Easter poems

In the quietness of Friday

we experience death

Not nice death

whereby Granny leaves all her jewels

to knowing grandkids

Nor heroic death

when facing all odds

the young resistance fighter

looks into the distance

and shouts

words that will always be remembered

Viva! Viva!

And not the carefully medicated death

where, machine switched off,

I float into oblivion

and don’t come back.

But holy death

which sets apart

the whole world as holy to God

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In the quietness of Sunday morning

coming to a place of death

we are surprised

to find there

only rags and stones.

Rags and stones.

Do my eyes deceive me?

Would there were

a voice there

to tell me

what to do and where to go.

So lost, uncertain

I can only leave

death’s place

and wander life’s garden.

It is only vaguely

(perhaps I’m wrong)

that I see that man over there

but I don’t know him

or understand his voice.

He speaks of something

that I don’t fathom well

a life that is new.

And I wonder what was wrong with the old life

But he speaks of this

New life

which sets apart

the whole world as holy to God

HEAR A POEMCAST OF THIS POEM HERE

if using this poem please acknowledghe authorship as Stephen Clark, Blackwood, South Ausdtralia 2006