Usually my travel notes are a sort of short hand -- sentences sans verbs -- quick experiential snippets in poetic prose... Here are two such 'notations' that descended on me in Jerusalem.
In the Mist of History
Listless I tread
this land
Now called the
Middle East
The crossroads
of cultures
The cradle of
civilization, now a crucible of conflict
Every stone here
carries memories of
Eons of time,
glorious and bleak
The ancients
fought against
Forces of
Nature, of desert's dust.
To survive and
flourish
They carved
through sandstone and limestone
Sought water,
built aqueducts, roads,
Enlivened the
Dead Sea.
With dreams and
faith they carved
Holy places of
worship,
Castles,
palaces, and towns
Romans came, saw
and conquered.
Energy exuding
from the sand
Becomes swords
of survival
Olives oil their
hearts, minds, bodies
Enhancing their
treasures, and, alas, turmoil.
Millennia of
marvels slide
Intertwining
trade, technology, and terror
Arts,
architecture and faiths crisscross
Leaving a trail
of blood and tears
Hope of
redemption brings
A song of love
and mercy, a cry for brotherhood
Trust in just,
compassionate God
In Gethsemane
Jesus brooded over life and death
This Friday
evening in Jerusalem
I heard a celebration
of the Sabbath
Mingle with
church bells
and the Muezin's
call for prayer
Children of
Abraham
Jews,
Christians, and Muslims
All assemble at
the same time
Praying for
peace...but are confused
Perhaps God too
is confused
On this misty,
rainy day wondering
Whom not
to help...
--------------------------
Walking
with Jesus on Via Dolorosa
"What are you doing here?" I nearly screamed
Feeling his robe
touching my shoulder
As I walked on
the path of sorrows,
Via Dolorosa in
Jerusalem
Astonished, I
stumbled on the cobbled path
He held my
hand...
"Once I
walked here in agony, remember?"
He whispered
with a faint smile
Staring straight
into my eyes.
"What do
you feel now?"
I asked looking
up at the church in front
Where he once
fell carrying his cross
"I am in
pain, again,"
Spoke his gloomy
eyes.
"They
glorify you and love you,"
I spoke in their
defense
"They built
churches on each of your
Fourteen
stations to Golgotha.
They worship you
like God."
His penetrating
look revealed deep anguish,
"They
forget my words
Remember
another's, Paul's,
Who never heard
me."
The holy
Sepulcher was now behind us,
The sun was
setting
He sat on a
rock, I by his feet,
We stared into
each other's eyes
For
eternity...it seemed
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