Haiku of the Passion (Mark)

 

Haiku of the Passion (Mark)

They plotted his death

Wait ‘til the festival’s passed,

avoid a riot.

Bethany’s perfume

poured out over Jesus’ head.

Anticipation.

Why was it not sold

for the poor? She has done this

ahead of my death.

The passover meal.

This is my body, broken;

my blood spilt for you.

Even must I die

I will not desert you, Lord.

Is that so, Peter?

In Gethsemane,

three disciples, asked to watch.

Weariness prevails.

Can’t you stay awake?

Your spirits may be willing,

but your flesh is weak.

He is arrested,

and led away to be tried.

They all run from him.

The verdict: guilty

of blasphemy. The sentence:

inevitable.

His fate is confirmed

by Pilate, he is beaten,

mocked, led out to die.

Lifted on a cross.

The mob mentality rules;

the mocking persists.

The sign above reads,

This is the king of the Jews.

He cries out, and dies.

© Ken Rookes 2024

The finish

Haiku of the passion

An unnamed person

gives them a room to gather

for the special meal.

Sitting with his friends.

I shall not eat in this way

until the kingdom.

Take and share this cup;

I shall drink from it no more

‘til the kingdom comes.

Giving thanks, he broke

the bread, gave it to his friends:

This is my body.

They were arguing;

Who is the greatest? He spoke:

The greatest must serve.

The garden, praying.

Father, if it be your will,

take this cup from me.

They arrested him.

In the dark courtyard, Peter

denies his master.

You are a prophet!

Guards mock the blindfolded man:

Tell us who struck you!

The leaders ask him;

Are you the Christ? My answer

won’t matter; why ask?

Herod returns him

in a purple robe. Justice

is not his concern.

Pilate must decide.

For expedience, the man

receives his sentence.

Barabbas walks free.

He has drawn the lucky card.

Jesus stands condemned.

There, beyond the walls

he is crucified. Thieves form

a cruel symmetry.

Words of mockery

are met with words of welcome

and grace. The man dies.

© Ken Rookes 2022

Are you a king?

 

Haiku of enquiry

Pilate and Jesus.

Pilate’s got the upper hand,

has the final say.

Your own countrymen

handed you in, accuse you

of a kingly claim.

Tell: Are you a king?

What is it that you’ve done? Why

do they hate you so?

It’s not from this world,

my kingdom. Not power, wealth

or earthly glory.

All earthly kingdoms

fade away, turn to dust. My

kingdom never ends.

So you are a king!

said Pilate, little knowing

the truth of his words.

Jesus, born a king.

to bear witness to the truth

For this he was born.

What is truth? Pilate

asks, scoffing at the notion;

like many today.

A needle within

the haystack of straw and lies;

truth is elusive

Listen to his words;

become children of the truth.

Do you hear his voice?

 

Pilate’s not impressed.

Like many men of power,

truth is a nuisance.

 

© Ken Rookes 2021

The end

 

Haiku of the passion.

Can’t risk a riot;

wait till the festival’s past.

Then we can kill him.

Nothing much has changed,

the dirty work still happens

when no one’s watching.

They set up Judas

to betray him. Paid him well,

presumably.

Sharing sacred meal

he spoke of being betrayed..

Surely not I, Lord?

They shared bread and wine.

My body, my blood, for you;

find me deep within.

You will all leave me

when the testing time is here;

even you, Peter.

Sit here while I pray,

he told his friends. But they slept;

the flesh being weak.

Betrayed and taken,

put on trial; the outcome

predetermined.

Taken to Pilate.

Are you the King of the Jews?

Have you no answer?

Let me release him;

he does not deserve death. No!

Give us Barabbas!

Much mocking, spitting,

purple cloak with crown of thorns.

Lead him out to die.

They crucified him,

with two bandits, one each side.

There was much mocking.

At noon the darkness.

At three, abandonment’s cry,

and then the last breath.

With linen grave-cloth

he is entombed. A stone rolled

to seal the entrance.

 

© Ken Rookes 2021

 

Into your hands

Haiku of the end.

They arrest Jesus

decide upon the verdict,

begin the trial.

Taken to Pilate,

He is accused of treason;

by his own people.

A Galilean,

you say! He’s not my problem;

take him to Herod!

Jesus the healer!

says Herod, all excited.

Show for me a sign!

He keeps them guessing,

refusing to play their game,

keeping his mouth shut.

