A poem for Ash Wednesday
The story began with breath,
into earth,
formed by the potter’s hand.
And despite any self proclaimed worth,
Always ends disintegrating
into no man’s land.
The margins of our lives are
Perpetually haunted by fate,
The inescapable spectre
that lies in wait.
Yet somehow I am convinced by
my vanity of vanities
that I can hold onto
my kingdom of cemeteries
Arguing against this fistful of dust
on behalf of these
Misguided directions
And misplaced affections
For what are these,
enfleshed animated fingers,
That count the years and days and hours
of a life that lingers,
Somewhere between budding flowers,
And the cosmic starry singers?
If not the measure
Of my only momentary treasure?
Once more the bell tolls
And I can barely bear this truth
That dust alone will bear witness to my stolen youth.
So why then do the mourners dance?
Why do we tell the story again and again
As if there was a chance,
I could pick up my pen
To make something beautiful out of this expanse?
Because we’ve seen the final page telling how
the last enemy
Is defeated.
by this cross upon your brow
The story is completed.
I wrote this poem to be performed at an Ash Wednesday service. There is a longer version that I wrote first but decided it wouldn’t deliver as well to the audience, but it was fun to write anyway.
Here is the original:
This story is a tragedy
Are you ready?
It’s a study in the great hamartia
The plague of the human condition
Our singular flaw
Catapulting us to perdition
And sentencing us to living inertia
Does this day perhaps belong to Saturn,
A moment to break our jovial pattern?
What began with breath into earth
Formed by the potter’s hand
Gets reclaimed by the womb that gave birth
Disintegrating into no man’s land
Unheeded by self-proclaimed worth
We are perpetually haunted by our fate
The inescapable spectre that lies in wait
Yet my vanity of vanities
Convinces me that I can hold onto
My kingdom of cemeteries
Arguing with this fistful of dirt I’ll succumb to
Exhausting my voice pleading on behalf of these
Misguided directions
And misplaced affections
For what are these fingers
That count the minutes and the hours
And the years and the life that lingers
Somewhere between the budding flowers
And the cosmic starry singers
If not the measure
Of my only treasure
Poor yorrick, the prince laments
Betrayed by his own body and bound
In this unfortunate turn of events
Where the cries in the dark resound
Only as long as the smoke from burning incense
Dust the only symbol of my stolen youth
And I almost can’t bear this truth
So why then do the mourners dance?
Why do we tell the story again and again
As if there was a chance
I could lift up my pen
To make something beautiful out of this expanse
Because the last enemy will be defeated
The story by this cross upon your brow completed
Hopeful Wanderer 