Rite of Spring

Common Grackles rested

on the naked Maple canopy.

Like aneurysms waiting

to burst into flight

they bent the thinning branches.

 

They had every rite of spring.

Some of them loitered

through the winter

and saw their reflections on ice.

What freedom to stay.

 

Christ stayed on the tree

and burst unto death

and burst into flight.

 

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Death Eclipsed

There it hung,

like a jelly bean on a string.

It was lighter today

as it lay down.

 

The moon shadows fled

and death is translucent.

The Bright and Morning Star

rolled it away,

rolled it away.

 

 

“I, Jesus, have sent my angel to testify these things to you for the assemblies.

I am the root and the offspring of David; the Bright and Morning Star.”

Revelation 22:16

Cruci-fiction?

Would I touch the open wounds of Jesus

if he were to stand in the lonely places

of my heart?

Would I dare thrust my hand into his

side like a spear?

Would I gently place my fingers

in the palms of his hands?

There are places where crucifixion

wasn’t fiction at all.

The suffering of the cross cascaded

down through history,

it being the pinnacle of paradox.

The place where love and hate intersect.

So now we sometimes use innocent

suffering and death as a crucible

of the non-fiction Christ.

We read history books to numb any

existential wandering in our own

back yard.

There are crucified hearts laying,

one by one, without a beat,

hoping loosely for a resurrecting

touch, look, hug.

Will I look at the whole worlds suffering

and lose their own soul?

I don’t want Your death to be in vain

when there are opportunities to

touch the open wounds of those

near by.

>Jelly Beans

>

All the color.
All the flavor.
I started hiding them,
like my mother did every Easter.
On dusty ledges
high and low.
In tin cups.
Soap dish.
Picture frames.
Some of these little
smooth pebbles
lay in places to be
found during the next
major cleaning.
What would Jesus do
With these tiny gems?
Maybe He would hold
them in his palm and roll
them around and smile.
He might see all the color,
taste all the flavor.
He would think of you.
That yellow one is the sunshine
that rolls around your face.
That green one would be the
curving curiosity of your heart.
That white one would be
the stone you brought home
from Lake Michigan and put
under your pillow.
That marbled pink and red
one that imbued your
sensitivity and passion.
The blue sky that you
look up to every chance you
get lays rolling from rim to rim.
Each one passing over His
life line, moving, rolling
like a stone away from a tomb.
His lips purse, then relax 
a gentle smile.
GAB  Easter 2010