Selected poems
On the first Palm Sunday
What a poor showing.
This collection of the
desperate clinging
to a dream so old
it is just a tattered
mumble for old men
in the fading light.
All myth and spittle.
While the world is
turning serious and
sharp on the highways
that tame the earth,
we have this; broken
branches, old prayer
shawls and clouds
of shuffling dust.
And what did they
crowd in to see?
A pointless, painful
parody? Another
insignificant insect
for the long, slow,
fine grinding of
the great heel?
Or, was there
some thing that
made them, for
just a moment,
in their vast longing
for the great day,
when the cold wind
will be done and
the warm sun will
be everywhere,
toss their unneeded
cloaks to the earth?
A three day shift
At the final end of it all on that Friday
it was done as it always is; easily.
Another name scratched from the list.
Just one more soul done down.
And the next day, it's the dirt, the
stink and the cleaning shift. Buckled
bodies dragged clear to make space
for the next quota of ordinary horror.
And the next day, it's dull hollows
hammered into the rock face, holes
for the broken shoveled and scraped
in and already forgotten.
And the next day, just empty sky
and the watching shift. Huddled
in the wind then the black-night
silence, hungry for the sun's
slow return, waiting for the earth
to do its secret work, to push up
life through the dirt and to come
again alive and green in the world.
At the dawning of the day
That old Easter story of killing
and the other thing is a heavy
tale to know now that we feel
so sure of the secrets of blood
and the age of stones and the
hidden ways of everything.
But story is what we have to
tell ourselves about the light
and shadow and the shape
of the void. And this story
all of jagged endings suits
us down to the hard ground.
And it is a good story we
know because a good story
does not leave us in the blank
cave but always shows us the
crimson thread, the breath of
a small wind that every reader
knows is enough to signal a
turn to home. And no matter
that three days dark can seem
an eternity and no matter that
we have done our level best
to seal ourselves into the earth,
the blue grey rock always
cracks and all in a moment we
can find ourselves again
blinking in the full light of day.
Paul Turley recently completed a Masters Degree in poetry through the University of Adelaide focusing on plain or accessible language poems. He has worked for much of his life in community development in not for profit and church agencies. His poems have most recently appeared in In