Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Vincent Van Gogh On His 163rd Birthday



Above the heroin and the whores, the sex shops
and the Van Goghs,
we float high atop a Ferris wheel

on brilliant waves of pink, blue and neon orange;
and breathless 
we hover there, rising, but longing to descend.






Always the blade hovered over his head,
ominous and foreboding,
a shadow that changed the shape of things.
He saw apparitions in the corners of his mind.
In his sleep, he saw the faces of the dead.
There is money in nightmares and pornography 
but not in poetry.

The oldest woman in the world said
she once met Vincent van Gogh
and that he was disagreeable and drunk.
But why talk of that?
His work will not be forgotten.
We walk in a room and there he is, looking back 
at us, more like a ghost than a man.







Sunday, March 27, 2016

Mary Magdalene



Mary Magdalene stood at the tomb.
She had been visited by ghosts in the night
and longed to be free of their voices. 
She brought no flowers for the dead.
Her world was gray, buried beneath a shroud.

The earth began to shake and a flash of light
descended. A dazzling figure appeared,  
clothed in a garment of white.
The angel moved a boulder.
The guards fell to the ground. The cave was open.

The angel spoke: ‘Jesus is risen.’
Mary trembled, her heart shook.
As she hurried away from the tomb, Jesus appeared.
Mary embraced him.  
Jesus said: ‘Go and carry the news.’