Replica of Britain's "Stonehenge" constructed as a memorial to the folly
of war in 1918 in Washington State above the Columbia River Gorge.
of war in 1918 in Washington State above the Columbia River Gorge.
Each of these poems is followed by a PDF file including the same text.
Thinking I Think
by Mark Warns © 2009
My school days return from afar,
And among my emotional scars
Was when they ruined lunch,
And freaked me a bunch,
By showing a brain in a jar.
T’was gooey and goopey and dead,
But that’s not what gripped me in dread.
What brought me the brink
Was thinking I think
With one of those packed in my head.
by Mark Warns © 2009
My school days return from afar,
And among my emotional scars
Was when they ruined lunch,
And freaked me a bunch,
By showing a brain in a jar.
T’was gooey and goopey and dead,
But that’s not what gripped me in dread.
What brought me the brink
Was thinking I think
With one of those packed in my head.
| thinking_i_think.pdf |
A Baby Robin, Worm, and Cat
by Mark Warns © 2009
A baby robin hopped the lawn –
Alert, alight, in speckled vest.
She came with sisters, brothers, friends
To try the worm-fed hearing test.
She looked and leaped and cocked her head
To listen for the worm’s faint squirm.
She pecked now once and once again,
Then gobbled up the woeful worm.
If birds could smile, for they cannot,
She would have beamed and laughed aloud.
But birds can gloat, and that she did,
Her head held high for friends around.
T’was then I saw her coat amiss –
Her tail-plumes gone or cocked astray.
I saw the wound above her tail –
A cat at work, a brutal fray.
Without those feathers she can’t flick
A quick turn when again attacked.
The next cat’s pounce will find its mark,
Not on her plumes, but on her back.
Did she so sin, I thought at once,
To now deserve her hastened death?
Are cats so good that they should play
With lives so new, to take their breath?
But what of she and her short hunt?
Did she not take another’s term?
Was she so goodly to assume
That life is meaningless to worms?
To say, “It’s nature.”, answers much;
For nature knows both life and death
And judges neither on a scale
Of evil or of righteousness.
But who are we in nature’s scheme?
Are we the tigers, snakes, or flowers?
Are we the robins, worms, or cats?
Though it’s their nature, is it ours?
by Mark Warns © 2009
A baby robin hopped the lawn –
Alert, alight, in speckled vest.
She came with sisters, brothers, friends
To try the worm-fed hearing test.
She looked and leaped and cocked her head
To listen for the worm’s faint squirm.
She pecked now once and once again,
Then gobbled up the woeful worm.
If birds could smile, for they cannot,
She would have beamed and laughed aloud.
But birds can gloat, and that she did,
Her head held high for friends around.
T’was then I saw her coat amiss –
Her tail-plumes gone or cocked astray.
I saw the wound above her tail –
A cat at work, a brutal fray.
Without those feathers she can’t flick
A quick turn when again attacked.
The next cat’s pounce will find its mark,
Not on her plumes, but on her back.
Did she so sin, I thought at once,
To now deserve her hastened death?
Are cats so good that they should play
With lives so new, to take their breath?
But what of she and her short hunt?
Did she not take another’s term?
Was she so goodly to assume
That life is meaningless to worms?
To say, “It’s nature.”, answers much;
For nature knows both life and death
And judges neither on a scale
Of evil or of righteousness.
But who are we in nature’s scheme?
Are we the tigers, snakes, or flowers?
Are we the robins, worms, or cats?
Though it’s their nature, is it ours?
| a_baby_robin_worm_and_cat.pdf |
Doctrine’s Pose
by Mark Warns © 2009
In dim-lit hues, in shades of light,
In conflict’s mist, we strut and blunder.
Obscured in fog that we call bright,
We slip and see our views asunder.
We – stiff and strident, doctrinaire –
Confess no questions in our hearts,
For doctrines will not questions bear
Lest questions fling the false apart.
But if we watch and listen close,
The mist may lift, our minds may see
The cracks in doctrine’s rigid pose
Relax the path from you to me.
by Mark Warns © 2009
In dim-lit hues, in shades of light,
In conflict’s mist, we strut and blunder.
Obscured in fog that we call bright,
We slip and see our views asunder.
We – stiff and strident, doctrinaire –
Confess no questions in our hearts,
For doctrines will not questions bear
Lest questions fling the false apart.
But if we watch and listen close,
The mist may lift, our minds may see
The cracks in doctrine’s rigid pose
Relax the path from you to me.
| doctrines_pose.pdf |
The Gift of Man
by Mark Warns © 2009
A blush of blue surprises night.
A hint of light foretells the day.
Defeated, darkness will retreat
Before the yellow, red-orange rays.
The sun will show her brilliance soon,
To warm or blind us as we may.
The sun will shine on each of us –
On blest and damned, on hunters, prey.
The sun will see a wondrous world
Of greens and browns, of trees and sod;
Where people struggle, toiling long
To build upon the grace of God.
