The wind is break dancing with the trees.
beating a rapper’s song.
Limbs flail on the tarmac.
Rain flies like sweat from corn rows
across the expanse of asphalt.
A barrage precipitates
against the window pane
with the rata-tat-tat
of a machine gun’s bullets
as the front passes.
Judas betrayed Jesus’s whereabouts
End, was near
Son of God, knew this
Universe of the Son of the Divine Father, restored
Sins of man forgiven, Prince of our Universal domain, alive in the hearts of his children
in the basket of the mind,
like easter eggs on sunday grass,
pastel hands for slowing time.
A misty- trusting face,
just beyond the frosted glass
a spirit mare with feiry mane
that licked the heart with lips aflame
your naive face...into the frosted glass of
Good times coddled a lavender star
within a blackened space,
in place of friendly smiles without names...
they taught you the art of
forging then forgetting scars
with a silly smile,
turned a room of bitter spirits into angels
and blueberry wine...
slowly sliced their lives away.
The golden armed drummer drums the songs of dream,
ice cream trucks and noon church bells
flow into the soul like rose petals on the wind...
strumming songs of love and hatred
like streams of bile and gilded rosary...
Everything is gone now,
the flesh-the bone the bitter laughs
the metal of youth churned into the thinning cloth of age.
Things meant to live and breathe,
will give the soul to the silversmith,
who forges life into shimmering dreams.
Earths people, it is time to wake up, the ‘Prince’ is alive!
Ascension available, access through your heart
Seek and you shall find!
Time is short, personally unite, connect as one
Rise to the occasion, celebrate the gift of life, bond, with ‘our lord Jesus’ and ‘our Universal Father in heaven, building a bridge, experiencing kinship, between human and spirit
***Happy Easter Everyone***
The True Meaning of Easter
The true meaning of
the Easter story,
Is God’s Son came down
to Earth from glory.
Jesus really does
love you and me.
He was born to die
that you might be free.
For 33 years, he lived
among sinful men.
Then one day was to be
an atonement for our sin.
He who was born of the
virgin Mary’s womb.
Was to one day rise again
from an empty tomb.
So many people have
gotten into a habit,
of replacing Jesus
with the bunny rabbit.
So please reach out to others
and let them know,
Of the lover and redeemer
of their soul.
The true meaning of Easter
must forever be said.
Of God’s son who died,
but arose from the dead!
By Jim Pemberton
I hear the Bells, I hear the Bells
At morning, noon and night each day
They are a reminder of the time
A reminder of past days.
And I think to myself over the years
How many others have used them as I do
to also keep the time
To remember things as I do.
A time to worship, a time to eat
A time to marry, a time to meet
A time to put loved ones in the the ground
A time to let them take their leave.
These bells have many voices
Some happy and some filled with grief.
They resonate with me and in me always
I can still hear some of them in my sleep.
I can still hear the Bells of Christmas morn
Little children's faces filled with glee
I can still hear the Bells of Easter morn
Christ's resurrection paid our fees.
I can hear their sounds for when my children were born
A proud parent of a new family
A family that had numbered two
But was now happily three.
I can hear the Bells of Sunday worship
Ringing every Sunday morn
Celebrating God's awesome forgiveness
Celebrating the day that his son was born.
I can hear the Bells from loved one's funerals
As we lay their bodies to rest
Never ever wanting to say earthly goodbyes
Just trying to live through the sad day and do our best.
These bells are part of my daily life
They always have been and will continue to be
The Heralds of life's brief ticking clock
Unlike life, they will always continue to ring and to be.
I will use them to mark my moments
Both significant and mundane.
I will use them to always remember
To love my God and my church in every way.
I will use them to remember my family
I will use them to remember those friends I love
To be grateful for each of my children
To be grateful for just having had been.
I will use them to be grateful for all of the things in my life
To be grateful for all of those I love
To be grateful for each of my earthly days
To be grateful for the heavens above.
(December 30, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
It's been seven years, I almost forgot-
not this day: but the distance we've climbed.
I couldn't remember my age, because it correlates
to years we've been apart.
I forgot to be apprehensive, this time it was sneaky.
It waited for the first happy holiday wishing
from some idiot to remind me.
It was Good Friday.
When God took your spirit home
and left me dying to know,
how to love him for his sacrifice
when he asked me to give up you?
How do I heal this death and rise with you in his arms?
I blasphemy, I know, but you loved him more
in sight of you that graceful place grows
pale in and foreign in mine eye.
