Good Friday
Maundy Thursday
Between the brown hands of a server-lad
The silver cross was offered to be kissed.
The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad,
And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced.
(And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.)
Then mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had,
(And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.)
Young children came, with eager lips and glad.
(These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.)
Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte.
Above the crucifix I bent my head:
The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead:
And yet I bowed, yea, kissed – my lips did cling.
(I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)
– Wilfred Owen
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Searching for Stonehenge and Paradise (In Honour of Holy Week)
TIME, TEMPTATION & TRUTH
Time will not deign requests,
least of all answer threats;
hand’s methodic, indifferent,
perpetually…… insistant,
to the impendings, portendings-
and ultimate endings,
we incur on ourselves,
then tossed on back shelves,
all the sins we have laid,
by Free Will’s sad parade.
And perhaps it’s not fair –
Time carries its air
with obstinate stare,
should ever you dare
to challenge Times hand
and its hourglass sand
by Destiny’s power
dictating ‘The Hour’
that be our last.
You must be agnostic,
or a Doctor of Space
who purges prognostics,
out the sides of your face –
to take on this question
of Time, Life and Lesson,
rebuke Heaven’s Gate,
from logics queer bait
that bookmarks your guile;
look at Abaddon smile.
Still we’re searching, searching,
where great men laid claims
’til Time syncronates
with Destiny’s game.
Poor us…..and in fact-
damn Us and our acts
that Time won’t tolerate
and won’t take back.
What to do, my friend?
Is there Time to repent?
Perhaps time we search
for some grail of soul re-birth,
some renewed ambience…
…………RENAISSANCE!
For the God-Gifts we take
for granted everyday,
and rarely take embrace,
’til Time drops its face
and hands on our shoulders.
– Frank James Ryan Jr
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The Eiffel Tower
Today marks the 126th year since the official opening of that icon of Paris and indeed France – the Eiffel Tower.
Hands held transfer visions
of sunsets on choppy seas in
Ireland; like glowing orbs
viewed brighter on cratered
moons in space.
Kisses placed on lips like
French music playing in Paris
while standing neath the Eiffel Tower;
triste never farther like
ancient ruins to distant pasts
that I can smile on presently.
Eyes of bright teal like every
sky I could imagine; changing
hues in foreign lands and salt
air that I can scarcely taste…
Feathered visions placed like
warm embraces and I’ll never
pine for anything more than
what you place
within my soul
– Jasmine Rayne
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The Morsel
Some more poetry in recognition and celebration of this most sacred week in the Christian calendar – Holy Week.
A piece of bread
torn from the loaf
Exists separately
no longer part of the whole.
It has a solitary purpose
complete in itself
not passed over
Held closely, protected
until the fullness of time
When it is dipped and released
at the final feast
Broken for one,
not for all
Given only to the intimate one
who must go quickly
To do what he must do.
When Satan’s treacherous leaven
had fully risen,
Judas Iscariot accepted
the chosen morsel
And went out into the night.
A piece of bread
torn from the loaf
Exists separately,
no longer part of the whole.
– Shelley A Soceka
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Sonnet Written In Holy Week At Genoa
I WANDERED in Scoglietto’s green retreat,
The oranges on each o’erhanging spray
Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
Made snow of all the blossoms, at my feet
Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:
And the curved waves that streaked the sapphire bay
Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.
Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,
“Jesus the Son of Mary has been slain,
O come and fill his sepulchre with flowers.”
Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours
Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,
The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers, and the Spear.
– Oscar Wilde
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Let’s Talk Cricket
I talk of cricket quite infrequently,
as most would be nonplussed and mystified:
to them it is a total mystery.
If I said, oh the bowler bowled a wide,
you’d smile, then shake your head and turn away,
or what if I said, caught on the on side?
A flipper or a chinaman I’d say,
while knowing that you didn’t have a clue,
as you would ask, bemused, well what are they?
The tail is wagging, will they see it through?
A common term when trying for a draw,
must seem like speaking double Dutch to you.
So now you’re stumped, you can’t take any more
and I’ve just hit you’re fastest ball for four !
– A Terza Rimma Sonnet, by Black Narcissus
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British Freedom
It is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood,’
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.-In every thing we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.
– William Wordsworth
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I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud (William Wordsworth)
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
– William Wordsworth
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Fridayitis
The doctors don’t know
Why the symptoms just grow
Especially towards the end of the week
But there’s just a strange feeling
Something rather appealing
A sensation that we all want to seek
We all need the weekend
To go out and to spend
Time or money. For yes what’s right is
That doctor’s it’s simple
Not a spot or a pimple
It’s just that we aall have Fridayitis!
– Adrian Dobson
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