Category: Poetry

Easter Day

Something happ’ed in darkest night,
change too wild to be true;
now as we gather in new dawn light,
there are footsteps in the dew.

Friday’s blood already dust,
we’ve not farewelled or blessed.
They bundled him away – needs must –
no balm, no love’s caress.

No Passover Moses filled the void,
blood’s smeared enough on hands.
Elijah’s tipped, old prophet spoiled,
Friday buried Sabbath plans.

Violence ’vaded heav’n it seems,
the temple veil is torn.
But wait –
Holy reaches out, redeems.
Grace trickles from a thorn.

Something happ’ed in darkest night,
change too wild to be true;
now as we gather in new dawn light,
there are footsteps in the dew.
© Sharonne Price 2017

The bleak

I have lived so long in the bleak.
Bent over
back to the whipping wind
grasping at God-shelter to grow just enough green.

There’s limestone beneath.
Ancient sea-bed now coursed with recent rains.
It flows through my toes.

God, you whisper
“Wind and water, wind and water. Hold on. Hold on”
And I do. It is grace.

This church that blows and blusters
will blast on.
And I, wizened, weary and swayed,
will yet rejoice in the green.

Formed.

© Sharonne Price
January 2013,
After watching the trees on the windswept plains of the South East of South Australia

Old Bride

Stately old lady, God’s church.
She lumbers her way,
Limbs weary with pains from the old abuses
and loaded with all the good
she can’t do anymore.

Stubborn old lady, God’s church,
waiting with Havisham
for a missing groom,
while the cobwebs grow heavy
and unfed guests drift back into the night.

Lonely old lady, God’s church.
She still hopes they’ll come
like dutiful children to sip and to swallow
whilst in polite conversation
about …well…you know… .

But deep down she knows the meaning of things.
She’ll muster the strength of the past,
to watch for the flames
that flicker and grow in new hearths
and embers that fire newborn hearts.

Then she too will arise, a barefoot bride,
and skip off with her groom ’cross the moors,
soft silky veil adrift in the wind.
She’ll wade into waves on new shores
and turning, throw her bouquet to old bridesmaids –
friends left behind.

Sharonne Price

New York 2006

Lord have mercy.
Christ have mercy.
Christ have mercy.

They’ve brought guns into St Pat’s, for
Nuns must be safe
as they share the holy elements.

Simple things
Bread and wine
In simple hands

This is the new liturgy.
911,
Have mercy on us
Do this in remembrance of me
911,
Have mercy on us,
Body and blood given without warning
911,
Have mercy on us
Sacred and profane.

Lord, in your living, you restore our life.
Grant us your peace. Amen

Monarch

I watched that Monarch
and could not say –
Was she wrestling her way out
of the cracking chrysalis,
or writhing her way in?

Such inexorable effort,
innate, not chosen.
Not brave, not heroic,
just obedient to life.

No swaddling ever held so tight.
The miracle of wings. Delight.

And those of us who’ve seen this a thousand times
still wring our hands
and say “God is gone. The church is doomed”.

We’ve forgotten Easter news,
left it sleeping in the pews.

As if that ever made a butterfly.

Sharonne Price 2013