The Lord’s Last Passover
*
*
*
*
*
*
The LORD’s Last Passover….
(read for Blue Ridge Vineyard Church, Passover Sabbath, 2016)
Just a few days ago, we watched our dear Rabbi ride
with humble glory into dusty festive Jerusalem
upon a borrowed foal.
Oh, the noisy joy of the Passover crowds that day
as He entered the city the final time.
How the throngs hailed Him with palm fronds and psalms
of lusty Hosannas!—words now lost like goodbye kisses
on the fickle whispering wind.
Already the palms lie dried and withered,
trampled in the busy street.
For once, the power brokers of the High Temple
consorted with the murderous Roman Guard–
neither could tolerate a trouble-making god
walking the streets freely, teaching in the Temple,
inspiring women and men to be subjects
in an unseen kingdom, giving allegiance to a holy King.
So after the last supper with His disciples the Rabbi
was taken in the night, later stripped and beaten
with no mercy, cursed and spit on, thrown to the soldiers
and the rabble like a bloody bone.
The very ones who had hailed Him, watched them
nail Him to a tree, dropped into a hole
at the edge of the town garbage dump:
Golgotha it was called, place of the Skull
outside the city walls, where sea-gulls and crows
gathered and squawked, ravaging the trash.
Two common thieves hung there, dying with Him.
Those last hours, a cacophony of weeping and coarse laughter,
mocking and jeering rang in His ears—pathos tore the air
like spears and thorns tear tender flesh. Stray dogs barked
and fought, as blood of the God-Man dripped freely to the sand.
Vultures circled low, like shadows across the stormy sky,
knowing what was to come.
When a watching Father God could take no more,
at the ninth hour He shook the earth and tore the Temple veil
in two; the Angel of Death did not pass over His firstborn Son—
with His last breath the Rabbi cried out to the sky
with a voice so loud the heavens could hear: Tetelestai!
It is finished, the debt is canceled, paid in full!
And then the black clouds opened and received
His surrendered Spirit like a white homing dove,
a ray of pure Light, returned.
Twenty centuries after, we still gather to celebrate
that one beautiful risen Life.
And He is still calling us: to abide in His words
and His wounds, to follow
His bright shadow of holy Love daily, down,
each to his own personal cross, dying with Him there
that we might truly live, and be risen with Him at last
into the open and shining sky.
“Worthy is the Lamb, Who takes away the sin of the world!”
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, they shall be filled!”
*
*
–Quilla
*
*
Summer Evening Lament
*
*
*
*
Summer Evening Lament
In memory of David (“Joby”)
A dear one gone from us,
his spirit risen like a bird, flown.
Finally, heat and light go up—
the long day’s sun-baked stones.
Faintly, Navaho flute notes
float upward, into the pyre
of sunset clouds,
these lost threads of Pinon smoke
find deep shrouds of summer sky.
Our keen hearts hone, and listen:
just a slight dry breeze
stirs the tall grass stems,
the silent, summer-heavy leaves.
Cicadas keep that incessant wild
droning, some ancient yearning sorrow—
our quiet grief, screaming in the trees.
*
*
–Quilla
March Twelfth
*
*
*
*
Spring
These bright afternoon hours, brisk winds
sing the towering pines, shining furls
of bristling torn green silk.
Down worn dark hollows, the sparkling creek flows.
Old maples in new blossom, glow scarlet fires,
shimmering cold spring light.
Crow shadows cross windy spaces
—those harsh calls rasp
our wintered spirits like rusted files.
We fling wide the doors, raise windows,
welcome new finch songs, windy yellow light
fresh as cool sliced lemons
the brisk air stirs our cold ashes and dust:
old pages, and the must of old thoughts
scatters across the rooms.
–Quilla
March 28.13. . . .for Stephan
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
For Stephan
Last Easter, now a year ago,
the delicate threads of their marriage
already were unraveling…
he did not see.
Too intelligent, too critical
to need a humble God of Love—
he watched his dearest human love
break, and walk away. . . how bitterly he wept.
This Easter, a wiser broken man
he stands with other celebrants on empty sand
beside the sea at dawn, singing heartfelt
praises to the buried, risen Son
Slowly the night sky opens,
the ocean softly breaks.
*
*
*
*
*
*
–Quilla
March 16.13
*
*
*
*
*
A Soft Spring Evening in Latewinter
Hundreds of Robins settle, stepping about,
clucking, pulling earthworms from dead grass
among the tombstone shadows.
A thousand silk flowers rustle
warm March wind scented with smoke:
As always in early Spring, since before memory
farmers are burning the winter land again.
