PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

[after the poem, "Such A Dream," by owlcrkbrg]

The Galilaean dream reposes on a slab in that small cavern;

scourged, thorn-crowned, crucified, and dead---

on a hectic day, since at least dawn, of relentless rage.

A small group of mourners linger outside the entrance---

having witnessed the wrath of the Sanhedrin, and then Rome;

the frenzied fury that wrung the life out of this uncomplaining victim.

A few women, the dead man's mother and adolescent friend;

and Joseph, dissenting member of the council, and the

proprietor of this garden property---a man even Pilate respects.

Once we close him in there, the world can no longer

demand anything of him---miracles, feedings, encouragements,

comforting words that, briefly, withstood the chaotic welter

always storming around us in which we are all trapped without escape.

No one wants to die by crucifixion; no one wants to die at all.

We complain about the inconveniences of existence---

we hope even the stars can hear the cry of our misery,

although the sound of it cannot even break through a ceiling---

and then we shudder to think that death, our very own eventual death,

will wrest the life right out of us, no matter how we strenuously

we struggle to cling to it as it rises in value to us at the last moment.

That stone made an awful grinding sound as it rolled into its slotted groove.

The seal of Pontius Pilate, placed upon it with just the slighest ceremony,

brings the whole, sordid matter to its destined conclusion.

The other two, legs broken and dead, must still be taken down.

I think we can recycle the crossbeams; the uprights still have a

long use ahead of them, they have hardly been weathered at all.

That ridge commands such a fine view of the town---despite the worst

sort of prejudices that seem to spread from the High Priest's house.

We should hurry before the sunset overtakes us;

I would not want to open that can of worms, considering

the mood the centurion seems to be in, and they tell me

that Pilate, himself, is still edgy from this morning's agitation.

No end to the tasks of this busy afternoon, and that sun is hot;

but still, with the weekend ahead, a good Friday after all . . . .

Starward