Nothing to Prove
Don’t need miracles
Loaves and fishes;
Lazarus wishes
Don’t need purity,
a Virgin birth
for his time on earth
Don’t need witnesses
Kings from far away
God’s voice on baptism day
Don’t need him calm
He threw over tables
Taught radical fables
Didn’t need a temple
Homeless by choice
Folks understood his voice
All I need is his words of love
His hand stretched out to the poor
To street kids, to ‘untouchables’
He was real and human
Dragged his cross to Calvary
Questioned God as he hung from a tree
I don’t need resurrection
No “Mary, don’t you know me?”
No Doubting Thomas: “See?”
All these things could have happened.
If they didn’t, I would
still follow him best I could
The Way is peace, love
The Way is easy it you let it be
If you turn off the world, you’ll start to see
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NOTE: I believe there are “many ways up the mountain.” As much as I follow Jesus, I don’t exclude people of different beliefs from my life. I often have amazing conversations with Jews, Muslims, atheists… anyone willing to engage in love. I am not a biblical literalist and do have a problem engaging some (SOME) fundamentalists because theirs is an absolute path, which is far from my own, and they tend to get mad when asked about “cherry-picking” Scripture. My path is very, very wide, and I truly believe Jesus’ best gift to the world was his message, “Love one another.”
This was written for Poetic Bloomings; their prompt was Easter. This is also posted at Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where I have been a proud member since 2009.
Had a wonderful, mutually respectful conversation with a fellow Christian – he’s a bit more from the right; I’m one of the (not really named) Christian Left. It was a hot topic, and we agreed that there are “many roads up the mountain,” that our aim is not to proselytize, but to put it out there for people to make up their own minds.
Thanks to Marie Elena and Walt for their work on the blog, as well as my Poets United buddies.
Whatever your path, deist, theist, atheist… I wish you peace and acceptance. Amy
HOW I LEFT IT
Shall I compare thee to a summoning day?
Wherefore art thou, morphine drip?
Death, be not proud… nor painful.
Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high, I.
How that corpse got into my pajamas, I dunno.
Don’t forget your parting gift as you exit
the chapel, a little bit of Amy as a souvenir.
Am I still bipolar now that I’m dead, and does that mean
I can spend half my time haunting people who sucked?
Reports of my death will be greatly exaggerated, because
I’m just THAT special.
Rock stars die in plane crashes, but poets die with a phrase
that just came to mind, whispering, “Where’s my journal…?”
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For We Write Poems, asking for our epitaph. (Also at my poetic “resting place,” Poets United!) I’m having my ashes put into doggie bags and distributed to mourners on their way to the post-funeral party at a cheesy bar, with notes to each on where to scatter bits of me. Part to Blanche’s stomping grounds, Council Bluffs. Part into the confluence of the Chenango and Susquehanna Rivers in Binghamton, and a pinch of me dumped into the spiedie sauce at Sharkey’s Bar… Matt Sweeney will get that assignment, no doubt. Carolyn will have Duncan to varnish a bit of me onto her harp used in playing at hospices. Christopher will sneak me into the old Pavarotti dressing room at the Met. Joseph will toss me off the Brooklyn Bridge; Colette gets Venice Beach duty. Walt will sift me onto the floor of the Anchor Bar in Buffalo; Nimue will keep me in a little pill box until she feels a good sneeze coming on, while Viv will sew me into the batting of one of her quilts.
Lex and Riley will be sent on a voyage to San Juan, to Bermuda, and to other places far and wide, so they will have time to talk about stuff. Marcia and Jesse will join them for the Venice Canal tossing; Greggie will take me to 6th and Wilshire, the site of the old Great American Food & Bev. Co. I’m thinking of sending my Republican relatives tea bags filled with… no, that would be mean. And it would taste nasty! Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 