Sestina from the Last Supper

 

Like the iron teeth of a bear trap your work

Hardened hands hold my foot. I cannot, dare

not, pull back. Your tears fall like molten wax.

What can I make of this display? We call

you Master, Lord rightly, but your sobs

Like a woman clutching her rescued babe,

 

Or soldiers home from war call their babes --

Wring us helpless. You do mighty work,

You heal the sick, raise the dead. Your sobs

As you wash my feet with tears, sadly call

My name. What is it now? How can you dare

To make a scene as candle wax

 

Scents our Cenacle and stars wax

Above and sunlight ebbs. The ewe's babe

is slain. Now listen! The holy shofar calls,

And God commands us set aside all work.

Remember Pharaoh snubbed the Prophet’s dare;

And then wept helpless with pathetic sobs

 

When God's dread wraith turned their joy to sobs,

And merriment to grief. Lunacy must wax

When paschal moons appear and pagans dare

To test the Lord of Hosts. But like the babes

At their mother's breast, our only work

Is faith in God. What other call

 

Do you hear? That sound? It's but a rooster's caw;

Why should it cause such desolate sobs?

Tomorrow you'll get on with your good work,

And your holy Father's rule will wax

The world with sunshine! The cooing babe

Will play on the cobra's den; she’ll dare

 

To put her hand in the viper's nest. Come dare

To sing God's praise. Let's give our guests the call.

Here’s your Mother. Do you know your baby

Boy has bathed my filthy feet with sobs?

Let's open windows, light the beeswax,

Settle down to this night's mighty work.

 

My son will dare to topple czars with sobs;

His call on death will cripple kings who wax.

Today my babe will do a mighty work.

Do you realize what I have done for you?

John 13:12

“Do you realize what I have done for you?
You call me Master, Lord; and so I am.
I saw you quake with fear as I washed your feet,
though it was I, your friend, was swept away.
For I could do no less than bow and kiss
the battered feet of those who bring good news.

Tell them of my tears with your good news,
of love so ardent it embarrassed you.
Always you must feel the shock of my kiss
when I, with bowl and water, bowed. I am
a servant before you, to show a way
beyond the farthest travels of your feet.

You must know the beauty of filthy feet,
their familiar stench, mud and slime, the news
of poverty. Their dirty nails claw away
illusions of this world’s pretty dreams. You,
perhaps, will apprehend why I am
helpless on this festive night. I must kiss,

I cannot resist, I feel compelled to kiss
you as a mother sucks her baby’s feet,
a husband holds his hungry bride, I am
sated with desire. This comes as news,
this fatal weakness of your Master. You
shudder, you cringe, you want to push away.

You think there’s got to be another way.
Before this night is done a traitor’s kiss,
one whose feet I washed, a man you thought you
knew, will clear a path. My bleeding feet,
obedient, must follow . Bitter news
accompanies a gracious word. I am

going to my Father; always I am
with you. Tomorrow you will see a way
leading where I go, you must spread the news.
God’s own purity, descending, will kiss
your soul as I have bathed your lovely feet.
Then, with all my soul, I will have loved you

to the end. I am my father’s kiss
sweeping you away from off your feet
with news of great joy, to gladden you.

Her Auburn Hair

Her auburn hair descended like a cloud,
A golden iconóstasis to shroud
The touch of trembling lips upon his feet.
Her tears like rivers stained with nard and myrrh
Washed the calloused soles and horny nails.
Her sister Martha stricken like a stele

Of salt in fear, a bewildered stele
She sees without seeing, eyes clouded
By memories of foolishness, but nails
Had ripped her dreams of late, and pallid shrouds.
Aromas of her kitchen smelt of myrrh
A taint of death, disease and rotting feet.

