Sheep Dung in the Upper Room

March 30, 2009

I suppose this could be categorized as an Easter poem. It takes place the day of the Last Supper. This is another piece that I want to include in my series concerning God getting dirty. The original inspiration came from one of our pastor's sermons (Cal Woods, Pointe North Community Church, Moncks Corner, SC) in which he related an experience in which he stepped in dog doo and tracked it into a church conference room.


Sheep Dung in the Upper Room

I jump out of the boat
and into the muddy water.
Dragging the boat to shore
silt and sand slide under my feet
and through my toes.
It has been a good day for fishing.
Hauling basket after basket
of flopping fish flinging
water and scales,
I think of the Passover meal
to be shared with the Master this night.

But the nets, dripping with kelp and fish crap,
need to be tended. Sand gnats
nip at my ankles as I hurriedly finish my tasks.
Running up the bank,
wet sand from my sandals
splat my calves. Rushing through
the pasture, tall field grasses slap my shins,
leaving their seed clinging to the sweat,
hiding in the hairs of my legs.

I push through the crowded market
of the multitudes making last minute
preparations for Passover.
The streets are covered
with discarded rotted figs and grapes
mingling with the dust of ages and
the urine of goats and dogs and sheep.
Heedless of where I place my steps,
I almost fall
when my foot finds the fresh leavings
of a sheep.

Vaguely aware of the odor
from my freshly soiled sandal,
I enter the upper room
and partake of the supper
with my brethren and the Master.
And though I try to ignore it,
the trail of dust and dung
I have imprinted upon the floor behind me
is evident to all.

Then,
at the end of the meal
after the bread has been broken
and the wine has been shared,
the Master girds himself with a towel
and washes our feet.

A Hymn For The Passover Rabbit

(December 10, 2008)

Searching for Fabergé eggs
          in the brightly lit graveyard,
adorned in our finest suits
          and frilly bonnets

because the hare
          was split on Thursday,
                    one day before Friday
                    (explain why it's good)
and the chocolate covered bunny bled
          paschal coloured dye.

But they were well concealed
          in the plastic shredded grass
                    of pink and green

until Our Lady of Constant Concept-
          uality (her stage name
                    being Madonna) showed up
                    for the final act and filled
her bloody basket to the brim
          with Jelly Belly® beans.

And now it is Sunday morning
          and we feast on fatted pig
as sugar-coated chickies ascend
          into cotton candy clouds.

Christmas Past

(December 9, 2002)
I wrote this as a Christmas "card" for a writing group I had the pleasure of being a part of. The group met monthly at the local Barnes & Noble. I was working 2 jobs (Waffle House nights and Applebee's days) and would give up my afternoon nap to attend. I couldn't sleep. My mind would continue to buzz after these creative, critiquing sessions!


Traditions remembered,
Memories enshrined;
Futures envisioned,
Pasts left behind.

Greeting card feelings,
Sentiments opined;
Gift giving lost meaning,
Wantonness fine dined.

Secular icons,
Religion maligned;
Material embraced,
The Spirit resigned.

Brilliance is dangled—
Invitations to blind.
Illumination replaced,
Truth redefined.

One chorus forgotten:
Perfection designed
For peace on this earth,
Good will to mankind.