Alas, I fail the test, I could not be as strong as you.
We knew it would not wait, but the parting was still to fast.
I sat in thought three days before your sleep and asked,
"In three days time my savior died, I wonder hence
what of my soul will rise with his?"
And sitting easter morning,
holding some idiots well wished basket,
I realised Three days passed.
He took you home and left me lost on Friday morn,
I wailed my loss through Saturdays more,
and Easter morning I felt your last hug, your kiss good bye.
I cursed my self for asking, if my soul would rise with his,
because you, my love, are my soul and all ready there
there fore I am not strong enough to give this pain up
to honor his sacrifice and transcend, I sit still lost and wonder:
I believe and I love, but I don't know how to rise
I don't now how to live again.
Faith crushed I don't think I can trust.
I am the shell of your grace trying once more
to live in the love that failed me, as I failed the gift of his sacrifice.
I do not know?
Do You Believe In Easter?
Not colored eggs and treats.
But a crown of thorns on Jesus head.
Nails in His hands and feet.
Do You Believe In Easter?
Not Mardi Gras or ashes.
But Jesus who was crucified
And scourged with many lashes.
Do You Believe In Easter?
Not Peter Cotton Tail.
But Jesus Christ our Saviour
Who saved our souls from hell.
Do You Believe In Easter?
Not really knowing why.
Now you know the old old story.
Believe and receive everlasting life..
AS my chest gets pumped by the rescue team
I see my soul slowly hover over the scene
my life begins to flash I see me in my youth
stealing candy out the store in my Easter suit
I used to skip Sunday school and the bible lessons
but those vital lesson could have saved my adolescents
my mom stressing I was completely outrageous
my education wasn't between the text pages
was so impatient these streets fed what I was craving
It left mom weeping and waiting praying and pacing
with total dedication she would sacrifice
I'm out the back with hoodlums in the night
involved with all types of things that won't right
and moms used to gripe about what did each night
but Im in my zone
as a matter of fact I'm gone
leaving mom up waiting for praying for her son to come home
I wear the crown of hatred
misunderstanding and despair upon my hair
upon my back a wooden cross I bare
I know not why I’m hated so
all the people seemed to love me just a week ago
my skin is cut from head to toe
from whips of leather by men who wish to see me die
I spoke the truth for all the people to understand
my words of truth where words to set man free
from degradation hate and hell to live in harmony
for the rest of history
I cured the sick and healed the blind
with the touch of my own hand
I’ve walked on water and walked on sand
to preach and bring my truth through out the land
people came from all around
and would sit for hours upon the ground
I once had twelve good men who followed me around
now there’s only eleven one man let me down
my words have been mistaken
my God he has forsaken
for that my life they’re taken
I believe that I have failed
as my hands and feet are nailed upon this wooden cross
as they raise me in the air
all their sins I know I must bare
I want to scream not fair not fair
I’m just a young man I only wanted to teach
there are so many more people that I wanted to reach
my age is only thirty three
I pray my God
that they the people will remember me
written by Dennis H. Davis
This poem was written from the human aspect of Jesus Christ. I wrote this poem with no effort what so ever it was as though it was being told to me. I watched my hand move across the page with a purpose a message I believe Jesus wanted this poem written.
I do not know?
those that have gone,
to billowy sky, to Jesus side.
Spring is born.
Easter eggs, found.
NEXT STOP : DUBLIN
Glad to leave the stonefaced Russian labyrinth of passports small
And stamped documents for every footfall
A bureaucrat’s wet dream - checking each other’s bureaucracies
No walking on grass, no stepping over invisible fences,
No original thinking, no whistling indoors please.
Engines start to turn and whistle and whine
Soon be back in old school for a while, unmissed, decadent
Teachers like old Rogers, often boozed-up in class, or that arrogant *
Upstart McCabe, getting high on his minority skills, his sacred Irish language.
( Mustn’t say Irish, say Gaeilge.) Important to an ant or midge.
I have met them at close of day, coming with vivid faces **
Flushed with the triumph of outdated, set-in-stone values
Elation gets them higher than smoky inhalation
Their dreamland is a small island, a Gaeilge nation.
I dream of stepping from frying pan to fire
And life begins to seem a hoax
And tiny ants seem large as folks
Their fragile egos higher float with every puff
Tiny magic dragons never seem to get enough
And from their caves they need a coax
East is east, and west is best - but in the final analysis
Maybe not enough in either one to miss
And the caves are filled with fragile ants
Afraid to be seen with ants in their pants.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
*These are of course fictitious names.