Time to put to smoke last year’s dead stems.
Grey ashes blow to the wind, fall to earth.
Now, new seeds will sprout, and grow.
*
*
–Quilla
*
Taking a break from a Movie. . .
. . . I walk out into the warm spring dark.
To the west the old Hunter—-Orion, and his dogs
Sirius and Procyon, go to their summer rest
in the branches of the black oak woods.
Overhead, the bright gold Shepherd Star
Arcturus, wanders the fields of April sky.
The low places ring jubilant frog music.
Life again breaks loose the bonds of ice,
of death, and sings! O praises, hear Life sing!
^
Tall birches sway the soft night breezes
rushing through young leaves, like soft waters,
like young girls laughing at our unsolved mysteries.
I leave all this—much more than I can see or hear
or know (much less, understand)—go back indoors.
How out of kilter, we humans are:
spending years of nights watching other humans
saying inane things upon a screen.
^
^
^
After Cold March Rains
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
After Cold March Rains
Saffron flames, wild Forsythia
breaking out everywhere, south-facing slopes.
Those tongues of yellow fire lick the long thorns
of blue ice, lingering like splinters
lodged in our hearts. Why else Spring?
^
Pale winter people carry their musty bags
of February books in and out
the stone library’s dark mouth.
Somehow, words carry light and flowers,
bread and night, secret fires live in them.
^
That old dogwood by the north door
knows. Her gnarled grey arms
hold a thousand invisible blooms—
little fists of snowy blood-stained flowers
wanting to open, unfold a bright mist,
give us soft crossed petals of healing light.
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^
^ ^ ^
What Can One Say?
What can one say—after all that’s gone, and come before this somber autumn day?
Sweet woodsmoke curls again above the frost. Fragrant scarves unfurl from the chimney
the warm feminine scent of shelter, of touch and cherished recollections—are these
all but lost?
^
Please say to me what one can say—when it seems the only birds left are crows, snarling beyond
the closed windows, harsh black caws in the oaks all day, that winter talk in the darkened woods.
When just a few tough leaves of summer linger, like closed scarlet hands, like claws of frozen blood?
^
What can one say—when what we fear is far too much to feel, much less, to talk about. But tell me
anyway: this time of year when we know that we are older, fragile and infirm, wandering further apart;
and a colder wind starts moaning again through the naked woods of each November heart?
^
What can one say—when gazing straight into the mouth of the storm-darkened North
through stripped birch trees, their thin, sere limbs shaking down the last gold leaves?
And silver balalaika tunes come quivering into our midnight rooms, weeping the agonies
of arguments and war, the tender vanquished joy of human love?
^
—Please tell me, while we’re waiting here with opened hands, another winter stalking down
the tundra sky with fear, the grey howls of hungry wolves tearing across the humbled land;
and we can’t help but see what’s been shattered, burned and damned, what can one truly say?
^
—Only this, but surely this with certain faith: out of the rubble, ravage, greed and death, the untold wastes:
One has risen, a Star at dawn among these fluttering candle flames, these broken reeds, redeeming what’s been
lost. His radiance is gleaming pure, above and beyond all time.
So find His beauty in His truth: a perfect Love that burns in the smoking fragments, the fleeting faces,
in all the moments that shine.
* * *
Ginkgo Leaves
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
Ginkgo Leaves
As we were leaving church late that Sunday morning
I saw a tall young Ginkgo tree by the warm brick wall,
the old building. Just unfolding pale new leaves–
scalloped and fluttering, dainty Chinese fans.
Like aspen leaves, rustling the mountain winds
of Sangre de Cristo, the mystic groves near Shao Lin.
Such tender, joyful energy, danced with children’s hands
the playful breeze, whispered lively words of praise.
I broke a sprig of the new leaves and placed them
on my tongue like a wafer, gently crushing them
between my teeth, the pungent essence: sweet
and bitter at once. The taste was Spring itself–
more ancient than stone, younger than rain, and light.
I like to think that such a tree was standing by the opened tomb
that first morning, quaking silver-green, shuddering joy.
If I grow old, I’ll still be reading the ancient Words, tasting them
yet again, listening to the mystery song of wisdom and love
whispering, like soft Spring leaves.
One morning, I’ll be wakened by a warm breeze from the far,
shining mountains of the King.
Walking slowly, joyfully into His light perhaps I’ll even dance
like Ginkgo leaves and children, a playful Spring south-wind.
I will be forever young.
* * *
Ruach 333, by Quilla 