarmy fuck!”

God hmm’d at the request and stroked his beard,
Admittedly this prayer was pretty weird.
The man attended church weekly, prayed each night,
God decided helping this man would be right.

A wink, a smile and a flick of righteous wrist,
A plague took Hubson’s: The smell of rotten fish.
It could not be cleaned; It would not be tamed,
The smell was so bad it became world famed.

Hubson’s closed down and the old man prospered.
“Two prayers down; Seven still in the coffer.”
God looked at his list and then headed out,
This next would take him on a walkabout.

Down Under, a pop starlet prays to the cross,
Hands together, face down, kneeling like a boss.
Her skirt too small, bikini top too tight,
She only prays for a great show that night.

The fans loves her; her lip-sync skills are grand.
Pre-recorded tracks set for her mock-band.
This prayer resolves itself; consider this one done.
The best thing about this task? The work done was none.

Three prayers down, we’re only one third finished!
Request number four comes from the British!
I guess.

Across the pond to see a rugby game,
The Reds play hard to win a titled fame!
The whole team prayed to win this match,
And it all came down to a single catch.

A tied score on the board, seconds to go,
The crowd inhales deep with the passing throw.
The ball flew far, guided by holy force,
Keeping an even path and steady course.

The ball was caught and cheers loudly rang out.
With the game over, God lingered about.
He throws on a hoodie, blends with the crowd,
Smiles and says, “Now for a hot dog.”

He buys a few snacks, and what I mean by buying,
Is clumsily stealing the snacks He was eyeing.
He hides them in His toga and thinks no one saw,
It’s obvious as a snowman’s fate come spring thaw.

Off to prayer five while muttering under breath,
Something about a narrator being near death.
To Canada! Land of snow and bacon!
It’s hard to focus now because Bacon.

We find a lone driver- lost with no map,
Deep in the Great North to find the right sap.
He makes maple syrup- Canadian, see?
The only other thing they have is hockey.

“Oh Sweet God, I don’t know where I’m going!
Or where I am! There’s no way of knowing!
The road’s too narrow to turn, so I keep going this way,
Please help me out right now; Please hear me pray!”

God wagged his tail and tugged at his beard,
Trees slowly parted, a road sign appeared.
“Well, that’s that. I’ve shown him the way.
And that’s another miracle out of the way!”

Need I point out again that God does not need to adhere to the rhyme scheme because He is God?
I don’t think I do.

Was that five or six miracles? I’ve now lost count.
Though it’s not up to me to keep the amount.
God took to the skies and He flew fast as light!
Now we’re over the ocean catching a flight!

Jody the Masseuse was enjoying some travel,
Reliever of others, here she could unravel,
But in the back of her mind there was a nagging,
Something that kept her awake with eyes sagging.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hollowed be thy name.
Each and every time I travel, my trouble is the same.
I pack my bags, lock the doors but as soon as I’m gone,
I get this nagging feeling that I’ve left the oven on.
Dear Lord, life’s a beach. Won’t you be my Hasselhoff?
Please be sure to visit my home and turn my oven off.”

God read the woman’s plea, lifting a brow.
“Is this what people are praying for now?”
So be it. A sixth miracle in motion.
“Help is help,” He thought, nodding at the notion.

At Jody’s house, or rather, her duplex,
God arrives in a poof with flash effects.
All show aside, He takes a look around,
The oven was off, but more hazards found.

Coffee pot on, fridge door left open wide,
While the leftover takeout spoils inside.
Thirteen plugs converge on one poor outlet,
And just out of sight, a forgotten pet.

A hungry cat scratches at the window,
A sight so sad, He let the poor thing go.
The rest he left, heading to the Pacific,
Jody’s prayer was extremely specific.

In Papua New Guinea, a small boy cries out.
God checks his email to see what it’s about.
“Name: Jean Paul. Occupation: Being a Child.”
And today Jean Paul was childing in the wild.

God found the young boy alone in a tree,
Knees to chest, arms crossed and crying softly.
Two branches above, God perched and read more,
Two other boys had left this ego sore.

“Oh, God, you’ve abandoned me!
The world just isn’t fair!
I hate my school! I hate this island!
My parents don’t care!
In science class I had one chance,
My project was the best!
But two big bullies smashed my volcano,
And I failed the science test!
To make things worse, they both passed
And mocked me until I cried,
So I climbed up in this tree,
And wished that they both died!”

Well, God wasn’t about to kill any child,
He’d be ‘mysterious’ and do something mild,
In a heartbeat, Lord God found the two brats,
Playing in a cave like dirty cave rats.

A smile crossed the lords lips as a plan formed,
Just at the entrance a hive of bees swarmed.
God looked to his left… God looked to his right.
He laughed to himself with childish delight.

A large baseball bat appeared in His right hand,
A cap on His head, his cleats dug in the sand.
He sucked on his chew and spit on a boulder,
He positioned the bat over his shoulder.

He pointed to the cave, his memory reeled
To the time Babe Ruth pointed to outfield.
A mighty swing was unleashed upon the hive,
It rocketed straight into the cave! Line drive!

Donning his toga, God turned an ear,
Inside the cave, both boys scream in fear!
He closed the entrance, trapping the boys in,
The bees were made harmless, stripped of poison.

