I wrote this one on Good Friday. It sorta set the tone for Easter for me. 🙂
Bright keyboards drive away the agony:
Although I’ve felt depressed for fourteen months,
I find some solace in a major key,
And simple chords restore my errant soul.
The darkness cannot be my only friend
Because it has no substance of its own.
The shadow can’t create; it imitates.
It stoops to flattery, the lowest art,
And cloaks itself in sweet superlatives.
Today, two thousand dreary years ago,
The linen house that held the shekinah,
Exhausted, found itself all torn to shreds.
The Tyrian-purple robe that Jesus wore
Was grasped by several greedy Latin hands;
It couldn’t stanch the blood of Golgotha.
Today, our sullen shirts are much the same:
They cannot catch the blood that fills the seas,
Or drown the widespread cries of rioters
Where people have more guns than they have bread,
Where human bones still glare by city walls.
Poor Brussels wails in keen, embittered grief,
And bright Ankara wears a mourning shawl.
These darkened days, our grief will grind us down
As pigeons cry before the flying leaves,
And sullen ice still masks the fallow ground.
Where is the hope that marks our sunlit days?
Where is the light and music that we seek?
It waits within a sleek Italian wine,
And crouches in the soft glissando notes;
It travels through two lovers’ soft embrace,
And echoes through the navy concert hall
Where beefy men still sit to play-guitar,
Describing all their sorrows in a lick,
And playing through twelve bars of every joy.
It’s Friday. Sunday comes, but not just yet.
We can’t yet see the green trees for our grief,
The dull despair that lengthens every road,
And makes a chore of pulling on our clogs
To walk for seven miles with our friends,
To break our sorry bread in simple feast,
To taste anew Isaiah’s promises
That we will drink the lees of jars of wine
Where every tree bears leaves of health and grace,
Where Keith Moon sits behind the manic kit,
Where Jimi sets his new guitar aflame.