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Monday, March 29, 2010

Holy Week Poetry--- Monday



Paul

“Bow-legged” “hawk-nose” “half-blind”

tears and snot trailing like a comet’s tail

on the short run home.

Was anyone there?

The patriarch’s scowl

like the freezer’s draft

unthawed by mother’s nod

or just chores and lessons

and the pain of being young and strange.


Sharp stones killed Stephen

but none from your hand.

Words were sharper, better aimed

opening wounds still bleeding

through pen, tongue

mixing strangely with

faith-hope-love.


Your vision blinded you.

Did you ever regain sight?

Others took up your story

offered interpretation

but you shout them down

through your large scrawl

turned scripture by some odd

alchemy. The occasional

morphed into eternity.

A specific scolding turned

bludgeoning tool,

for countless generations.


You are not entirely to blame.

You told your story

and the violent bore it away

praising your name amidst

condemnations of those

created in the image of a

broken and bleeding god

in whose shadow they cast lots

for a divided church.

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