Where people shape mere rocks to spires –
From mind to plan, from eye to hand.
Where people plow the fields to fruit,
Where people love this lovely land.
But if the sun remembers much,
She’ll look back through our centuries.
She’ll see how well we ruin ourselves.
She’ll count our wealth of misery.
She’ll see the millions murdered,
dead Beneath this land we love so well.
She’ll see that we who could build peace
Had often built an earthly hell.
No, paradise will not be here,
But peace can still be shaped by hand.
For life on earth’s the gift of God,
And peace on earth’s the gift of man.
by Mark Warns © 2009
A blush of blue surprises night.
A hint of light foretells the day.
Defeated, darkness will retreat
Before the yellow, red-orange rays.
The sun will show her brilliance soon,
To warm or blind us as we may.
The sun will shine on each of us –
On blest and damned, on hunters, prey.
The sun will see a wondrous world
Of greens and browns, of trees and sod;
Where people struggle, toiling long
To build upon the grace of God.
Where people shape mere rocks to spires –
From mind to plan, from eye to hand.
Where people plow the fields to fruit,
Where people love this lovely land.
But if the sun remembers much,
She’ll look back through our centuries.
She’ll see how well we ruin ourselves.
She’ll count our wealth of misery.
She’ll see the millions murdered,
dead Beneath this land we love so well.
She’ll see that we who could build peace
Had often built an earthly hell.
No, paradise will not be here,
But peace can still be shaped by hand.
For life on earth’s the gift of God,
And peace on earth’s the gift of man.
| the_gift_of_man.pdf |
INTRODUCTION TO "THE CRUCIFIXION"
"The Crucifixion" is a poem in two parts, and PDFs for the combined work and for the individual Parts I and II are included below.
Part I, "The Cross", provides a history of the Roman use of the cross as a method execution from the Punic Wars up to the Jesus Christ's last few breaths.
Part II, "Called to Song", explains His last words from the cross as recorded by the two Jewish Synoptic Evangelists, Saints Matthew and Mark, as both His death and the Sabbath approached that Friday.
Part I, "The Cross", provides a history of the Roman use of the cross as a method execution from the Punic Wars up to the Jesus Christ's last few breaths.
Part II, "Called to Song", explains His last words from the cross as recorded by the two Jewish Synoptic Evangelists, Saints Matthew and Mark, as both His death and the Sabbath approached that Friday.
The Crucifixion
By Mark Warns © 2022
I. The Cross
Counted in the booty skinned from Carthage,
Plundered with the people Rome enslaved,
Stolen with their art and artists,
Victor legions shipped home the cross.
Brutal, slow, relentless cross.
Public torture unto death.
Carthage-made but Rome-perfected.
Death and degradation engineered.
Cross. Too cruel for citizens,
Saved for slaves and primitive provincials.
Spikes. Three spikes. Precise triangulation,
Stretching arms and bending knees, they pounded
Spikes through thickest bones of hands and feet for
Geometric agony that focused
On its lowest point, the spike transfixing
Feet to post. For if erect, their weight all
Borne on iron-scraped bones around that spike, they
Still could breathe. They still could live. But sinking,
Hearts and lungs would drown within their chests,
A rattling death to end their torture.
If unbeaten and unscourged,
Victims could survive for days,
With crows by daylight, rats by night,
Deaths sadistic sport for hecklers.
But Jesus Christ they beat and beat,
With hands and hate-clenched fists and sticks.
They stripped and scourged Him back and front,
A round-end scourge that left Him clothed in royal purple bruise
From neck to calves. They spat, and mocked, and crowned
The Jews’ new King with thorns they hammered deep.
Christ, crucified, collapsed in hours. And, hanging from the spikes,
He struggled through His last few breaths as earthly death drew near.
II. Called to Song
The ninth hour found Him hanging limp,
Spikes driven through His hands and feet.
As death advanced from fingers, toes,
By inches to His lymph-filled chest.
His hands and arms, His feet and legs,
Gone numb – no more to agonize ‒
But gone as well their strength to hold
Him up, allowing Him to breath.
Compressed in fluid, strangling, squeezed,
His lungs and heart were drowning then.
His breath in pain-shot gasps, His heart
Pain-strained to pump what blood remained.
His life reduced to minutes, breaths,
He looked out on His fellow Jews.
The crowd, who just five days before
“Hosanna in the highest!” cried,
And called Him “Rabbi” all that week,
Had then today called for His blood.
Sanhedrin stoked, their fiery hate
Had not consumed their Rabbi’s love.
Instead, His love for them unchanged,
The Christ, their Rabbi – Shepherd, too –
Reached out with love to these His sheep –
Lost sheep – with these His last few words.
How many words could He gasp out?
A few to use His last full breath.
But how explain this day’s events,
Foretelling deeds in days to come?
