Hog heaven

Metal won’t be barred

but banned.

No rings through snouts to stop you

snuffling for truffles under golden leaves

and breathing in the scent of soil,

of earth, for the first time ever.

And forever.

There will be no boundaries

to what you see or how you move:

room to run and roll and wallow if you want to

and a sky as wide and deep and high

as love itself.

Your time was brief but it was never meaningless.

Know this, you with the questioning eyes,

you are no one’s property;

you will be who you were made to be

and find where you belong.

 

© Marion Adams 2016

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A brief cradling

In the space between evening and night

eyes half-shut against the last

copper rays

of a sun we know

is not

really dying

we walk in silence just

beyond

the reach of the sea

something is shining

call it silver

a sliver of bright

shining something

moving so

alive and looking

up the only way

possible with one

dark eye

that should be without

expression so what

should I be feeling why

tears

my heart beating in time

with the ebb and the flow

perhaps a trick of the light

but what possesses me

to pick it up

a chill flick across my fingers

and a brief cradling

before I send it quick

mercurial flash

against the duller sky

falling towards a second chance

received within the deep

covering water

my hand still

outstretched until you

reach out and hold

me safe

and make of it

what you will

© Marion Adams 2016

 

 

 

For every wild animal of the forest is mine, the cattle on a thousand hills (Psalm 50:10)

He made me

to delight in the earth, the sun

warm on my face.

Light on my feet, to run,

to frisk, to ruminate,

to contemplate,

to gaze at you

with puzzled gentleness.

You made me

live shortened days, confined.

A commodity, denied the sun,

sore-footed, force-fed fast food,

bewildered and resigned.

Not free.

©Marion Adams 2016

The seven last words: Father, into your hands I commend my spirit

The loud cry startles them:

the lovers and the haters.

With jagged breaths

each syllable hurtles

over the precipice edge

into the void

between

now and the third day.

 

He bows his head.

The lovers weep.

The haters cannot think of what to say.

Hell trembles,

waiting for the harrowing.

© Marion Adams 2016

The seven last words: It is finished

It is finished.

The second Adam

becomes obedient unto death.

 

Boulders cleave.

Tombs spew out the righteous dead

onto uncertain ground.

The curtain rips and gapes.

Glory, glimpsed.

 

It is finished.

A universe of grace unfurls.

© Marion Adams 2016

The seven last words: I thirst

In the wilderness,

between the wadis,

just before first light,

there were

dew-slicked rocks,

drops of moisture set like precious gems

in the folds of tiny leaves:

these helped him live.

 

But there remained a thirst

he could not slake.

It helped him overcome

deadening tedium,

draining acedia,

dizzying temptation,

drove him to heal the sick,

raise the dead,

send the fiends scurrying like rats.

 

To all who thirst, who ask,

he gives the living water.

 

And yet he feels it now,

with every desiccated cell:

this thirst

that will not be assuaged

until he draws all humankind to him

and the kingdom comes.

© Marion Adams 2016

The seven last words: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? (Psalm 22)

The question, surely, is rhetorical;

shorthand for this psalm of ‘yet’ and ‘but’.

Did he not know that,

in the dregs of the bitter cup,

he would taste its full, prophetic dereliction?

 

What is

the chill

that spreads through his veins,

the weight

that dislocates his joints,

the contagion

that coats his tongue

and blots him out?

 

Why has God, his God, forsaken him?

© Marion Adams 2016