The prophet felt the kisses on his feet,
The hot salt tears. They spoke of knives of steel
In local villages, an ominous murmur
That trailed the hero’s path, a dusty cloud
Of discontent. Beneath her auburn shroud
Of grief the woman prophet’s lacquered nails

Unconsciously portended savage nails
Which soon would stab the prophet’s hands and feet.
No brilliant canopy of light would shroud
Him from the glares as passing strangers steal
His nakedness. O’erhead the passing clouds
Like senseless grazing cows will neither murmur

Thoughts upon his plight nor smell the myrrh
And aloes of his tomb. But slugs and snails
of darkness drawn by putrefaction's clouds
and fumes will be the first to witness feet
Transfigured as the God of All steals
Into the corpse. A sudden shroud

Of glory lifts like sails aloft on shrouds
Of grace. The quaking earth and seas demur
With loud objections as the Son’s Day steals
Across the land. His hands retain the nails
of pain and ghastly wounds still mark his feet
but glory rising radiates the clouds.

The dewy clouds of morning bless the feet
Of woman-prophet bearing myrrh. The shroud
And nails remain with useless swords and steel.

Judas Iscariot

Mary took a liter of costly perfumed oil made from genuine aromatic nard and anointed the feet of Jesus and dried them with her hair; the house was filled with the fragrance of the oil. Then Judas the Iscariot, one (of) his disciples, and the one who would betray him, said, "Why was this oil not sold for three hundred days' wages and given to the poor?" He said this not because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief and held the money bag and used to steal the contributions. So Jesus said, "Leave her alone. Let her keep this for the day of my burial.
John 12:3-7


The house in mordant stench of sudden death
Fell silent as the woman kissed his royal
Feet I could not bear her body’s love
Her carnal show of sobbing fiery passion
A weeping play of woman-purity
And face to floor her hair like holiness

Descending like a cloud of holiness
Upon his feet as if the knell of death
Had sounded through her purity
And stirred up this unseemly show a royal
Waste it seemed to me a foolish passion
Of bestial need and imbecilic love

And yet he gazed on her with manly love
A smile making mock of holiness
Betraying as I always knew his passion
For the lovely girls who’d suffer death
Before the splendor of his royal
Glance I wanted in my hands her purity

You say I lusted but her purity
Aroused in me a longing for such love
I would surrender any royalty
Despite his proof of godlike holiness
And I'd pursue into the jaws of death
A woman who would stir me to such passion

Despising righteousness he shuns the passion
I can offer him and turns to purity
Of virgin girls inhales the scent of death
Delights in smelling sinful woman’s love
Extemporizes on her fallen holiness
And vows to raise her up in royalty

He’ll have his throne too soon his royalty
Will reek with fumes of grief in a passion
Of disgrace her rancid holiness
Will stink like myrrh and her purity
Will putrefy with fetid love
This fatal woman soon will mourn his death

I owned his death despite his royalty
Her fevered love was true her passion
Holiness I lusted purity

Mail Order Bride

I went down to the post office one day
A few years ago and the postmaster
Said you Ken Bartsch that's me yessir I said
Well something here special delivery
Great I said Christmas in July although 
It wasn't July and I wasn’t expecting
 
Anything waited a while expecting
A parcel or box of some sort the day
Grew long I wasn’t in any hurry though
Cause I was pretty much my own master
A woman asked special delivery
Yes ma’am I been waiting a while I said
 
She smiled real nice and here I am she said
Well I thought cute but I’m not expecting
A woman right now I’ve been delivered
Enough problems already for one day
I’d like to hear again what the master
Says then go about my business though
 
I’m frankly not yet sure what that is though
When it comes I’ll know it and then she said
I’m it your mail order bride the Master
Sent with a message you’re not expecting
And didn’t especially want but the day
Of sunshine comes when you’re delivered
 
So now I'm sent special delivery
Your own best friend as a blessed sign though
Mostly unwelcome and this is the day
The Lord has made that’s well and good I said
I’ve been waiting a long time expecting
Some encouraging word from the master
 
But you see I don't hear from the master
And that's okay since he troubled to deliver
Me I have settled down and don't expect
Surprises she cried out surprise although
You didn’t ask for me I’m here wow I said
But I didn’t know she was my lucky day
  
