In sleep I see the nail
Pass through the yielding flesh;
Jesus knew about that.
But we are skin and bone,
Already. No reserves
Of fat or of muscle.
Bare bones. No resistance.
Every strike and rumble
A nail, hammered, pinpoint,
Into the joints and cracks.
The torment forcing us
Towards strange submission.
Soon we could be up there,
On the cross, confessing.
Sun 29th Dec 2024 11:08
Thank you, Stephen.
“Soon we could be up there,
On the cross, confessing.”
Your words resonate with me, a former practising Christian.
Sadly, we are already up there. We, who view ourselves as so-called "Christian", “civilised”, and “enlightened", whinge hypocritically about some fictional "War on the West".
It is with our taxes -willingly or not- that we continue to wage war on on our shared humanity, and on the innocent "others", conveniently out of sight and out of mind; each bomb and bullet a hammer blow nailing the corpse of our humanity to that cross.
If we lose hope we die Stephen. Thank you for your words this year. As you must now be aware you have become a stalwart here. My best wishes!
My last poem of 2024. Not a very cheerful one, I'm afraid. But we must remain optimistic and hopeful, and maintain our resolve, in the face of violence and oppression.
See you all next year.
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Stephen Gospage
Tue 31st Dec 2024 09:06
Thank you, Graham and Uilleam, and my best wishes to you, to everyone who liked this poem and to all at WOL.