Before the lord would end this session,
He made sure they’d learned their lesson,
And said unto them in hollowed voice,
“Being a bully is a really bad choice.”

The cave was reopened and the boys rushed out,
God stood before them, His holy face stout.
He spoke again, “Boys, you’d better mend your ways,
I left my own son in a cave for three whole days.”

Feeling giddy and a little outlandish,
God made a small cloud and yelled, “NINJA VANISH!”
He disappeared and was off to prayer eight,
God was quite tired and the hour was late.

In Mexico City, against a bar wall,
Leaned Carlos, a drunk, who tried not to fall.
Eyes closed, his lips muttered a drunken prayer,
God put on his glasses and read with care.

“Hello, God Above.
I rarely speak to your grace.
You remember me?

I know it’s August,
But the heat is just so bad.
Heat waves you can see.

Once when I was young,
In Nineteen Sixty Seven,
The city saw snow.

Please, your holiness,
Bless our city once again,
Let the cold winds blow.”

Far from the season which would call for snow,
Cold would be out of place in this heat flow,
Local summer plans would come to a stall,
Regardless, on this day, a snow would fall.

God cracked his knuckles. He rolled his neck.
He jogged in place and did a pulse check.
He pulled his arms back and stared at the sky,
Thrust his hands forward and made the clouds cry.

First, a light sprinkle; Calm winds and a chill.
Then a harder downpour, and harder still!
Rain turned to hail, which fell at a slow pace.
God doubled his efforts, scrunching his face.

Rain? Well that’s easy. Water from clouds: Not tough.
Hail comes in second. Just add cold air and stuff.
But snow? That’s hard. It has to be just right.
And God gave His all; fighting the good fight!

A few minutes pass before He finds the trick,
And the air stilled while snow fell on streets of brick,
Tree branches strained under new fallen load
While Carlos spun, danced and played in the road.

God, feeling proud, was overtaken with glee,
And many were victim to His snow ball spree,
He made a snow angel during His play,
But unlike yours or mine, His walked away.

The day almost over, His job almost done,
God pats down His toga and cut short His fun.
Prayer nine called from a prison in Texas,

“I’ve never been a praying man,
But I’m trying to repent.
If you can hear my voice,
Guilt is my torment.
I’ve been here nigh nine years,
And changed my wicked ways.
I avoid drugs and drinking,
But hate’s ill hand still plays.
As sure as my name is Robert,
I am under an assault!
The cook is trying to kill me,
It’s that ol’ bastard, Walt!
He uses way too much grease,
And butter, salt, and spice!
I swear he uses MSG in everything,
Three times so in the rice!
With my bad heart, that’s no good!
I’m sure to die this way.
I need your help, o’mighty God,
So this is why I pray!”

God looked up from his final printed sheet,
Eager to get home with his tasks complete.
Was this food really so bad for a man,
Was it deadly? Could it lesson life span?

His hands clapped and a smartphone came to be.
God snatched it from the air, eager to see.
He looked up Rob’s file and there, plain as day,
Robert was right. He would die that way.

God’s forgiveness is great; a heart gold plated.
His patience is a bit exaggerated.
Glaring crossly at a sorry narrator,
God makes a note to remember this later.

To the task at hand, God thinks up a plan.
This food is bad for all; not just one man.
God closed his eyes, focused His holy might,
The prison walls filled with a blinding light!

The light slowly dims to a timid glow,
But all of the theatrics were for show.
The prison diet plan was all that changed,
New food shipment orders had been arranged.

From now on they would mostly get fresh greens,
The meat they’d receive would be very lean.
Robert would not die from the prison food,
The changed diet would better his mood.

A man’s fate now altered, all nine prayers done,
Drifting toward heaven, God salutes the sun.
“You’re doing some great work,” the Lord shouts with pride!

The Sun said, “Duh.”.

At home and sleepy, God opens a beer,
It’s cool; He is not driving anywhere.
Heading to the couch to sit back and relax,
He hopes to be done with this rhyming syntax.

But that’s when the “ding” of a new prayer chimed!
It was louder than most and too well timed.
Sagging shoulders and a sigh; God got the hint,
There was still a bit left to do in this stint.

On the screen was a brightly lit e-letter,
“Where are you?” From: “Everyone”, The Header.
He pulled up his chair but looked quite displeased.
“Oh, God.” (Yes. He says that, too.) “One of these.”

Glasses on, eyes forward, beer safe from spillage,
He reads the prayer of an African village.
The prayers of many are thread in a loop,
And one single prayer is formed from the group.

“From where you are, we must seem like dust,
So small and far away.
And our voices too quiet, we trust,
But still, O’Lord, we pray.
Our faith is failing and hope dies inside,
Replaced by painful hunger,
Warlords pilfer our vaccines with such pride,
Disease lessens our number.
We look to you and we come to your church,
But are you looking back?
We are exhausted from this hopeless search,
Our days are turning black.
Please, Father, your faithful flock is calling,
Don’t leave us to die.
If there’s a moment for which you’re stalling,
We must ask you why?”

God took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes,
Touched by this heartbreaking prayer for supplies,
He put his hands on the back of his head,
“That’s rough,” God said. Then He went to bed.

The End.