Tag Archives: contemporary society

Passion of the Christ

Passion of the Christ

“Fifteen ” ,

” Sixteen ” ,

tears flowing like a tidal flood ;

” Again ! ” ,

” twenty-four ” ,

” twenty-five ” ,

blood coursing in scarlet rivulets seeping down ;

” Again ! ” ,

” thirty-one ” ,

” thirty-two ” ,

flesh flayed torn wounds open to the world ;

” Again ! ” ,

” thirty-eight ” ,

” thirty-nine ” ,

now sublime ineffable Grace subsuming all the hurt ;

and now ,

The Cross …

The evidence wasn’t in the nail-marks

that Thomas asked you to show him ,

it wasn’t in the tears that your Mother Mary shed,

it wasn’t in the arms of Joseph of Aramathea ,

nor in the crown of thorns upon your head ;

It wasn’t there when you walked upon the water ,

nor in the 5000 that your loaves and fishes fed ;

It’s by the promise of your Father

that Grace abounded ,

when at Calvary your blood was shed.

Crime Scene

                 Crime Scene
A Police Cruiser
drives down the dirt road
the dirt road leading
to the farm,
the farm where the
bodies were found
buried back of the barn;
a Police Cruiser
pulls up at the main gate,
Red and blue and red strobed lights
flashing all around
here the bodies were buried
in their unconsecrated graves;
The Sheriff,
lean,tall and haggard
steps out of the cruiser,
surveys the scene
spits on the ground
and utters an inappropriate oath..


There are memories
which even our dreams
can’t unlock,
and there are dreams
we’ve yet to have
that will fill our waking hours
with dread,
what of those dreams
that still evade us,
those of which we
only have memories of
and which we dare not
unlock from within
our dreams.

A Contemporary Reqiuem

Incense-misted eyes
throats baulked with pride,
scars reddened by droplets
a hand wiping spittle
from the breviary’s page;
Drought-mouthed elegies
to ribbons burdened
by weights of guilt,
gleaming handle farewells
accompanied by Borodin
to the warrior heart
swollen with longing,
marking time with
the limping clock;
Yearning yearning
for visions
wrought into maps,
iron-ore mountains
forged into Tanks
and nights of gasoline,
when the Sea
of Ages parted
and Vodka was Mussorgsky
in our heads.

Conversations That Never Happened

Why is it that I cannot meet you, invisible mystery
Oh mademoiselle, lost in your ancient book
What is there that you ignore this handsome genie
See my skin, so soft like a makeup brush
White as milk foam I am, light and mischievous
I wait here for long, for one gentle kiss.

You keep turning pages of never-ending history.
Galloping with the brave knights of an unknown era
Until your clock says, food time, wake-up
I am hungry, I agree; I need you to fill my pot belly
Why not give me your attention, that one loving glance
I wish I were born as a cat in your novel.

Ahh, time goes on, and I have fallen in love
With those slender fingers turning pages
I wish I were a book on your lap
It’s cute; your face changes to the novel’s weather
Why not see me once, I promise
I will keep you always smiling, I promise again.

As the lovers of the world, I do give you my word
It’s uncertain, I know, but let me try it
You will never touch the book again if you hear me
Meow- a longing purr tears the woods.
I may go now, and you may never see me again.
All will be lost in seconds if only you don’t hear me.

She turns the page again, and the cat falls off the tree
And the story goes on. New characters enter
Old characters are forgotten, but the meow still lingers
In hearts that read and imagined the longing cat
Akin to our very own life, where God writes
And we witness it silently with not much ado.

Shalini Samuel

A Final Tale From The Nursery

            A Final Tale From The Nursery

In the Valley of the Idiots 
where the half-wit is still King,
the proclamation was issued
that with immediate effect
the wearing of coal scuttles
was no longer mandatory;
Nobody had ever worn coal scuttles 
until ordered by the half-wit to do so,
and after a while the Idiots
were allowed to discard them 
and then were told to put them back on
and now,
they are cautioned not to 
speak too loudly
nor sing with vigour,
for in freeing them from one restraint
the Half-Wit has in mind
something much bigger

Author’s  Note
This hopefully draws to a close my triptych Jeremiad on Covid restrictions that includes- 
“A Tale From The Nursery” & “Another Tale From The Nursery”. Their precursor “The Ban on Straw” might also interest the reader.

What Being A Good Samaritan Really Means

They threw his body onto the sidewalk,
sped off toward the Interstate;
he was still breathing
as they gathered,
he felt his pain
as they closed in;
an old man took the Rolex,
two winoes came to blows
a shoe apiece and managed to rip the pants,
the Hugo Boss jacket was too bloodied
for anyone to covet,
though small jealous hands ledgerdemained
an all too heavy wallet;
he was still breathing
as Cops came and drew chalk outlines,
taped off the street
ushered everyone away,
he was still breathing
when a Coroner’s ambulance came,
he heard strange distant voices confirm that
he was still breathing;
over at O’Malley’s Bar
the grifters and working stiffs
had something to talk about
before watching the game’s final quarter,
as the deaf bartender served them
some more “Boilermakers” he wondered if
he was still breathing.



If the dreams I’m having

are not mine,

who is dreaming mine?

If I miss the train tomorrow

will someone else arrive

at the destination in my stead?

Only delinquent memory

confuses and conflates

names of writers and of their

times and cities;

Was there ever a Buenos Aires,

a Lisbon,

a Bologna,

without a Borges,

a Pessoa,

an Eco?

If there were any such cities

perhaps the writers too

were never there;

perhaps they dreamt their dreams

in other locales

under pseudonyms

to disguise the fact that

others had dreamt their dreams

for them,

adopted their names

their appearance and mannerisms;

Trains are always like this,

full of such people arriving

at destinations that

had waited in vain,

for me.

Sent from Yahoo Mail on Android

Journey to Haworth

My birthday present for everyone.Composed at the Fleece Inn,Haworth 12:20-12:35 28/09/21

Journey to Haworth

grim day,
from stone
and sky
and rain;
Here amid
the long days
in their long years,
for some other days
for some other years
to pass them by,
and leave us here
in a familiar picture
framed by
the grit
the grime
the grey.