Jesus Appears to the Disciples




doors locked,

they hold the air in stagnant stasis

an undivided stench of defeat

despite whispers to the contrary


suffocated by panic

fear’s fingers close over mouths

around hearts

constricting hope


despite the breath she struggles

to breathe in to familiar lives





no wonder one escapes

to walk his fear in streets that remind

of what was taken, done, destroyed


does he sit in an empty tomb

a vacated womb

where, only remaining,

a vacant shroud,

scented with possibilities

lays still discarded on stone.


he alone

to watch and wonder.

reminding him the One is born

no longer here

but gone





the room is broken

by the presence of defiance

as scars declare

a disregard

for death’s mistaken power


Peace be with you


probing fingers penetrating scars

to hold doubt at bay





they are still prisoners

in a way





the fear in the one who was absent,

but present to the world,

returns in wonder

a reminder

that for all they have touched

been given

they still have not risked

the light of the world.



Day 47, Luke 24.1-12: The Testimony of Witnesses

Hear my idle tale.

I do not care about your disbelief,

test it if you must,

but know his body is not claimed by dust.


Here there is emptiness

that is not bleak despairing.

Instead hear the whispers of angels

who defy reason

and shake the foundations

that once made you secure

like the door that sealed the dead.


The unmovable is displaced,

as the sand is imprinted with studded footprints.



The Pieta is an artistic representation of Mary holding the body of her dead son, Jesus. I named this poem, in one sense, wrongly because of that, but it always seemed the right title. This poem became the first in a trilogy of poems about Mary the other two are I Did Not Expect and Nativity/Pieta



eyes, once wise,

never aged in her gaze

her child upon the cross


a face, rough,

a thousand scratches to her touch,

her child upon the cross


the sword that pierced,

has pierced her soul,

her child upon the cross


the baby born,

a man before her shorn,

her child upon the cross


held, swaddled, not in bands,

but in a shroud from strangers hands,

her child upon the cross


and tears once celebrating,

now spill again lamenting,

her child upon the cross.


years have past, but not undone,

the mother holds her murdered son,

her child upon the cross



Day 44, Luke 22.39-46: Remember?

My poems are nearing the end of the story they needed to tell.

Maundy Thursday for me is always the day that is most saturated with emotion. 



The poet remembers



blossoming beads

sweat that bleeds

in salted pearls of desperation

seasoning earth’s anticipation.


Here the cup does not run over

with anything more

than soured wine.




Fervent silence

the only sound

that breaks the night

before the shouts,

the kiss.


The friends now fled.


This anamnesis will awaken

those who sleep at the dawn

of death’s sunset.



Day 43, Luke 21.37-22.6: Judas

Semblant disciple?

Take your tortured turn,

while denying past and present,

weary of hope that has not flourished in time.


What broken desire is it

that goes unfilled in a veiled torment?

A portent of the end that is arriving.


Who failed in this falling?

Was it better not to be born

as faith fractured and the heart tore?