poems

GOOD FRIDAY, 3 P.M.

                                        From noon on, darkness came over the whole land

                                        until three in the afternoon – Matthew 27:45

 

Global markets fizz, grocers restock amid plague,

jets ascend and bank, people rise and break –

just another day, as if nothing special

had happened that afternoon.

 

That afternoon over there, it was morning over here,

8 a.m. Central, the start of a work day.

The news moved at light speed, so maybe the light bent

and a breeze stirred, and groups of people looked up.

 

I visited there once. Enclosed in the famous massive church,

under the jagged roof, alongside cramped gratuitous corridors

was the hill itself, Calvary’s very stones,

the empty tomb too – all indoors now.

 

Posted was a sign in many languages explaining

how the skull of Adam waited deep underground

that Friday, directly below, and received

the trickling blood of crucifixion, which filled it just so.

 

At that, I needed some air. I was done

with talk of threads of blood flowing

unhindered through substrate and terminating

in the bone goblet of very Adam.

 

No, I’ll take this 2,000-year aftermath,

5,000 miles away. This harried moment,

that inescapable day, these winds

east and west holding it all together.

© copyright 2021 Ray Waddle

 

SUN-RISEN

Waking I walk the wet

green slope sun-risen to find

the trees listening, so I listen.

Easter spreads through town, 

confusing the violence

courteously, engulfing it.

 

What we still cling to’s a cadaver now –

the killing machine of religion,

the anvil of power, that old chieftain.

After so much disinformation

we’re still too dazed to move.

So homecoming rises to find us.

© copyright 2021 Ray Waddle