DESCRIBE BLUE


God holds my soul in his hands.


He looks at it, and
Today
It is blue, a Robin's Egg
Blue,
And pleased with the depth and transparency
Of its color, he opens
His palms,
Setting it free.

WETBACK JESUS

Caked with blood,
His skin cracks and burns
Beneath
A sweltering desert sun.
The people, many or few,
Gather round,
Mocking
His feet pricked by thorns.
And what do you,
What do I,
Do?

BINDING

Bound up in sorrow,
I am a prisoner of tears,
A vessel of sadness, others'
And my own.

In the garden,
The Gardener passes by,
A white taper held in his hand.

Follow the path of remembrance,
Darkness and light.

How will we know the way,
We ask? Before we see,
Before we touch,
Before we
Consider the wounds.

Though somehow we know.

DISCIPLES

Lost,
In dreams so lost
Ten thousand angels cry.

Can't you stay awake, Friend?
Pray with me
An hour?

A mile or thousand miles beyond,
A Cross awaits,
Yours perhaps, or maybe
Mine.

Take this bit of bread,
This sip of wine.

A WALK ON THE PATH OF DESTINY

I walk near the Rabbi Jesus,
Dwelling
In the hope of his words,
Knowing
And not knowing what will happen.

On the path,
The color of blood is on the wind,
Cold and darkening.

We hear stories of lashes and nails,
A groaning earth and
Clouds
Redder than wine, and
Yes,
Sometimes I am afraid, and
Think
To turn back.

HE IS

I see the Blood of the cross
In creatures lost,

Hearts torn, spirits
Trampled,
The childhood lullaby
Stilled.

He is.

And at the end he is
Beyond tears.

So it finishes,
And begins.

GOOD FRIDAY 2013

I weep for the blood of saints,
My tears staining the margins of books
Where wisdom lived
And died.

Sorrow is birthed in the print,
Newborn and red, but
Already old.

Ancient words,
You limp into dreams on
Weak limbs.

And still, the Cross drips wine,
There for the healing,
Though he thirsts.

A REFLECTION ON MARY AND PSALM 23

The Lord held out his hand, and together
We wept into
The Shadow of Death, a space dense and dark
Unknown
But to those who sorrow
Within.

Surely,
(His body red with blood),
She cradled him.

What mother wouldn't touch the jagged wounds,
Wipe
The pale sweat from his face,
Remove
The crown of thorns?

Words beyond words.
Did she see in him the resurrection
Of time?

A WALK ON THE PATH OF DESTINY

I walk near the Rabbi Jesus,
Dwelling
In the hope of his words,
Knowing
And not knowing what will happen.

On the path,
The color of blood is on the wind,
Cold and darkening.

We hear stories of lashes and nails,
A groaning earth and
Clouds
Redder than wine, and
Yes,
Sometimes I am afraid, and
Think
To turn back.

ANOTHER WILDERNESS

Consider the tale:  sweetness and sorrow.

What could go wrong
On a perfectly beautiful day?

Sunshine, how you betray!
Better a downpour, a shower of tears
For his crucifixion.

Surely
You were there
As his spirit drained away.

As for me,
I hid in the sanctuary, my
Face
Turned toward the Cross,
Watching
The white shroud
Darken
In gathering dust.

WALKING THE WALK

Time in the wilderness
Was time enough
To meet his demons, dream
His dreams,
See the path from now
Until ever.

Briars and thorns and
Words
To speak to his mother.

Though she knew he was different
From the others. After all,
She was his mom.

So for Jesus,
He was ready to walk the walk.

But here is a question:
In those days, present tense, was he
In the flesh (so to speak),

But yet
In the past, in spaces and places
Long Ago,
And is he happening now,
In the future?