POETRY

JOINT TOMBSTONE.

Standing along the water’s edge

I watched the sea perform its mime,

Knowing there will come

An age for you

An age for me,

When retrospect will allow us to be free

To wander back through memories,

And like the great man,

Measure our lives

By tides we did not see;

Because we could not stand

Forever on the shore,

Looking forward

Unsure.

 

We’ll have learned by then to turn

Our backs upon the beach.

No longer will we try to reach

Across waves of hopes that shimmered,

But were washed up.

And like seasonal deckchairs

We will fold away,

Our ageing wrinkles will not betray

The paths we’ll tread

Back through the days

That may be left,

Till thoughts decay

And limbs, but not love, are dead.

 

K.L.F.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

SATURDAY.

They’re back again.

Haven’t they had enough revenge?

A forest of old beards and older men,

Dark, creased countenances,

Every line an index of their minds.

They say they have worries.

As if I had none!

Portents, black skies, earthquakes,

Visions of trees with bloodied branches,

And in a quiet room I get no sleep…

Strangely uneasy about him.

There seemed more light from his face

Than these brooding masks

That should be triumphant with victory.

He’s dead isn’t he?

 

Yet they are back again.

And frightened too,

Of a dead man!

Cold, calculating, callous creatures,

Mumbling something about if the body is stolen

The last deception will be worse than the first.

Do they really think we Romans lack the skill?

Death we are good at;

Life is the tricky bit.

Strange, that they almost expect a miracle

But his followers are silent.

Bolted doors closet their expectations no doubt.

The cross kills more than men,

For when hope perishes our job is easier.

 

They talk of fraud.

Huh! Am I that stupid?

Coins in palms freed Barabbas,

Not love.

I could have freed the Nazarene,

But he didn’t speak,

As though his silence protected me

From being won over by his rhetoric.

And he, a great talker by all accounts.

Yet…. Those eyes,

Like the whole of history was there.

Twin lights, capable of attracting

And repelling.

I have often seen soldiers play the “kingly game”

But none did it suit more than he.

 

I grow tired of these beards before me.

Let them have their guard,

And me my peace.

The world will not remember me

As the man who let the Judeans revolt.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll sleep… late,

Though the light always wakes me.

Hmm… how do you stop the sun from rising?

Now that would be a miracle.

K.L.F.

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