Pilate resists them,

He has done no wrong. Flog him,

then we’ll let him go.

The crowd shout him down.

Pilate, lacking conviction,

lets Barabbas go.

Beaten and broken

Jesus staggers ‘neath his cross.

The Cyrene bears it.

The inscription reads

This is the king of the Jews.

A king for us all.

They are mocking him:

If you are king, save yourself!

The soldiers join in.

Two others also,

criminals, guilty as charged,

are hanged there with him.

The one also mocks.

The other entreats: Jesus,

do not forget me.

At three he cries out,

Father. I am in your hands!

and draws his last breath.

The crowd return home,

beating their breasts, questioning,

What is it we’ve done?

© Ken Rookes 2019

So you are a king?

Haiku for a trial

The procurator

knew what the job demanded;

kept the lid on things.

Pontius Pilate

found the case most perplexing;

called him in again.

Let’s not mess around:

Are you the king of the Jews?

How will he reply?

Jesus answered him.

What do they say about me,

what makes you ask this?

Hey, I’m not a Jew!

Your own people turned on you;

what is it you’ve done?

It’s not from this world,

my kingdom. No, otherwise

we would be fighting.

My kingdom is found

in another realm, where peace,

love and justice rule.

So you are a king?

Pilate keeps on questioning,

cannot understand.

All earthly kingdoms

self-destruct, bring only pain

and futility.

This worldly kingdom,

wherein we dwell, is rooted

in greed, wealth and fear.

For this I have come,

to speak truth. Listen to me;

let me be your king.

© Ken Rookes 2018

The last day

Haiku of the passion

Lord, we are your friends;

You’re everything to us:

we’d never betray.

You’ll all desert me,

but don’t dwell on these failures.

There is always hope.

Even you, Peter,

so stop your protestations;

you will deny me.

Take my body-bread,

this wine, red like my bleeding;

my life, shared for you.

Facing his fears

while his weary friends sleep on;

praying all alone.

Jesus is betrayed,

arrested and put on trial.

There is one outcome.

Who are you, Jesus?

Are you the king that some claim,

the promised from God?

It has been settled.

He walks to the killing place

where his cross awaits.

They laugh and they mock,

they taunt him as he hangs there,

silent, accepting.

His work is complete.

He takes his final breath, sighs,

and lets it all go.

© Ken Rookes 2018

Ecce Homo

Linocut, 15x20 cm

Haiku of the end.

Should we pity him,

Judas, called Iscariot?

He made his choices.

Eat my body-bread

and drink of my red wine-blood;

remember my life.

Even you, Peter,

you will also run away;

three times denying.

In garden prayers

he asks to be delivered.

His companions sleep.

They come with clubs, swords

and a resolve to end it.

He is arrested.

Tried by Caiaphas,

convicted of blasphemy.

Never any doubt.

Taken to Pilate

to receive his death sentence;

this King of the Jews.

Silence, his answer,

he calmly accepts his fate;

trusts himself to God.

The crowd finds its voice.

Convicted and condemned,

he is led away.

The cross is shouldered,

and taken beyond the gates,

to the killing place.

There is no mercy.

The man is fixed to his cross

and lifted up high.

The skies are darkened.

A cry of dereliction

signifies the end.

They mounted a guard

at the entrance to the tomb:

what did they expect?

© Ken Rookes 2017

Jesus before Herod: a haiku sequence

A king called Herod

looks down from his lofty throne;

he has the power.

He smiles, curious,

having heard rumours and tales;

wonders if they're true.

He requests a sign;

but the man stands silently

and gives him nothing.

The monarch persists,

hearing the accusations,

asks: What do you say?

No words are spoken.

Jesus stands before the king,

waits for the next step.

Treated with contempt,

he is robed, mocked and dismissed.

Your problem, Pilate.

© Ken Rookes 2016.

So you are a king? A group of Haiku.

Nazareth's native

handed over for judgement:

an unlikely king.

The foreign ruler,

intrigued, probes with his questions,

but gets no answers.

He asks, Are you king?

The charge is laid against you;

what, then, have you done?

Where is your kingdom?

You won't find it around here.

Then again; perhaps.

Try looking harder,

opening your heart, your mind;

God's reign has come near

For this I was born,

for truth I came among you;

listen to my voice.

So you are a king?

The question hangs in the air;

each one must answer.

