MY GOD, MY GOD (A Kyrielle)

Sheer loneliness, epitomized
In One so tortured, scorned, despised
When hanging there upon the tree
Cried “Why hast Thou forsaken Me?”

I loathe my sin that held Him there,
And offer up the sinner’s prayer.
Still, shaken, as I hear His plea,
“God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?”

I’ll not forget His sacrifice;
The blood He shed to pay the price;
Nor how He, when estranged from Thee;
Wailed, “Why hast Thou forsaken Me?”

Behold, this selfless, sinless Lamb
Dismissed the power of I AM.
He emptied Himself willingly,
and He has not forsaken me.

Marie Elena

Eternally grateful to my Redeemer.

Photo Source: http://www.pubsub.com/AM-Music-News-China-Snubs-Dylan-Beck-Hits-INXS-The-Thermals-Separate-Rolling-Stone-6HIlDYEzn7VS

THE BIGGEST PICTURE

From here I can see it all,

why can't they?

It was they that brought me here

to hang and suffer,

to act as their buffer

from here to the here after.

From here I can see it all.

From here I can see my friends cower

they lower their eyes

and despise all who do me harm,

something warm flows into mine.

Blood as a testament,

an unrelenting reminder from my Father,

I search to find her. My Mother,

from here I can see her,

sad and heart-broken and salvation

is one small token in response.

My brother John beside her,

comforting and consoling,

extolling praises on Him who had sent me.

She is his now. Here is your Mother.

From here I can see the soldiers and rabble

gambling over my cloak and robe,

no compassion is theirs, but they are still heirs

to this sacrifice in which they are complicit.

They proffer their rancid vinegar

to quench my thirst. I offer my blood

the flowing water of eternal love.

From here I can see the elders and supposed

people of wisdom and scripture

witnesses to my demise. Forgiveness I offer

for their ignorance. Hypocrites all.

Their stature falls with every second

I am aloft. Their stance does not soften

but they will be haunted often by this.

From here I can see the criminals who

suffer the same fate, it is too late for them.

One does not feel remorse and his course is clear.

The other will share a paradise straight from here.

I will assure you he will. And still

my blood will cleanse him as well.

It is hard to tell who deserved this fate more.

From here I can see the skies darken.

I harken to my Father, "Eli, Eli"

but his will I do. Thunder rumbles and

the rain tumbles from these black cloud.

I cry out loud as I am near death.

They see me as a man hanging from a tree,

but from here, I can see the big picture.

Walt

HAIKU

cradling tenderly
a cherished friend’s aching heart
in hands that can’t hold

Marie Elena


My friend, I'm at a loss. I did not make it to FB, PA, or Across the Lake yesterday. On FB this morning, I saw that many of the dear souls at PA were posting words of comfort on your wall. I visited PA to see what was happening.

There is nothing harder than watching in vain as your child struggles with pain that is unfair, out of your control, and inconsolable. My heart is with you and your wife, Andrea, and the family of this lost soul. May he be at rest now in the arms of Jesus.

Your heart is aching for your sweet Andrea, her classmate, lost family, and lost love … it is too much. God give you strength and comfort, Walt. And may He remind me throughout today to hold you all in prayer.

INGLORIOUS BASTARD

I know you; we've met
in the darkened shadows,
where you cower, and reign

your power and terror upon
the ones I love; or have loved.
A black fisted glove clenched in victory.

A thief in the night,
strikes as horribly in mid-afternoon,
or April Sunday mornings, without warning;

a plague most verulent. Never repentant,
nor indiscriminant, an ignorant disease
bringing to their knees, all hopes and futures planned.

Your wish and command stands defiant,
and reliant on the grief and sorrow of those
that will someday follow, by your "hand" or

some other insidious grip. No radiance
or chemical drip can clip your wings for long;
your grasp is strong. Buying time, but never enough.

Many things left to say, but tough!
As lives in the balance dangle to mangle
and devastate; a wicked fate. A silent coma,

from this carcinoma. The victor.
Life's restrictor. Never paints a flattering picture.
Inglorious bastard.


Walt

A SPARK OF MEMORY

She lays confused, lonely, cold
in a world where warmth was never
her strongest point. But she waits

unknowingly for the synapse to fire
a brief link to past thoughts;
sparks of memory to catch and ignite

the life she has lived. It gives
her as sense of self that lasts
sometimes for the blink of her eye.

She cries at the futility.
Tears, the utility of every broken heart
start to stream, teeming within red and tired eyes,

a life as seen through her vision
sits in contrast to her existence.
Days numbered and passing unnoticed.

She sees her young neice as an old friend
from a neighborhood that had died years ago.
A photo of the girl's father, her brother,

sparks a smile with the recognition.
Then her condition takes control and
her stroll down memory lane ends.

Each day starts and ends in darkness.
Every moment in between holds
a murkiness of its own. Aunt Jane lingers.

Fingers curled and fisted, clutching
prayer beads, or maybe the last moments of life.
Her memory fades and she does not remember.


Prelude to:

"She Does Not Remember" by Anna Swirszczynska

Walt

THE DEVIL RESIDES

Here in the details, a demon lurks.
Recollections and distractions;
interactions of our lives.
I wear you like your comfortable coat,
which I had spirited away from the home
in which we lived; now abandoned.
Its warmth still soothes an aching soul,
and no one knows. No one knows.
Your hat, a cap really, shields my eyes,
the brilliance of daylight you cannot
see, belongs only to me. Your vision
lives in my vision; your bloodline secure.
It was no disgrace that you had succumbed
to the most vile of venom; your riddled body
ravaged and recoiled, spoiled for your function.
Your anger and denial fought weakly,
and your resolve held gently to the slender
thread, instead of giving up the ghost
to live in that shroud ever-so-briefly.
Then, your voice was silenced, a wretched
cacophony that shouted through your vacant stare.
And I was there, suspending my own life to share
every last second of your diminished existence.
In the distance you heard her calling,
and I was stalling for one last word of love between
estranged father and son. One last word; maybe “sorry”?
It haunts me, your memory and all that had burned
itself into my soul. There is no mending that could
placate this pain. Again I search through something
of yours to try to repair you to prominence. But,
the predominance of your paternity will remain
for an eternity, ever buried deeply in my memories.


In response to:


“Try to Remember Some Details” by Yehuda Amichai


Walt

ONE GOOD TURN

The milk of human kindness pours
freely; clearly. Nearly everyone
aspires to a higher calling,
but ends up falling flat on their
best intentions. Conventional wisdom
is a conscienable nudge to action.
But, only a fraction of the folk
respond. It is beyond comprehension,
not to mention beyond reason.
Those who want stand in legion
pleading, needing to just sustain;
a respite from the torrential rain
life pours down. Sounds simple,
but pride becomes the pimple
that blemishes the clear complexion
of a complex humanity. Such insanity
is treated in a fashion, a mix
of compassion and ignorance. And all
that is required is an effort,
a sort of determination to improve
the station of those who had lost their way.
Do it because you want to; do it
because you can. Take a stand;
you'll be better for it. Don't ignore it,
we're all deserving of one good turn.


Walt