If

 

 

You toss me watercolor daisies,

when my hands would conjure you a garden

of blazing bouquets, if you hint just the least.

For one minute, if you’d care at all.

 

You sing me listless tunes you’ve worn,

when my fingers would line out such symphonies

of sounds never heard, if you join just the least.

For one minute, if you’d sing along.

 

You press crumpled paper into my fist,

when my purse bursts seams wide with gold-full,

of riches never seen, if you’d open just the least.

For one minute, if you’d only let go.

Kyrie Eleison, Bartimeus’ Song

Bent underneath humanity,
huddled close behind darkened eyes…
palms open, empty.

‘Kyrie! …mercy for sinners.
Beg wholeness, wellness, while
Men take up stones, hurl words
One finger writes conviction into sand,
Accusations cease,
We go, sin no more.

If Kyrie! … dead men taunt ‘if’
Demand things withheld.
Reject the offering,
Press on insistent answers,
Who sinned?
Denying the least of these…

Kyrie! … mend  the broken
Hands and voices, lift them as a banner.
Over shame. Against defeat.
Shout all open hearts.
Quickly, before sight dims.
See here, little children, he bids us:
‘Come’.

Dancing Lepers

alone, helpless
motionless, silent
stone hearted
leprous and unclean
do not touch, taste, handle
deceitful words, lacking power

spit and dirt in blind eyes
reaching for heaven, or
the hem of a garment
yet unwashed in dirty water
priestly proclamations, only
do not touch, taste, handle
force of words, stealing life

We embrace him,
no, he touches us
a word delivered,
crucified, risen,
spoken and fulfilled,
‘It is good’ or
“It is finished’

either way…
we touch, kiss,
righteousness ours
weakness supplied
a filament of strength
dancing for joy.