Archives for the month of: April, 2011

Easter morning walk to our church…the journey mirrored last night’s powerful reading from Genesis 1.

I stepped out of the house, down the sandhill.

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.”

I strolled past the gulf and mud flats.

“Let the waters under heaven come together into a single mass, and let dry land appear.”

Past native plants and imports.

“Let the earth produce vegetation.”

After the pigeon had left, I bent down to the inspect the berries – yellow and red.

“Plants bearing seeds…

…in their several kinds.”

“This shall be your food.”

And then I turned back to the power house, that great eyesore so close to our house.

“Let us make humans in our own image…let them be masters.”

Some masters!

But I also saw signs of hope, ancient and ever new. The local Aboriginal women’s traditional birthing place in a quiet grove along the shore.

“God created humans in his own image,
in the image of God he created them,
male and female he created them.”

Happy Easter!


A drumroll, please, for the holiest week in the Christian church’s year! Coming up to Easter, my Roman Catholic sensibilities were moved yesterday at Mass, at the breaking of the bread. And this emerged…

Mass in Holy Week

A crack. And it is done.
Two hunks of bread
or living tissue,
this Love is broken.
Henceforth the issue:
a death has spoken.
And you have spoken out our pain,
what once was whole, and one,
now is Life, is slain.
This piece, this shred of heart
has seen too many failures,
armies, wars and hates,
it is the smallest part
that’s left
when pride abates
and fears expose
and lose debates
with tyrants, with our peers.
With errors forced, obliged, chosen.
And years
And life untasted
plays injustice in chords,
a march away from fullness,
in you, in me, in hordes
of cheaply pasted glue unstuck.
Cleaning out this muck,
you knew
the pain, the fear, each year
and time to break.
And break you did.
With lifeblood oozing
from your cup and side,
this thirst to slake
of what we block or hide.
You speak, you spoke,
the speech was won
and lost, and losing was the aim
for, unless the pain
was real and you were lame
and dumb and broken,
we could not be healed
and spoken
into speech. And the gift,
the bread,
was ever to be said:
reminder of the dead
in you and us.
But if
that word was last
we would lay our hope
on graves of Life,
once shared, but passed.
No, another word was said,
and, rising from the dead,
you made reply,
what ended need not die
and our broken parts
may be reborn
even now,
even past death’s dawn,
another morn,
another patcher-up of hearts
has felt the crack,
what you have begun.
And it is done.