© Ken.Rookes 2015

 and a short subsequent poem that takes us a couple of verses  beyond the RCL reading.

If he fell over it

For two thousand years

Pilate has been asking:

What is truth?

Like most people of wealth and power

he wouldn't recognise truth if he fell over it,

or if it stood before him.

© Ken.Rookes 2015

Why do you strike me?

He spoke his truth in places
where all could hear,
without any concern for caution.
Recklessly trusting in the God he called Father,
his courage could not be questioned,
bringing its own accusation
to those who had compromised. The voice of integrity
receives an uncertain welcome.
Truth is an expendable annoyance,
a disturbing inconvenience
for those who worship at the altars
of power, wealth and fear;
it will be dealt with.
Speaking openly and passionately
of love’s primacy, the man is unbending,
apparently unconcerned about the consequences
of his unauthorised utterances.
When finally Jesus is brought to account
he answers with the same disregard
for the opinions of his accusers.
A local walloper in the service
of the chief priests and Pharisees
feels compelled to strike him on the face
for his presumed disrespect.
Why do you strike me
when I have said nothing wrong?
he asks on his own behalf,
and perhaps for the sake of the millions of innocent
speakers of truth
in the centuries before and since.
Hold firm, Jesus,
there is worse to come.

© Ken Rookes 2013

A question of identity

It is a question of identity.
If you are . . .
Is this not . . ?
Who is this . . ?
Who do you say . . ?
So, at the end, when he is paraded
for judgement, before the governor,
the tetrarch, and then the governor once more;
the questions continue.
Who are you, carpenter;
are you a king?
Will you perform for us a sign,
a something that will set our minds at rest;
or speak for us a word that will seize us,
a truth that will change our living?
No answer is given;
only silence.
The words have long been spoken,
scattered alongside the road, in villages,
kitchens and lake shores.
Some were heeded,
some discarded;
there will be no more.
One final message remains to be uttered.
It is not new, but a repetition
of the oft-spoken word
by which the man has shaped his living
and wrought his identity.
It will not be voiced by lips and tongue,
but by his body, suspended
and reaching out.

© Ken Rookes 2013

What is truth?

Acrylic painting
Ken Rookes 2012

Truth; does it still exist?

What, indeed, is this stuff;

the subject of the pilatean enquiry

nearly two millennia ago?

A large group of self-appointed custodians

recently forfeited any claim

to represent truth,

having betrayed their Master

by placing the needs of reputation

ahead of the fruits of compassion and justice

of which he was wont to speak.

They were not the first.

There are others, so caught up

with notions of what is and is not correct,

that they become blind to what might be true.

We squeeze it, push it,

poke and prod it into strangely shaped vessels

that can never properly contain it,

and then express our surprise when it bursts out,

spilling its disquieting trouble

over those standing too near.

We search anxiously for something convenient

with which to wipe it away.

Like the Roman governor

we don’t really expect an answer to our question.

The prisoner’s silence serves us well;

we welcome the stillness,

pretending that it is the same as peace.

But our evasions remain incomplete,

and in the determined hush

the remembering persists.

We recall his teachings, his defiant words

that tell of hearing and seeing and reaching.

Other tales intrude too,

including his own troubled story,

about to be made complete

with betrayal, bleeding and weeping.

The stories stealthily invade our silence;

to weave around and through a living parable

catching us up into his unavoidable truth

with all its disturbing expectations.

© Ken Rookes 2012

 A bit of a work in progress. Might revisit later in the week.

Voices

Voices,

shrill, desperate and frightened,

accumulate in layers

across the courtyard

and force their way in

through windows and open doors.

They bounce along corridors of marble

and echo blurringly from stone tiles

and vaulted ceilings,

to disturb the earnest enquiries

of the Roman administrator

as he presses the prisoner

for an answer he can use.

The man refuses to be constrained by his bonds

and speaks calmly of truth,

too easily it seems to his interrogator,

who demands a definition

for the well worn word..

The man accused of kingly conspiracy

remains silent, knowing that his truth

is difficult to hear.

It is a place where evil and cruelty

meet their limits;

where death is no longer feared,

and where hope,

no matter how low its wick burns,

will never be extinguished.

This disturbing truth will be reached

through a mix of painful love,

generous suffering, and much bleeding;

little wonder his clamouring protagonists

find it so unpalatable.

In the end

the Governor finds it all too difficult

and surrenders the man

to the voices.

© 2012 Ken Rookes