**This is the opening line from W. B. Yeats’ poem EASTER 1916.
Yeats is probably one of the 20th century’s finest poets in the English language.
“Grandpa”, “ Will you go to church
with us tomorrow?” She sweetly asked.
“Oh, uh, me? Oh, no, I never go to church.”
“But it’s Easter Sunday”, she prompted.
“You know, I probably shouldn’t be
eating this much spaghetti. Pass me
some bread, will you?” He said.
How many Easter Sundays
Have passed by this man
It saddens me so
Not so much to have missed
An Easter Sunday at church
But to have missed out on
A lifetime of peace
Existing without God’s presence
To pass each day
Rejecting his love
My heart cries out for him
And for the many others
Who still remain blinded
By their own pride
Deceived by the evil one
But I refuse to give up
I will not end my prayers here
For as long as there is breath
I will pray
Hopeful, believing that
One day soon
He too will choose
To be free
But knowing that it is
His choice alone
Keeps me on my knees
Christmas is of Santa Claus;
On Easter the rabbit lays an egg.
God is kept locked in a box;
In the basement of a yegg.
Freedom sits tied up in a yard;
Over grown by grass;
Only let off from the rope;
When agreed to by the mass.
Power of the people;
Hides behind a closet door;
Along with other memories,;
Of life that is no more.
Tranquility is lost to us;
We sold it in the end;
To the highest bidder;
For cash that we could spend.
Unity appears to be;
Covered up by structures;
We've built up all around.
America the beautiful;
The profiteers delight;
It is all for sale;
We're open day or night.
I do not know?
Class assignment: Read only the first verse of Easter 1916 by Yeats, then write a continuation (without looking up the original).
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
I wandered a while, bereft of thought
Through the spaces and crowds,
In all that passed around me naught
But a single whispering voice.
“Where are you walking toward?”
The windless mist grew heavy;
Within the smiling, striding horde
I smiled, directionless.
The sun was set, and in its wake
Stand wandering shadows, transfixed
I could see only what I could make
Of guts spilled on trampled bricks.
“Oh, where are you going?” I asked
From the mist there was no answer.
No time, then, to mourn what is past
A terrible beauty is born.
I do not know?
Woke up from a dream in which I had been the target of abuse. The image of him
crouching at my lovers door, wanting him more than he wanted me punished my
whole being all day. In the dream we were caught but the larger horror was that
the act betrayed everyone but him. I longed to get out of that dream and to feel the
pain fade away. It didn't fade all day.
I'm never alone these days. I live on my own and I walk on my own from the
house to the shops or the webcafe, but i'm never really alone. It's like an
appreciation of something else happening inside me or slightly behind my faded
eyes. When when I am naked I am wrapped up in it and it gets harder and harder
to breath through it. On the television someone is bleeding inbetween sex. We
are all tubes. Now they are crying after the sex with the blood on their hands and
lips. My blood is inside me, watery and thin and longing to be warmer.
I spoke to him on the phone just to see if he was alive. He starts every call I make
to him by breathing as if he hasn't opened his mouth or his nose all day. Aware
that I don't have to call, he perks up knowing that I have, but reminds me with his
lack of words and his sipping that the only person who could pick up the phone
to answer my call is him. I wanted to tell him about the dream, maybe to seek
forgiveness for my inside-self stopping his abuse by allowing my own. I wanted
to explain about the ghosts I'd chased and the horrible image of the crouching
man, old skin hanging off rubbed elbows. Instead we talked about tobbacco and
other passing things. I'll call him again later just to check that he's asleep.
The person on the television has the body I used to have. He reminds me of the
fullness I used to feel when I ate and the intensity of feeling I used to be capable
of. All day I have wondered about the value and reality of those feelings. We have
all been born to die, to pass through things and pass away. We are all walking
eggs, unfertilised and incapable of change. I want to reach out and interrupt the
man walking on television and caress his youth and tell him things. He's
smoking and i'm smoking and both of us are acting, one reflecting the other.
Easter Sunday when things were unborn and shells were walked upon deftly.
Isn't it funny that the more complex things become, the less we talk and the more
The neighbours plodded and stomped loudly, either unaware or too aware of the
necessity of night time.
A dash of wood varnish
A coat of wood polish
An Easter red bonnet
We shall be
Like unvarnished wood
Blessed by the carpenters hands
Then, he shall smooth out the rough edges