Sunday, April 20, 2014

Ripped Messiah

Ripped Messiah

Easter reminds us we will stand again
Anastasia - dance card of the young
We wrinkled can’t relate or recall when
with brawn we pulled up from the bottom rung

Enough we don’t fall down. Now take your pills.
Live it all again? No fond desire.
What if the crucified on Calvary’s Hill
An old dude, carpenter ‘fore gospel fire

Made him shake his cane at those righteous swells
they killed him, leaving grandma, sad grandkids
weeping at his cross. Would sedate church bells
salute codger-messiah on the skids?

The Savior of the World he best be ripped
with tats, tall mohawk, ring in those big lips.

Copyright 2014 / Richard Baldwin Cook


Occasional Poems
Richard Baldwin Cook
(Nativa, LLC, 2014)
Available at

and elsewhere

Saturday, April 19, 2014

An Easter poem by the Master

Sunday Morning
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)


Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
[ . . . ]
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.


[ . . . ]
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
[ . . . ]
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measure destined for her soul.

[ . . . ]


Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
[ . . . ]
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

The  complete poem:

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Poetry - "a bridge between separated souls"

April 17 - birthday of Irish poet Brendan Kennelly (1936) who said:

"Poetry is, above all, a singing art of natural and magical connection because, though it is born out of one's person's solitude, it has the ability to reach out and touch in a humane and warmly illuminating way the solitude, even the loneliness, of others. That is why, to me, poetry is one of the most vital treasures that humanity possesses; it is a bridge between separated souls."


Writer's Almanac, April 17, 2013