Posted tagged ‘Easter poem’

Easter Morning

April 17, 2022

Easter Morning

I could not sleep last night after reading
about what happened to a body
in Ukraine, before that body died.

There’s sickness here too (if not the same.)

But it’s Easter and I get up to tune the computer to boys’ singing
about the resurrection.  

The songs make me weep almost instantly,
as all my dead rise
to greet me. 

I weep both because of my certainty that those one loves
are never lost, and because of my longing for
that certainty,

weep too for the suffering, and the wish
for the healing of suffering.

And then the day begins, limpingly. It doesn’t really feel like Easter,
until, between the feeding of animals
and almost burning
someone’s cream of wheat,
I turn to a soprano who knows
that her redeemer liveth, 

and find in the beauty of her voice, her smiling but determined
a saving grace, 

helped along by the sun shining through clouds, and a texted photo
of a baby in an elephant dress,
being held to stand—

They do not take away
what happened to the body
that I read about, or what happens
to any body,

but they say that there is love also, even
at the doorway of loss,
love that rises again,
though it may need to be held
to stand. 


Happy Easter, Happy Passover.  Another drafty poem for April.  Wishes for All Good. 

Easter (American Sentences)

April 16, 2017

Easter (American Sentences)

March–skirt puffs up
like blossoms
blown back–Easter–
the net on
best hats.

April–sun crossed the nave–Easter–
waves of short white gloves almost
too warm.

Old lady’s
even the memory
of Death’s held hand

Its palm warm
as blossom, soft as
worn gloves, lets go for today
all stones.


Draft poem for Kerry O’Connor’s prompt on Real Toads to write a poem using Allan Ginsburg 17 syllable American Sentences.  Drawing mine; pastel on paper.  April 2017, all rights reserved. 

My Mother’s Coat Easter

March 27, 2016

My Mother’s Coat Easter

The salmon coat not just
a fish out of water but a stucco of the sun
the son;
I know that my redeemer liveth steepling like
the church roof, our fingers treed
in short gloves white
as sycamores;

salmon only pink in the way that a marigold
is not yellow, a kiss

And, though my mother now heard how
we would stand fleshed
at the end, and where is thy sting
she could not not-believe in that sharp sting, having
felt it–

so that even as the stone rolled away
and her coat leapt high
into the day,
tears steepled–

it was not a morning you could not mourn in

until, child of her flesh,
I took her by our short gloves
to swim the concrete, to roll us through
the clouds and stone, the hyacinthed
jollying her
as if a smooth-keeled boat–

floating till blue too
would pass away, some summer night,
when bared-armed
and fireflied,
something free
would come alive,
warm darknesses
our feet jumping
over waves of purpled grass
as if driven by pure

I write of this
now older than my mother
as if it were only she then
who felt
such sorrow.

A revision of a draft poem posted last year for a prompt by Izy Gruye on Real Toads, that I revised thinking of Easter and the current real toads prompt (from Shay) about a crack, a fissure.   The picture is in fact of a coat of my mother’s. 



April 5, 2015

Easter —

For me, the humanity was wrapped up
in the swaddling cloths,
that weaving of dust
that returns to dust,
warp of the born that must then
be borne, the thread-bared–
linen holding to its folds
like a clasp of fingers, ribs,
as if even the unsewn strived
for the shape of flesh, bone, forgiveness–


Here’s another poem for April 2015, National Poetry Month (I think my fifth).  This one has 55 words and is posted for the Real Toads prompt hosted by the wonderful Kerry O’Connor.  The pic was taken by me of a stained glass window in New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

It snowed much of last night and all day long in the mountains where I live. The good part is that I went skiing.  The bad part is that I went skiing.  (I am a rather terrified skier, who also finds it trying to have to focus on keeping upright, when I want to go off in one of my habitual dazes.  But I survived!)  I wish you all a happy day. 



My Mother’s Coat Easter Sunday (After Gertrude Stein)

April 4, 2015

My Mother’s Coat Easter Sunday (After Gertrude Stein)

The salmon coat was not a fish out of water but a stucco of the sun the son.

I know that my redeemer liveth steepled also as the sidewalks, refusing to take sides, isoscolesed up front, fingers not-eased into short gloves treed as white as sycamores sideways,

with fireflies to come, only this was South so lightning bugs were what would bubble soon enough as hyacinths or coffee bubbled that morning, a morning without mourning, purple, pink or even blue as new as–

Salmon an unlikely shade, only pink in the way that a marigold is not yellow, a lipsticked kiss against a cheek as wet as trumpets, as dry as the sun the son through high stained glass.

And though she knew that our redeemer liveth, and would stand at the end in a flesh that might almost be salmon-colored, she could not believe that none had died.  Even as the clouds rolled and the stone rolled and her coat leapt high as a fish above the sidewalk, my mother’s cheeks were damp.  It was not a day you could not remember in.

So that I, a child of her flesh, a child of not yet death, took her by our short gloves, to swim the concrete, to roll us through the clouds and stone, the hyacinthed coffee, and some night soon, fireflies.

