How Long?

Advent’s aching cries

are answered liturgically

by Christmas’s declaration

that the Christ is born among us.

It is a momentary reply;

by New Year the complaint has been renewed

as we mark the passing and the weepings

of another twelve months.

The world still waits.

In comfortable lands people are encouraged

to make worthy resolutions

towards a better future,

usually for themselves;

while corporate and national intentions

seem incapable of positive resolve.

The wealthy still cleave to their riches

while the poor are bought and sold;

resources are hoarded;

fearful armies are marshalled and deployed;

and involuntary wanderers search in vain

for a welcoming embrace.

The planet grows warm and sad

while clever fools peddle their fearful doctrines

to ensnare their eager acolytes.

How long?

We cry once more, and again,

as we face a further fifty-two weeks

wherein our tears will swell to a flood

to carry our relaunched supplications

floating before the Almighty.

With this fragile hope we seek

that the God Who Comes will take notice;

and that our yearnings might be echoed

in divine spirit, and find substance

in our breath.

© Ken Rookes 2011

John’s question

This is my home, my cell.

I am used to deprivation.

Sleeping among the rocks

by the river with the scorpions

and spiders in mid-winter

was hardly a suite in the palace.

No, it is not the discomfort.

Nor is it the constant threat that weighs

so heavily upon my chest

as if death itself were a thing to be feared.

I miss the sky, and the sun

that daily dissects it; and the wind

and the rain upon my cheeks.

Here, in my cell I hear only distantly

the calls of the birds,

and the occasional scurrying rat

is a poor substitute for the joy

of the darting lizard. Yes, I miss all these;

but I close my eyes and I feel myself

free again, with the voice of Yahweh

echoing once more through the valley

and inside my head.

My followers risk their own freedom

to bring me word of another,

the teacher from Galilee;

he who came to me that day

at the river. They repeat his stories,

and I feel the glow of hopefulness renewed,

this sad beauty that aches deep within.

I crave freedom.

My yearning is made more deep

and more painful

by the thought that the divine Spirit

may have begun a long-awaited work;

and I, John, called the Baptiser,

constrained by these bars and chains,

am unable to take part

in the new thing that God is doing.

© 2010 Ken Rookes