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The Capuchins
At dusk, the capuchins
walk through the walls of silence
tripping over a ground made weak
by the burden of a prayer no longer
sang away by the opium-fed masses.
the chalice wears the roughest hair shirt
a mad race to humiliation, a trance lying
on three hard boards
Where are the sheep? Where is the wolf?
The weight of human ego broke
the existentialist wheel into a flat ground
four columns of monks to keep the roof
of a pagan ritual, vertical and haughty.
Ecstasies of the soul are left to fend for themselves
in a confessional omission.
cells of stones drowned in nihilism.
A bell keeps ringing deep in human conscience
the smelling salt of the sublime is few
Bethlhem
My code is invalid in the electronic night
where cardiac ressusciation bleeps
in Bethlhem , yet another day
The candles' glow of the illusion
levitates over the bed ridden
conscience of the world
A thousand hearts narrated
in the cloned oriental nightmare
where Ghaza measures aimelessly
its existence by the Big Ben
of the missile heads' target
A timeless measure trembling at the sound
of its own exploded lies. There was no mother
in the barn: a new born message cried in mutters
awaiting its turn on the cross, the wood of pinocchio
in his hands, helplessly shaping humankind
the message was cold and alone,
and yet it is here.
The miracle
Michel de Notredame brought in the rats
of pain that ate away the food of life
within one quatrain
The pain empties the wind of its cargo of madness
the spiked whips have flagellated every hope
the walls of dreams sullied
with the blood of uncertainty
Hear your name called from deep within
Touch the bread; touch the fish in multiplication
Make it mountains of sustenance
to feed the hungry mouth of man
Touch the bread, touch the fish
with the nailed hands. Multiply
Feed their hearts forever with miracle
to fight the rats of pain and despair
Excerpts from Anataalie's Dream Plantations-Poetry of Rahman Brigitte-published in the USA