Though we did not think of them just then, of how they would lighten us, of how they would electrify our warm bare darknesses.


Here’s a sort of poem for Easter, for the 4th day (I think) of this April 2015 National Poetry Month, and for the wonderful Izy Gruye’s prompt on Real Toads to write something inspired by Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons. 

The above is a pic of my mother’s coat. 

I have edited this a few times since posting!   

Epiphanies (of Sorts) around Easter

April 21, 2014


Epiphanies (of Sorts) around Easter

Easter, as a child, meant ham,
a family tradition,
which I thought back then
was a subtle declaration
that we were not Jewish
though I realize now
was probably the only big meat to hand as Spring sprang
when my parents grew up in Midwest farm country.

My in-laws in the East ate lamb,
which always seemed to me
a rather poor-taste communion with Him,
who taketh away
the sins of the world, blood pooling
on the platter,
but I realize now
was likely the least wasteful fresh meat

So, with such food for thought nudging me,
I realized, today, Holy Saturday, that the child whose hands glove glow
in a Georges de la Tour painting, my absolute favorite
when I too was about that age,
is not a girl with her father, also bald like mine, but
Jesus himself with Joseph (“Joseph, the Carpenter”).
De La Tour’s Joseph,
according to Wikepedia, uses an auger shaped
like a crucifix–

And all this time, I thought it was simply
a strikingly beautiful painting, showing, amazingly, how light shines
in dark places and can be caught by hands
shaped by pigment, or
the love of it,
and can be fixed too
as long as the hues hold true
and are kept in place by the rabbit-skin glue
used to prepare the painting surface.

Which is something else we don’t really think of much–
the stuff of paintings,
like the sources of ham and lamb–
all flames of a sort that light us,
waxing our grip,
without, we hope, burning
our fingers–

But I wonder, today,
in this Spring sun
so much brighter
than a candle, how we redeem
the squeals, how
are they too deemed necessary?

All I can think of is the word

Here’s very much of a draft poem for some day of April National Poetry month. I’m sorry if I’ve worn out the Easter theme–but here it is. The painting above is by Georges De La Tour, “Joseph the Carpenter.” I do not claim any copyright in the photograph and think/hope this is fair use. I am linking to the open link night of with real toads. (Again, by the way, I am trying to return all comments, but it is a bit hard right now. I will catch up and I thank you for your kind visits!)

“Heart of Stone” – Thinking About the Stone (4th day of National Poetry Month)

April 4, 2012

Heart of Stone

One of the miracles of Easter, it increasingly
seems to me, is that the stone
at the tomb was moved.
are heavy; they tend,
in stories of great import,
to be obstinate.
(Think of the re-roller of Sisyphus, the innumerable boulders
that hound Wiley Coyote, the uncaring pyramid of Aida.) 

But this stone
was moved–
not with grunts and conniptions, chains tied
to a flatbed, crushed toes or blistering hands
(shaken in thin air to take away the

I am not particularly devout.  I am sometimes even
suspicious of religion (especially when
capitalized).  But I’ve also been closed out
by death, my loves shut down, and know that if I were
a stone, the sorrow of each loss would crack me right
to the crystal, squeeze out sanded tears that would wash
the feet of any who came near, break
the heart of heart in me, turn shale to dust, till we
together, my loves and I, could mingle one more time.

No wonder the stone was moved, and yet,
yes, wonder. 


The above, which I first called “Heart of Heart”, is my draft poem for the 4th day of National Poetry Month.  (I am writing a draft poem a day this April, but refuse to call the exercise “Napowrimo”, as I just can’t stand the sound of that name.)  It’s been a bit hard to come up with inspiration, especially since I am very busy with my “day job” right now, so what I’ve found useful is to look at draft poems done in prior year.   This was based on an absolutely different draft poem written two years on the 4th day of April–it  is pretty rough but, if you are interested, it can be found here.  
Also, if you are interested, check out my first published book of poetry GOING ON SOMEWHERE.   Thanks much!

Fourth Day of National Poetry Month – Easter Poem

April 4, 2010

Here’s today’s poem draft, an Easter Poem.   The drawing done during Easter sermon on the Church program;  I hope it’s not impolite, but it helps me to listen.  (Also I  hope some of you guys are also trying some daily poems so that I don’t feel like I’m the only one being silly. )

After Easter Service with Music By Tomas Luis de Victoria, Francisco Guerrerro

One miracle of Easter
is that a stone can actually
be rolled away.  No Sisyphus in
Golgotha;  no Calvaric wheel
of samsara, resurrection not
rebirth so much as return.  (Christ,
unlike the Dali Lama,
was not even asked to pick out
the wire-rimmed glasses of
the prior him.)
But why don’t they recognize him?
Mary Magdalen takes him
for a gardener; at Emmaus, he’s
the only  stranger in Jerusalem.
Though I’m not sure of  what I recognize either
except that when clear single voices chime
together in a Renaissance motet
the soul exists for some while, and any stones
in the heart become simply the stuff that
earth is made of.