There was a world, displaced from its axis by repeated tragedies of its own making, as the inhabitants attempt to grasp the credit for it's own creating.
An entire macrocosm misaligned by
embezzling clutches and throning lusts.
Who's history is marked by a needless taking,
and just in case, a pious faking
to appease a possible divinity
as either a patsy or a machine. There was a world, decomposing in it's own folly. Spinning itself dizzy flailing after impervious redemption. And inside that world there was a
people displaced from its milk and
honey by a ruling superpower. As the globalising tar of Rome spread to paint the Empire one
culture, this people had been waiting. Listening in silence for the reason of their plight, Waiting for the sword of a
rallying leader to severe their shackles, and the throats of the
chain-bearers, alike. Waiting with the same attitude that inspired the
silence, a misunderstanding of what it
is to be chosen. For the planned restitution
exceeds one people. They…
'Two others also, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him.'
Calendar's rhythm thuds. The kick drum rattles your rib cage As collective memories and communal routines Plume like dust from that undulating skin. .....You must wrap gifts in superfluous paper, .....That's tradition. .....Yet repeating acts to underline thankfulness, .....That's superstition. Calendar's rhythm thuds And we bellow through that dust cloud, Clearing our throats and averting our eyes. THUD For the drum announces the sales THUD The rhythm is the anthem of vacation gifts. So discard the old and ugly, To find the beauty, To spend and to own.
'They came to the place that is calledThe Skull' Excited skin bristles. Chill shivers the spine in want For purpose and ergonomics dim in contrast To the lights, and the efficacious movement of the crowd. .....So much spectacle, .....All these plate glass doors, .....Are diamond pimples covering the .....Universal symbol of death. Excited skin bri…
by the displaced I
will work tirelessly To
renounce my citizenship. My
silhouette in this system Is
cast by the shadow of my ego, The
me that belongs was made for death And I
will no longer conform to its will.
With everything that happened in 2016, the question of national identity and citizenship is a hot topic. This poem is named after the book by Stanley Hauerwas and William H. Willimon which discusses the nature of the church and its relationships to the cultures it exists within. Christians are not supposed to be citizens belonging to the cultures of this world, but Resident Aliens, living uncomfortably within yet with our identity firmly planted in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. At a time when the world has more displaced people than ever on record, most of us in our comfortable western lives, will be encountering 'aliens' on a regular basis. Let this new year be an opportunity to extend grace to those who do not fit into our nation's cultural mores…