Fall has a subtle language
spoken in colors.
fierce purpose prevails.
A band of brothers
fight to the death for each other
and the world-at-large.
War, like it or not,
determines one’s survival.
“Life” does not take sides.
Peace is an ideal;
easier said than done, right?
Honor our fallen.
Life at war with life;
there is no permanent peace
’til heaven’s on Earth.
Armed Services all
remind me their loyalty:
one Band of Brothers.
sinks in. Strangers died for me!
Life is greatest gift.
Nation under God,
One Purpose, One way of Life:
Brother’s Keepers all.
I bow to fallen
soldiers past, present, future:
Copyright © Janet Leigh. All Rights Reserved
Let us not forget
our heritage won in blood
shed by forefathers,
sons mothers daughters
father’s will and freedom’s gift
*To Be Left Alone*
the right to decide
where we live, who we help and
what we think, is ours
not based on kings screed
men’s greed, slaves freed, those who lead
or kangaroo courts.
We alone decide
with God’s grace and will as guide
be governed wise;
men of truth and faith,
goodwill towards All, self-abased,
best from common place.
Our Nation shall, Sir
Wise, survive the test of time
devised by wise men.
Nations face crises,
our is not exempt. Beware.
Freedom course our blood!
Don’t give in, my friend,
though our future’s looking grim,
run down by misfits
everyone! Done in
for love of money, pride, sin.
Let God’s work begin
in hearts re-renewed.
Truth’s revival starts to brew
one mind at a time.
Let us not forget.
It is WE who guarantee
our rights and freedoms!
police or Indian chiefs.
Let us not forget!
Copyright © 2012 by Janet Leigh. All rights reserved.
I am the Christ,
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.
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
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;
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
People leaned out windows
though some did not.
Come see the parade,
it is free,
and the people came,
an army of shopkeepers, drunkards, farmers, artisans,whores,
pick-pockets, thieves, cutthroats, lepers,
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,
was whipped and beaten
as the procession continued.
His mother was there,
in that sea of whirling souls,
though he had missed her at the trial.
a Roman gate,
stone and ornate,
marble and impressive.
Then Calvary at noon,
a sickly place,
stinking of carrion and death;
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
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,
a scratch on eternity,
a wound that never heals,
becoming words that will not clot,
from a Christ,
and from all men suffering,
and not suffering.
Why have you forsaken me ?
Glenn Buttkus Easter 1966
† † † † † † †
Glenn Buttkus, 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 affects me now, still, in the most profound way as it did back then.
Thank you, Glenn! This is as vivid and real to me as though I were there witnessing it first hand. I feel I walk the Stations of the Cross with My Savior Jesus; you make me aware and pained over what His walk must have been like. Your poem makes Golgatha come to life in a real and personal way.
Tears picture by hazelh3 on Photobucket
I believe I drank from Cup of Despair
hidden hung on Life’s abundant tree –
or it found me – hiding in low bough shadows
cringing – naked alone on the Human knee.
There’s a life out there in the mirey clay;
broken, left wandering listless long of late, riding
a big black storm on a cloudless day.
Universal music weaves in and out the air;
my instrument of Life pants breathless,
a struggling note blown out of tune.
My Sky Room is vast and mysterious;
on Celestial shelf near the stars and moon
float space junk: my unsung accomplishments.
I mourn the work left in Life undone;
my portion measures the least of them,
good intentions never count for much.
Now the tongue likes to claim my best – tho
my works – a life lived in superficiality and jest.
I’ve – colored my life Rusted Tin – in watery lies
little white sins some thoughtless whim – I’ve
smothered my candle from within.
God’s precious gift grows worn – O lowly worm
now – lost in lost loves lost dreams I squirm I scream;
nothing will cover my unworthy past or sins.
Some place away somewhere now at bay
lay lost souls like me alone afraid
fearful of base waste soiled bed we made.
Thinking, take this cup from me!
Born torn cloth never made whole;
Thy lowly limb severed from Life’s tree,
my impoverished love my mother sin,
my heart adrift unforgiven upon your sea.
Let this be what defines your hidden me;
a dam holding back a river tear
falling from an ocean eye.
Copyright © 2009 by Janet Leigh. All Rights Reserved.