Easter Every Morning

Ask a linguist,
or a yogi,
and they will tell you
that the root of Easter 
is not in ease,
but in aurora,
a deceptively easy
daily miracle 
of quotidian splendor,
of transforming flames,
from which we hide,
behind our alarm clocks,
imagining how easy 
life would be
if we could simply 
stay here,
in our old
familiar
darkness.

I Am Not

My name was Simon—“listen” in Hebrew—
and so I did, but listened with my heart.
I heard the subtle voice of Truth within,
upon which rock I became Peter.
And on that rock, perhaps, I let myself
recline too easily, that when it shook,
when I was told I would not—could not—follow,
I fell instead. I could not hear the Truth,
but now only my own, my outer, voice
felling that church as if it were mere stone.
“Are you that man’s disciple?” I am not.
Three times, and with every repetition,
I undo myself. Another piece of rock,
of my reality, crumbles away,
as I hear myself declaring I am not
the only thing I ever truly was.
Three times denying, withering, and dying,
three times, before the crowing of the cock,
recalling His words, breaks into my despair
to save me from myself, and all I find
that’s left of me is tears. But now how long,
how long must I remain what I am not
before I hear again, and know, I am?
Three lifetimes, even, must be insufficient
to rebuild from nonexistence. And yet, Three days,
He said. Destroy this temple, and in three days
I will raise it up again. What temple?
What temple is there left to be restored
but that within my heart? Where are the stones
that I can gather, that I can give to show
that Builder that, yes, I am still Peter,
when—as He must—when—oh, at last!—He comes?

Heaven in a Handbasket

This ride is a ricochet of chaos—

the more we cling,
the more we’re battered,
scattered, scared and scarred—

the more we fight,
the more we’re fought,
and caught, caged and barred—

until we see the Man
behind the curtain grinning,
an empty tomb, the heavens starred—

oh, then we See! and all our cares repay us.

Palm Monday

Hoofprints,
tattered palm fronds
scattered about an empty street.

Am I late?
Did I miss anything?
Why are all these rocks humming?

Palm Sunday in the Time of Covid-19

“I tell you, if these hold their peace,
the very stones would immediately cry out.”
—Luke 19:40

Which Pharisees have rebuked us,
and whether we deserved it,
we may never know,
but we are holding our peace.
Some hold it gingerly, some lovingly,
as though we have never held it before,
or as though we always have.
Our peace teaches us how
it wants to be held.
And in that peace we find
the world whispering to us,
sweet seismological nothings
from the very bones of our planet,
no longer drowned out
by droning self-importance.
The birds rejoice in the spotlight
of our shared sun,
sea turtles bless the beaches
with their eggs and their trust,
and our Mother Earth,
as we don our masks,
slowly pulls her own aside,
beaming through the clearing air.
The song continues
though the singers change,
as together we await a savior,
await the day that our voices
will reunite in the new harmony
that our peace taught us
when we stopped to listen.

Sri Lanka, Easter Sunday, 2019

“Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up.”
—John, 2:19

His kingdom was
not of this world.
His temples stand
in our hearts’ potential
to love all of creation.
If any heart finds
its temple shattered
by fear or by hate,
it will be raised up again.
Whether it take
three days of a human life,
or three Days of Brahma,
all will someday be reborn
when finally they turn toward
the light and promise
of Resurrection Day.

Pontius Pilate

What is truth? I knew before today,
Before this man that I have sent to death
Appeared before me. I have no love for Jews,
Nor ever feared them. What had I to fear?
Or what to love? And still I do not know,
But now I find the question troubles me.
And this man, Jew despised by other Jews,
He had no fear of me, and as for love,
I cannot say, and as for truth, he claims
It as his birthright. And were he not in chains
I do not know who I myself would be.
Chained there he stands, as if before my mercy,
Acknowledging my power over him,
As granted from above, and yet I know
He means not Caesar. In his eyes, a kingdom
Further removed from here than I can see,
Beyond my spirit’s compass to perceive.
How can a man judge what he cannot know?
The only guilt I found in him was this:
He gave me leave to name the truth myself,
When I, for the first time, am caught uncertain,
This strange permission reaching farther into
Authority than I have ever dared.
What is truth? Little enough I see.
I knew him for a Jew, for they were Jews
Who brought him to me. I knew him for a king,
For who could not? But all else I disclaim.
And so I ruled, and so I wrote the words
My prisoner permitted me to choose,
Proclaiming and condemning by my hand.
Therefore what I have written, let it stand.

Easter Fools' Day

The situation, it seems, was misread,
but now all our darkness has fled,
for he saw our surprise,
and with twinkling eyes,
said “What? You all thought I was dead?”

A Good Friday Blessing

May your Fridays be good, and your Thursdays be holy,
Your ambitions high, and the speed bumps lowly.
May your Mondays come late and the Saturdays early,
With the time in between spent more or less purely.
May your Tuesdays ignite in you zeal and zest,
To push on through Wednesdays and all of the rest,
And then when it’s Sunday, I pray that you’ll find
Renewal of energy, heart, soul, and mind,
As He renews gladness, hope, and mankind.

A Good Friday Sijo

Darkness comes. To days, to men, to years, to Kings who are not kings.
But darkness is nothing without Light. It exists to be transcended.
The world holds its breath and waits: not yet, not today, but Yes.