The master sent Chastity special delivery
And as she said the sunshine of my day
Though I expected something different

John 6:29

God’s work; believe the one he sent.
The work of science: believe researchers’ words.
Suppose that nothing is except which they
Explain, demonstrate, predict and prove.
Then grope in darkness, which
hangs over head, a deepening cloud

of certainty. Within, beyond that cloud
of knowing hangs the faint, suggestive scent
of mundane mysteries, for which
we have a million and one thousand words.
Confirmed beyond a doubt and useful, they
collapse and fail to prove

themselves against the yet unproven
God whom we remember wrapping clouds
of obfuscation around every theory
of intelligence. Of course we resent
the intrusion. Fair enough. But abusing words
and sad reminders of witches

burned cannot so readily force a switch
from verities to arguments that prove
only how little we know. Defining words
with better education might well becloud
further discussion, but a lingering sense
of awe in all abides till pseudo theories

undermine our best and proven theories.
Then suddenly we wish aloud for witches'
mystic powers and common sense
makes no sense at all, and none can prove
to anyone’s satisfaction that cumulus clouds
are not oracles of cryptic words.

Even ordinary words
like love and marriage disintegrate until they’re
redefined by quacks and clowns.
But not to worry. The Holy Spirit, which
abides in low and high, will finally prove
by pure simplicity His word makes sense.

There was a man sent from God whose words,
as plain as day, describe a way which,
proven true, abides within a cloud.

Sestina for Low Sunday

Well, I’m sorry; it’s true. We took to our heels
and ran like scared rabbits. Rumors
said they were looking for us so we hid.
What would you do? We were scared stiff, frightened
half out of our wits. And he hadn’t a ghost
after his arrest. Enemies appeared

everywhere, it seemed to us. They appeared
as curious children or idle men. Heels
in the streets chased us like tormented ghosts,
like wind-blown scraps of paper to this room.
Remember the room; the Supper? Still frightened,
we trusted women to feed us. They could hide

in their veils but we could show neither hide
nor hair of ourselves. We heard of appearances
of dead people. The city was frightened.
What did it mean? There is no healing
From death. We sat and stared, ruminating
Until Sunday afternoon when a ghost --

what else could it be but a ghost?
-- jumped up before us; everyone shied
like caged birds to one corner of the room;
and he glowed with every appearance
of good health and happiness, his wounds healed
though they gaped like open mouths. “Frightening!”

that’s all I can say. And we were frightened.
And then he smiled and spoke to us, the ghost,
I mean, spoke to us and something like healing
came over us, and there was no need to hide
anymore. Just like that. And the room
with his breath smelled wholesome. Holy! He appeared --

It was Jesus, you see. He appeared,
and he wasn’t at all dead. “Don’t be frightened.”
(Easy for him to say.) Then the rumors
came back to us. The stories of ghosts
walking in daylight, the soldiers hiding
as the sun rose, and all the people healed

Trust me, the Man heals; the rumors are true;
No more hiding for me, nor being frightened;
Not since the ghost, the holy one, appeared.

Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday

Aloft in the blue sky morning a solitary crow
circled idly overhead on that March
day like a bewildered palmer.
The soft, spring weather lent
the Sabbath dawn expectancy. A gusty wind
beneath his soaring wings twisted

the arcs of his errant path. Beneath the bird’s twisted
meandering a raucous, belligerent cockcrow
sounded through the streets that wind
the city, itself a dreadful, long disputed march
of earth and sky, saints and sinners. The walls’ benevolent
mass greeted chanting palmers

who finished their pilgrimage and palmed
the ancient stones. Their twisted
braids blessed the holy ground. The raven, hanging indolent,
ignored below but eyed by circling crows
from Beersheba to Dan, heard a sudden marching
sound of drums and screeling winds

