I thought I’d share two poems I wrote quite awhile ago. The first one is 25 years old–I wrote it on the Easter my sister and I were stranded in Colby, Kansas, with a broken down truck that was in the shop over the Easter weekend. The second one is 20 years old–I wrote it during my first year in Fremont, California.
Easter Sunday
April 11, 1993
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.
***
Easter Poem
April 12, 1998
Lord, I wish your resurrection would give birth to joy;
But every year I feel as if I’ve missed you.
Every year I arrive to find you already gone,
so I flee from your blooming garden of death,
not understanding the paradox of life–your life;
not telling anyone of the terrific terror
that beats through my mortal veins.
And you are already off to Galilee!
