Poet’s Page ~ April 2009

Even as the season of Lent continues, so I continue to share poems I have written about this special season. As I write this page, we are coming upon Palm Sunday, Good Friday, and Easter. The following poems speak to what these days mean to me.

Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday…
Such an ordinary name for such an extraordinary day.

Palm Sunday…
The day he made it plain that who he was,
was real
and not to be denied.

Palm Sunday…
The day he set into motion the wheel
that would carry him through
crucifixion… and beyond.

Palm Sunday…
Another day of being
alone in the middle of a crowd ~
surrounded and
surrendered.


Good Friday

This day is called “good” and yet it honors
events that are hard to understand.

This day remembers how he walked on,
as he faced what lay before him
and knew it for what it was.

This day remembers how he wept, but did not waver,
how he finished all that he had begun.

This day is about asking and agony,
this day is about mystery and the awful clarity
that is, in itself,
a light in the darkness.

This day is about love.


Easter

Childhood memories
of colored eggs and pretty bonnets
seem so far removed from what
the day was truly all about.

Songs of praise and adoration
come closer, perhaps, to the meaning
of that early first day of the week
with its empty tomb and scattered believers.

Perhaps if we are to catch a glimpse
of that long-ago morning in that faraway place,
and even touch its meaning,
we need only to look and see
the ways it changed
the world.

jbm

Poet’s Page ~ March 2009

Another season of Lent has begun… another time of preparation for the heartbreak of Good Friday and the wonder of Easter. For many of us these days are little more than rituals repeated each year. For some of us these days are almost like reliving something we remember from long ago. A few years ago I had the privilege of going to the Holy Land. Each place we visited was special in its own way, but the land was what spoke to me. Walking where Jesus walked was powerful beyond what I expected it to be. I have written poems about several of these places. The Mount of Olives was one of them.

Mount of Olives

Standing under timeless trees,
I gather a handful of olives,
fallen to the ground.

Scenes from ancient stories come to my mind.
With only a little imagination, I can see him
as he came to this place… alone,
away from the sight of the crowd,
to rest and pray.

Perhaps he heard the gentle breeze whisper
like the voice of the One he
worshipped, adored, obeyed.
Perhaps he leaned against a tree
and let its strength and ageless wisdom
seep into his bones.

Standing where he may have stood,
I feel myself touched by his spirit and
I am moved to weeping.

As tourists in that holy land,
we walked in many places declared by tradition
to be sites of gospel beginnings.
And as compelling as they often were,
none held the presence that this one held for me.

Standing under timeless trees,
I gather a handful of olives and put them in my pocket.

I have them still.

jbm