No Rest for the Blessèd

zombies
Zombies by podagrog

 

No Rest for the Blessèd

“And, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent; And the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose, And came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many.”
Matthew, chapter  27, verses 51-53

And the very earth shook beneath us,
And the sky came dark and the veil of the temple was rent;
As the Son at last came to leave us,
So the tombs where slept the saints were breached as He went.
And there they sat, arisen yet still,
Since so long dead, they patiently waited
For a night and a day and a night until
On Sunday morn, they arrived belated.
     Zombies on the loose, they come !
Zombies in Jerusalum !

And yet not a word was spoken,
As He was interred by Joseph of Arimathea,
Of other tombs that were broken –
For surely he witnessed the quaking’s rough aftermath here ?
For there they sat, arisen yet still,
Awaiting the one who had yet to be buried;
So lay Him within the sepulchre’s chill
And roll up the stone, his soul long ferried.
     Zombies yet procrastinate,
     Zombies lurk and zombies wait.

And still not a word was spoken
By the Marys on Sunday making their way to His tomb,
As they passed all the saints newly woken,
As another earth-tremor gave sanction to auto-exhume.
No more they sat – unprisoned, unstill:
Now great was their stagg’ring and groaning as any;
As stumbling and jerking, they lurched down the hill
To Jerusalem, to the marvel of many.
     Zombies, rotten of complexion !
Zombies join the Resurrection !

And never more a word was spoken
By the Twelve at the Pentecost, only a few weeks on –
When their voices were no longer choken,
But gabbled in tongues – yet not asking where the dead had all gone.
Where now they sat ?  Or risen they still ?
Where went their mission, so silent of news ?
What is the purpose they mean to fulfil ?
Is this what is meant by Wandering Jews ?
     Zombies, born again through Christ !
Zombies, torn from Paradise !

And still not a word is spoken,
And the puzzling verse is never read out in church.
No statue or stained glass token
Celebrate animate saints as they stumble and lurch.
And those who are sit in the pews quite still
And pretend that the verse is a metaphor or test –
I guess they haven’t the need or the will
To admit to themselves that it might be a jest.
     Zombies, clinging to their mask,
Zombies, too afraid to ask.

 

 

Good Friday, Better Saturday

jesus christ crucifixion
Photo by Alem Sánchez on Pexels.com

 

Good Friday, Better Saturday

Jesus ?  My word !  Oh my lord, it’s the boss…
I never expected to see you today –
Except perhaps hanging out up on your cross…
It’s funny, but when as a kid we would pray,
And Reverend Thomas instructed our eyes
To always be tight and respectfully shut,
I’d sneak them half-open and squint at your thighs,
Expecting you’d come down a moment and strut.
With no-one to see, would you take up the chance
To get down to stretch, and to smoke, and to dance ?
The words of the prayer were quite lost to my trance,
But you never showed even the hint you’re alive.
You hung just the same when we sipped on your blood,
And you looked down as glum when we learned of the Flood,
And seemed as remote when our prayer-books would thud,
And we mumbled or massacred hymn forty-five.

But anyway, never mind my reminiscence,
How long must it be since you came round my way ?
Somehow you faded in slow evanescence,
Your black and white certainties merging to grey.
And Reverend Thomas was no help explaining
The problem of evil or problem of gays,
Till finally, even my lifelong ingraining
Could not keep the wonder or stem the malaise.
But reading the papers, there’s plenty of good news:
From leprosy vaccines to movies and blues,
And juries and voting, and self-tapping screws –
Abandoned, alone, we learned how to be great.
I waited and waited back there in your church
For some word or some action to come from your perch,
But unheard my questions, and unseen my search.
Till now, when I find you, I find you too late.

 

 

April Smarts

bloom blossom branch flora
Photo by Tabitha Mort on Pexels.com

 

April Smarts

We sense the sun is on the scout,
With Winter nothing but a pout,
And Spring a whisper to a shout,
And mornings quite the charm.

But hold, before we’re dashing out
And leaving coats to hang about,
For dressing down, not dressing stout,
Could lead us into harm.

I know the sun is warm today,
But sneaky Spring has form, they say –
He loves to send a storm our way !
Yet no cause for alarm…

Just run your mornings by the book
And take your coat down off the hook,
To lodge it safely in the crook
Of a shirt-and-cardy arm.

 

 

Moveable Feast

cactus
Hatiora gaertneri by Peter Coxhead

 

Moveable Feast

My poor, befuddled Easter cactus:
Sometimes early, sometimes late,
But never can it bloom in practice
On the actual Easter date.
We set a day for April Fools,
We set a day to change our clocks
But Easter follows loony rules:
The first full moon from Equinox.

Early April’s worth a shout,
I reckon, for a stable day:
It’s warm enough for going out,
And far enough from busy May.
But all this shifty, ancient mess
With sense as empty as the tomb,
Is why my cactus cannot guess
The week in which to bloom.

 

 

April Howlers

papers
Newspapers by Ol.v!er [H2vPk]

April Howlers

“ROYAL PRINCE TO JOIN THE SCOUTS”
The 48-point headline shouts.
“LANDLORD CLAIMS HIS PUB IS CURSED”
It must be April First.

“SOAP STAR’S THREE-WAY LOVE-NEST ROMP”
“COUNCIL RUMPUS OVER SWAMP”
“iPHONE MADE APPENDIX BURST”
It must be April First.

“MP’S SON HAS NIGHT ON TOWN”
“CANCER RISK FROM SITTING DOWN”
“BACK-TO-BACKS TO BE REVERSED”
It must be April First.

“LEFTIES BAN ALL KNOCK-KNOCK JOKES”
“ROCK STARS CLAIM THEY’RE AVERAGE BLOKES”
“GOALIE SEES THE GHOST OF HURST”
It must be April First.

“VICIOUS LIES TO REAP AND SOW”
“NOTHING HERE YOU NEED TO KNOW”
“WE CONFESS ALL: WE’RE THE WORST”
Now that would be a first !

“JOBLESS SCROUNGERS PREY ON FOLKS”
“GLOBAL WARMING: JUST A HOAX”
“IMMIGRANTS MUST BE DISPERSED”
Please make it April First !

 

 

Bashful Bulbs

white petaled flower
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Bashful Bulbs

Snowdrops, pale and shy and still,
As if they’re afraid to face the bracing breeze.
Downcast propellers, silent in the chill,
So loathe to disturb the hush beneath the trees.
Always huddled together in their crowds
With the neck of a swan and the wimple of a nun;
Tensed to bare the worst from the clouds,
And wilting away in the first warmth of the sun.

 

 

The Second Week of January

 

17095178280_513b4aa99b_k
A Sad Ending by Rasputina2

 

The Second Week of January

Christmas is done with,
The New Year is come,
The feasting is over,
The outlook is glum,
Our work is resumed
And the weather is cold,
So uproot the glitter
And out with the old.

They’re sprouting on pavements
And swarming on greens,
They loiter on verges
Like unruly teens,
They cluster round dustbins
And litter our lanes:
Straggly and soggy,
These sorry remains.

They served us so proudly
A fortnight ago,
They warmed up the winter
And gave us a glow.
But now they are cast out
With scant a goodbye –
Destitute, homeless,
And waiting to die

The council is working
To round up the strays
And shred them to chippings
For Agas to blaze,
Or sit beneath see-saws,
Or borders to don.
By Twelve Night they’re coming,
By Burns Night, they’re gone.