I thought I’d share a few Easter poems I’ve written throughout the years.
***The first poem was in Colby, Kansas, in 1993. I was helping my sister move back to Illinois from Wyoming, and my truck continually was breaking down on the trip–we found ourselves stranded in Colby, Kansas over Easter.
Easter Sunday
While loved ones worship in wonder,
and give praise to the Reborn Man;
While the Emmaus Road shines in sunlight,
and the stone receives the tears from eyes
that receive the answer to the Mystery;
While the white strips of blood-stained cloth lay,
whiter than snow, on the cold stone;
While families now sing holy hymns
to the One who once was dead, now living…
I sit alone in my upper room,
with locked doors, and fear pulled down
like black shades on the windows.
And while I hear rumors that echo on the light air
of a Man communing with those who once forsook Him,
I stay in my room, waiting to be healed, waiting to see.
Sometimes, I hear of a great wind, a fire
that filled His Loved Ones just in the next room.
But no wind has blown on my face. . .
No fire has filled my soul. . .only my memory burns.
The memory of a closed tomb that has lead me here–
to lay in my own dark tomb, blinded by the dead of my life. (4.11.93)
***The next poem was written while I was at Regent College, around Easter of 1996.
The Branches of Zion
Tomorrow, the branches of Zion
will be thrown down in the dirt, and
the crowds will call out for deliverance
from an illusionary bondage.
But you will ride among them,
determined to be identified with an ass.
The streets will be filled with shouts and songs,
and thousands will praise you as a prophet.
. . .yet I simply want to hide.
To see you would mean salvation,
but not here. . .not like this. . .
I do not wish for my coat to get dirty. . .
I’d much prefer you to trample my frame.
Let me be trampled by your beast of burden.
No, I do not wish to see you tomorrow,
for I don’t understand a celebration like that.
…I wonder if you do either.
I do not live here in this city, in this Jerusalem,
I am a stranger and an alien here.
I look for acceptance in you. . .but not here
. . .not tomorrow. . .perhaps. . .
when the seven days are complete.
. . .perhaps only then will I find completeness
in the sorrow of death, your death, my death of you.
So excuse me if I cry while others sing.
Excuse me for hiding
while others go out to see you tomorrow.
I’m still waiting.
It seems like forever, but I’m still waiting. (Easter 1996)
***This final one was written in 2013, in the midst of my divorce. I wrote it in the form of an Orthodox prayer to the Theotokos (that’s Mary, for all you Protestants).
Most Holy Lady Theotokos
Most Holy Lady Theotokos,
Call upon your Son, the Carpenter God,
to construct a manger for me
so you can care for my infant soul
until my eyes can see.
Most Holy Lady Theotokos,
Call upon your Son, the Carpenter God,
to build an ark for my soul
so you can watch over me as I float
among the reeds in Egypt’s hole.
Most Holy Lady Theotokos,
Call upon your Son, the Carpenter God,
to craft for me a table and chairs
so you and he can dine with me
and nourish all my starving cares.
Most Holy Lady Theotokos,
Call upon your son, the Carpenter God,
to hoist a cross upon my hill
so you can weep over my nail-scarred feet
and pray for Mercy from God’s will.
Most Holy Lady Theotokos,
Call upon your son, the Stone-Cutter God,
to carve out a grave within my heart’s stone
so you can anoint me with oil and myrrh
and praise the One who resurrects my bones. (3.21.13)
