Like my fancy name?

But you can call me Gizmo,

a Most Unique thang!

All pooped out.  Too much fun camping out.

I used to live in Daddy’s vest.

I love my Mom.  I think.

.

Love visions emerge.

Mother lode of emotions

sift gems through gold pan.

‘Sally’s Little Rascal of Hidden Valley’
January 4, 2000 – April 29, 2011
Rest In Peace,
my Sweet

†

When your Light went out
a mournful wail took place;
a shock wave unleashed.

†

Sire: Little Rascal of Hidden Valley
Dam: Sally Ann

GOLGATHA

I am the Christ,
he whispered,
and they laughed at him;
at his thin unshaven face,
at his long blood-caked hair.

But no one looked at his eyes
the way I did.
He could have told them,
if they would but listen.

He remembered
Antonia,
the cold castle walls
and the cockroaches that chewed his ankles.
The club and the chain,
and the many-tailed whip
that tore hunks of flesh from his body.
Roman guards that had beat him.
Thorns in his hair
tearing at his scalp.
Men who had feared him,
pummeled him with their fear,
Blackening his eyes;
those sad eyes
that could see
infinity.

Herod was fat,
and loved his whores,
and his little boys.

Pilate was lean
and he splashed his hands
in a flowered urn as the people
cheered the thief Barabbas;
placing a straw basket on his head,
and carrying him on their shoulders,
a frozen smile on his lips,
his liberty barren.

It was a dirty amemic yellow dawn
as Jerusalem reeked of refuse.
He put the rugged cross upon his shoulder;
a huge thing
that smelled of creosote and tar and pitch;
fresh cut
brought from the dark forest,
bolted together with iron clasps.

The burden was heavy
and he fell under it.
the cobblestone bit into his raw knees.
the whip kissed his scourged back
as he stood up.

The sky appeared dead.
The narrow streets were open cesspools
in the dim light,
rubbish in rainbarrols,
gutters that rannith over
with filth.
People leaned out windows
and spat,
though some did not.

Come see the parade,
it is free,
like hunger.
and the people came,
an army of shopkeepers, drunkards, farmers, artisans,whores,
pick-pockets, thieves, cutthroats, lepers,
and rabbis,
huddling, steaming, and shuffling,
as dirty children played
tag with the rats.

Another painful stumble at the corner crossroads,
flat onto the hard street,
but this time gentle hands
reached out to him
and a negro named Simon stepped up
to help shoulder the burden,
and although conscripted,
he too
was whipped and beaten
as the procession continued.

His mother was there,
somewhere,
in that sea of whirling souls,
though he had missed her at the trial.

Porta Judiciarn,
a Roman gate,
stone and ornate,
marble and impressive.

Then Calvary at noon,
a sickly place,
stinking of carrion and death;
Golgatha,
the place of skulls.
The crowd jeered and bellered and wept.
Dysmas and Gestas sweated,
watching the crosses being arranged on the ground.

The four corners of the world heaved,
black clouds raced for the hillock,
a pallid ring hid the desert sun;
noon and dark.

Pain hid the rising,
three sharp white sihouettes
against the indigo sky,
yet the iron spikes still hurt
as the flesh split, cracked, and crunched
in his hands and feet.

Jesus of Nazareth,
King of the Jews;
words on a hand-written wooden sign,
nailed lop-sided over his drooping head.

The spikes were thick and cold,
and blood flowed,
slowly trickling down,
spiraling around his body
and the cross.
Little red rivelets of life
in a rubious world;
becoming a steaming puddle
on the bare trodden ground.

I thirst, he cried,
and they sponged his swollen face
with vinegar;
while the black sky brooded,
his crown caught the light on a barb.
Whispered words with his father,
dice that rolled,
winners that did not win.

4:00, Good Friday,
April 7th,
30 A.D.;
a scratch on eternity,
a wound that never heals,
bleeding still,
becoming words that will not clot,
from a Christ,
and from all men suffering,
and not suffering.

My God,
My God,
Why have you forsaken me ?

Glenn Buttkus Easter 1966

† † † † † † †

Glenn, at Feel Free To Read, was kind enough to let me post his Easter 1966 poem Golgatha a few years ago at my request; it affected me in a most profound way.  It still does.  I made the following comment then and wish to include it again, here.

Thank you so much, Glenn! As I stated elsewhere, this poem really gets to me. It feels like I’m walking the Stations of the Cross with Jesus, and you make me very aware and pained over what His walk must have been like, and what a bloody mess He must have been by the time they hoisted Him upright to settle in agony. Your poem makes it so personal and believable. It’s a great poem, worthy of the high mettle your subject attained.

Something personal;
I laugh in the face of fear.
Fear regirds itself.

I am a child of God.
Given spirit of power
God did, I am His.

He girds me in Light-
ness and endless hope beyond
my understanding.

Fear fights unfairly-
stirs up discontent between
shocked, grieving partners

struggling for sane
moments squeezed out from chaos
and sad disbelief.

One knows not of time
crossing of that Divine line
between here and there.

Fear, try wrestle mind
into deep despair -  for now.
It shall not prevail.

I know beyond doubt
His timing is perfect for
being and going

into heavenly
Light beyond understanding
into His alone.

Fear, die a good death!
Assured by God’s Divine Plan,
fear of death dies here.

We all die someday.
Some days death comes too damn close
for comfort, by God

one can endure all!
Know, Life from start to finish
starts and ends in God.

Copyright © by Janet Leigh, 3-17-11.  All Rights Reserved.

Tree at the Edge of the Universe by Rusty Russ on Flickr