Keith
Holyoak
Selections
from “The Gospel According to Judas”
Seed
Judas, I
judge you not
Until I plumb
your heart
And
grasp your deep desire
For that
is who you are,
The seed
that starts it all:
Desire
becomes your will,
Your
will becomes your deed,
Your
deed your destiny.
OM shanti shantishanti
Top Ten of Infamy
Surfing
the Internet today I hit
Upon a
top-ten list of evil men
Through
history. I checked the names on it,
Fearing
I’d find my own. Idi Amin
And
VladDraculrub shoulders there with Hitler;
Two
spots reflect the glory that was Rome—
Caligula,
teamed with Nero the fiddler.
Attila
the Hun—he looks right at home.
Ivan the
Terrible and Joseph Stalin
Made
Russia quake; Pol Pot’s got hell to pay.
Tomás de
Torquemada, holy Christian,
Surely
deserves his own auto-da-fé.
“Top
tens” are always slightly arbitrary—
King
Leopold might well have made the list.
How many
men did Alexander bury?
Genghis
Khan and Mao were somehow missed.
Pope
Urban II started the Crusades,
Jerusalem
of course the best excuse;
The
massacres by Christians on those raids
Helped
reconcile the Muslims with the Jews.
And
Judas? I don’t really fit the bill—
My deed
was too allusive, far outdone
By those
who relished multitudes to kill.
I never
slew a man (worst case, just One).
Beatitudes
For those who wander
without
a habitation
I place the fixed stars
to
mark your destination;
For those who hunger
and
thirst, unsatisfied,
my banquet awaits
all
guests who step inside.
To those left weeping
alone
in desolation
I come with a smile
to
join your celebration;
To lions who walk
among
the lambs in peace
I send forth a child
so love
and joy increase.
Songs of Mariam Magdala: Lovesick
Asleep at midnight, my heart is wide awake—
beloved,
I hear your knock!
He calls! “Beloved, my sister, my bride, open
your
garden and let me pick
Your
orchard fruit, drink from your fountain flowing
with honeyed milk and with nectar—
Already
the night dew gathers upon my locks,
bring me inside your shelter!”
Lying
in bed the door is just out of reach—
my garments are off, beloved—
My
feet have been bathed, how could I rise and soil them,
how stand before you naked?
Hearing
him try the latch, I rise from bed
and dip my fingers in myrrh;
In
haste I reach for my gown, and drawing it on
at once unbolt the door.
But
oh! He has turned and gone into the night,
gone, and my soul fails me.
My
cry, “Beloved, my door has opened for you!”
brings silence—nothing avails me—
The
cobblestones are cold beneath my feet
and no answer comes.
The
watchmen find me
searching through the city’s
streets and catacombs;
They beat me, bruise me, rip away my veil,
these watchmen of the walls.
I
beseech you, daughters of Jerusalem,
make him hear your calls!
Cry
out, my sisters! Cast judgment as you will—
approve
or disapprove—
But seek
my beloved! And when you find him tell him
I am sick with love.
Sandy Hook
Riding
the morning bus, they left behind
Mommies
and Daddies, dolls and Thomas trains,
Dora the
bold Explorer, trucks and planes,
Their talismans
of home—the routine kind
Of
schoolday bravery the world demands.
Cords
holding children close must soon unravel;
We
cannot guard all roads that they will travel,
Nor walk
by them forever, holding hands.
But more
is owed to innocents than this.
Though
Judas learned a thing about betrayal
Gaping
as Jesus writhed upon the cross
He never
saw a prideful nation fail
To keep
its children whole, to even miss
Its
chance to be redeemed through shame and loss.
After Newtown
Citizens
of this special nation
Mourn
slain children in their fashion
With
rituals that mark the slaughters—
After
they bury sons and daughters
They
curse the madman, not his gun,
And vow
to God, “Never again!”
To help
ensure this never happens
They
print more automatic weapons
And pass
them out so worshipers
All bear
the arms their God confers
(For He
has taught them guns are sacred
Instruments
of love, not hatred).
A
handgun with star-spangled holster
Is laid
upon the highest altar
Where senators
kneel down to pray.
Watching
themgrievethis special way
Jesus
cries out in holy rage
And
Judas weeps below the stage.
Ocean
after Mansur al-Hallaj
Born to
the earth, I made my way
Back to
the ocean whence I came,
Drawn as
the moth that seeks the flame,
And
fought the waves by night and day.
I
punched the breakers—they struck me,
Left me
half-broken on the sand,
Until
the ocean lent a hand,
Lifted
me up and set me free.
And now
I do not cease to swim
Buoyed
up sometimes on waves of love,
At times
pressed under waves above,
While
beacons on the shore grow dim.
Perhaps I was
the
blight that killed the Rose,
a stain across
the
countenance of God—
Or did I make
the
perfect sacrifice,
stab my own soul
so
that the Lamb’s blood flowed;
Or was I just
a
small embellishment,
picked out to play
an
extra in a crowd?
I was perhaps
a
splash of ocean foam,
a dying leaf,
a
clump of broken sod.
Benediction
Do
not grieve overlong when I am gone,
Fearing
that I have left you here alone.
The
time for weeping ends; let tears be done.
Bow
to the four directions—I am there.
I
guide the sun, the moon, the morning star,
And
catch the swallow falling from the air.
I
am with you always, in the bead
Of
dew upon the lotus, in the reed
Beside
the lake, and in the mustard seed.