With nothing left, no nothing but
His brilliance and divinity,
He fought to lift His wounded head,
Looked past their wicked sneers to love
Their errant souls. And from the cross
That Friday as Shabbat approached,
As in a village synagogue,
Their Rabbi called them all to song.
“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani.”
These words begin a song – a Psalm
Of David – etched upon the souls
Of every Jew on Golgotha.
Despite themselves, they sang it then.
They sang it in their hearts by heart,
And heard it deep within their souls,
With Him who hears inside us all,
The Christ who called them each to song.
In silence, they sang prophecy
Of every sin they’d witnessed there,
As well foretelling us today,
All nations turning to the Lord.
Some hardened hearts grew harder still,
To persecute the early Church.
But some who sang that Psalm awoke
Aghast to think what they had done.
For some would fifty-one days hence,
At Pentecost, with thousands more –
The Spirit-filled – repent their sins,
Convert to Christ, and know His love.
And some would preach the Word themselves,
And some of them were martyred too,
Enduring all to spread the Faith,
To preach the Good News to the world.
So, in the silence at His death,
He heard a thousand hearts as one.
They sang His death and death’s demise,
For it was finished...and begun.
This Psalm is the 21st in the Septuagint and
the 22nd in Western translations of the Bible.
By Mark Warns © 2022
I. The Cross
Counted in the booty skinned from Carthage,
Plundered with the people Rome enslaved,
Stolen with their art and artists,
Victor legions shipped home the cross.
Brutal, slow, relentless cross.
Public torture unto death.
Carthage-made but Rome-perfected.
Death and degradation engineered.
Cross. Too cruel for citizens,
Saved for slaves and primitive provincials.
Spikes. Three spikes. Precise triangulation,
Stretching arms and bending knees, they pounded
Spikes through thickest bones of hands and feet for
Geometric agony that focused
On its lowest point, the spike transfixing
Feet to post. For if erect, their weight all
Borne on iron-scraped bones around that spike, they
Still could breathe. They still could live. But sinking,
Hearts and lungs would drown within their chests,
A rattling death to end their torture.
If unbeaten and unscourged,
Victims could survive for days,
With crows by daylight, rats by night,
Deaths sadistic sport for hecklers.
But Jesus Christ they beat and beat,
With hands and hate-clenched fists and sticks.
They stripped and scourged Him back and front,
A round-end scourge that left Him clothed in royal purple bruise
From neck to calves. They spat, and mocked, and crowned
The Jews’ new King with thorns they hammered deep.
Christ, crucified, collapsed in hours. And, hanging from the spikes,
He struggled through His last few breaths as earthly death drew near.
II. Called to Song
The ninth hour found Him hanging limp,
Spikes driven through His hands and feet.
As death advanced from fingers, toes,
By inches to His lymph-filled chest.
His hands and arms, His feet and legs,
Gone numb – no more to agonize ‒
But gone as well their strength to hold
Him up, allowing Him to breath.
Compressed in fluid, strangling, squeezed,
His lungs and heart were drowning then.
His breath in pain-shot gasps, His heart
Pain-strained to pump what blood remained.
His life reduced to minutes, breaths,
He looked out on His fellow Jews.
The crowd, who just five days before
“Hosanna in the highest!” cried,
And called Him “Rabbi” all that week,
Had then today called for His blood.
Sanhedrin stoked, their fiery hate
Had not consumed their Rabbi’s love.
Instead, His love for them unchanged,
The Christ, their Rabbi – Shepherd, too –
Reached out with love to these His sheep –
Lost sheep – with these His last few words.
How many words could He gasp out?
A few to use His last full breath.
But how explain this day’s events,
Foretelling deeds in days to come?
With nothing left, no nothing but
His brilliance and divinity,
He fought to lift His wounded head,
Looked past their wicked sneers to love
Their errant souls. And from the cross
That Friday as Shabbat approached,
As in a village synagogue,
Their Rabbi called them all to song.
“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani.”
These words begin a song – a Psalm
Of David – etched upon the souls
Of every Jew on Golgotha.
Despite themselves, they sang it then.
They sang it in their hearts by heart,
And heard it deep within their souls,
With Him who hears inside us all,
The Christ who called them each to song.
In silence, they sang prophecy
Of every sin they’d witnessed there,
As well foretelling us today,
All nations turning to the Lord.
Some hardened hearts grew harder still,
To persecute the early Church.
But some who sang that Psalm awoke
Aghast to think what they had done.
For some would fifty-one days hence,
At Pentecost, with thousands more –
The Spirit-filled – repent their sins,
Convert to Christ, and know His love.
And some would preach the Word themselves,
And some of them were martyred too,
Enduring all to spread the Faith,
To preach the Good News to the world.
So, in the silence at His death,
He heard a thousand hearts as one.
They sang His death and death’s demise,
For it was finished...and begun.
This Psalm is the 21st in the Septuagint and
the 22nd in Western translations of the Bible.
| the_crucifixion.pdf |
| the_cross.pdf |
| called_to_song.pdf |