The World

The World
is not owned
by you or me
or anyone.

We paint lines
in sand with
blood and oil
and tears
and think some
signed treaty
will decide what's
mine or yours
or theirs.

The waves will
roll and the
dust clouds gather
amid the swirling
sands that shift
and leave our
monuments covered
deep beneath where
upon some future
will build their
effigies
in stone.

Mark your territory
like a feral cat -
slash his throat
until the blood
runs out.
You too will die
one day, by famine,
the sword or worse.

Sleep upon your
pile of fleeting
gold and shout
you are exceptional,
the best.

In ten thousand years
when your grave
lies unmarked,
unheralded for
the whole world
to see - remember
this - this World
is not mine,
or yours, or theirs,
it is its own.

© Eleanor Clark
17 December, 2014

Once a Man

I...

drip, drip
decay in
faeces
shrouded shadow
drip.

was...

Pain
Twisted tight
in shackles
clanging

once...

Sunlight
edged
a ray through
bleak cold

a man...

"Tell us!"

Blank eyes
blank head
blank stare

...I think.

© Eleanor Clark
10 December, 2014

Jesus Wept

Blessed are the poor
in spirit and in
means, He said.

But they are poor
because they drink
and do drugs, we said.

Blessed are they
that mourn
for loss of love
and light and hope
and weep. 

Mourn with them, He said.

But they deserve
pain; we are better
than them.
Why should it matter
that my brother was
in chains and is now
seeking to be free?
Or that my sister
was deeply burdened
and needs help
to shed the load?
I don't like the
colour of their skin, 

their smell, their clothes.
We'll shackle them
to the wall until
they lose their minds,
we said.

Blessed are the meek
and lowly of the earth,
He said.

But they don't have the
right paperwork.
They are lazy.
Don't give them food.
Don't help them
freeloaders.
They bleed our
country dry, we said.

Blessed are they who
seek for righteousness
and truth, and hunger
for hope, He said.

But I do not like
the way they worship.
Or that book of theirs
is strange. They are a
cult. They are terrorists.
They are beasts, we said.

Blessed are the merciful,
He said.

But he doesn't deserve it.
She wronged me once.
He is evil.
She is mean, we said.

Blessed are the pure
in heart, He said.

But she isn't pure.
She was asking for it.
He couldn't help himself, we said.

Blessed are the
peacemakers, He said.

He can't be, he is wrong.
He is selfish. He sins.
She is weak. She fails
sometimes, we said.

All this,
you do to Me,
He said.

And Jesus wept.

© Eleanor Clark
8 December, 2014

Patchwork Person

They said that
life would be
lonely and
sometimes hard -
without hope.

But that's not
so bad. What
hurts is not
being whole -
wholly loved.

At days end to
traipse the snowy
pathway home
to where that
person listens.

Quietly
lets you tell
your good deeds
without thinking
you're boasting.

Instead, in
patchwork moments
stolen here and there
in comments and
appreciation

This person finds
a patchwork partner
to match the life
made lonely
in the living.

© Eleanor Clark
4 December, 2014