announce a coming day whose blasting winds
would shatter stony walls, yet leave the bruiséd palm
unharmed, fresh and green. An eager mob marched
from the city through the open gates, their twisted 
faces grinning. Despite the humble ass and foal they crowed
at Herod’s pikes and Roman spears, and lent

their coats and tunics to the dirty streets, for even laws relent
when a populace hears a divine renewing wind
driving under gates like a crowbar.
Maddened authorities emptied money bags in open palms.
Suddenly reborn as criminals they twisted
schemes, and called for protest marches

to halt the invader’s coming. But the ruthless march
persisted as hosannas sounded, crowds clamored and the silent  
mare and foal advanced. Dust devils danced and twisted
on dung-grimy streets, and tongues of stone sang as the wind
stirred the feathered ferns and spiny palms,
and overhead appeared a murder of crows. 

On this Palm Sunday the twisted crown
And black crows hail our solemn Lent,
as at our backs a mighty wind propels us into march.

A Moment Passes by with Every Breath

A moment passes by with every breath
And the future, channeled through this gap of now
Gives way to a backlog of opportunities
Lost, never reclaimed or rediscovered
Even as an infinity of futurities unimaginable
Eagerly pile up behind this narrow strait.

Dear Aging Heart, we have walked an older street
With anguished time forgot and labored breath
Navigating cycles of years with imagined
Pleasures that seemed so real then, but now
They reel like errant importunities.
Can memories unlimited discover

In rude stories unrued, undiscovered
Airs or gusts of goodness? The straight
Path on which I set out despite the portents
Was fair enough, I think; and yet I breathe
Worrisome belabored stories and I know
That no one – or few – can imagine

The troubles I have caused. But doesn’t Imagination
Work with Grace and Bliss to cover
The past in future glory? And the now
Has a mystic, magic madness that straightens
Twisted, tortured traumas until their breath
Comes easily and their importance

Resounds like blessed opportunities.
No one on this side of the grave imagines
The endless openings that curl and wreath
Even yet around each unrecovered
Moment of the past. An amazing now,
Bending under futures’ pressures straightens

And heals even that most regretted traitor’s
Kiss. It harrows hell and finds unfortunates
Who could not imagine or dream a knowing
Happiness. Their lives lost and unmanaged,
Unremembered shall be recovered
And they will rise up breathing.

When she looked at me

When she looked at me I thought she turned her head.
It was the slightest twist, a look of vague surprise.
She caught my eye, perhaps I caught her glance
At me. Another hour the moment would pass
As all moments pass into that River Lethe
As if they never happened.

Really nothing in that silent gym had happened.
I saw her slender form, her blue eyes, and flaxen head
Of hair. I noticed my pleasure in surprise
As if I might yet be worth a second glance.
It might be fun to talk with her, to pass
Some time by the River Lethe.

I wish I could drink from that River Lethe
And forget some things that happened
Long ago. I would turn my life and head
Another direction. I might surprise
Myself with contentment. There’d be no fiery glance
To throw me into confusion. I could pass

My life on quiet gentle trails, explore a safer pass
Through lower mountain gaps and sip from Lethe
Streams both up and down. Whatever happened
Would not be so important. I’d let a wiser head
Than mine deal with the occasional surprise.
I might pause only in the forest clearings to glance

With satisfaction on my life. Once a casual glance
Through a restaurant window – I often eat alone to pass
The time -- sent me plunging for the River Lethe.
A one-time lover, absently staring through the pane, happened
To walk by as I raised my head.
We shared a painful start, a shocked surprise.

In that brief moment of mutual, unwanted surprise
I saw her lovely, familiar face transformed from empty glance
To angry fear. In that same instant my quiet passing
of an evening meal, left me thirsty for the waters of the Lethe,
Suddenly deeply shaken and scared, as if it happened
Over and over again, a curse upon my head.

I’ll turn my head, I’ll be surprised;

I’ll steal a glance as you pass by,

And drown us both in Lethe’s stream, as if we never happened.