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Thieves on the Cross
I stand behind a cluster of olive trees looking on.
Over sixty villagers have gathered for this execution.
If my son was not one of the convicts being executed,
Perhaps I too would be close to the front – baying for blood.
A lion’s den for humans.
Thirty years have passed since he was born,
to what we believed to be a loving family.
Where did we go wrong?
His birth was the most joyous of days.
His mother, with her mother, brought him into this world.
We stared at him throughout the night.
“A boy . . . a boy.”
We repeated this phrase throughout the night
as we gloated in his birth and thanked the Almighty for blessing us.
Such Hope. Such Joy.
He grew as children grow.
Like a hurricane passing, he grew from child to teenager.
Always pleasant: always helpful and mannerly.
People commented on how proud we must have been as he grew.
“Great hope for the future,” they would say.
13
You really don’t notice the change.
A neighbour’s son, Gesta, shared time with him.
They laughed and enjoyed life.
They hung around with all the other young men of the village.
And yes, women – always women.
Four years were to pass when he and Gesta went to work as shepherds.
We worried. Yes. We prayed. Yes.
But hope: always hope that he might come home.
Maybe get married and bless us with grandchildren.
Like most men I stayed strong and did not speak of his absence.
His mother suffered. His absence tortured her.
All her bones ached – and her heart.
The knocks on the door are frightening.
We are greeted at the door by soldiers.
“Your son Dismas has been found guilty of robbery.”
“Please. No. Not Dismas.”
“Yes,” says the chief soldier. “He will die tomorrow.”
I hide behind some olive trees.
I watch my son cry in pain as the soldiers raise him on a cross.
Tears roll down my face: frightened: scared: broken.
All my hope gone.
His friend Gesta also.
I ask who the third man is.
“Jesus,” they say. “A Nazarene.”
“Theft also?” I ask
“No. Adoring false gods.”
My son. Legs now broken.
I collapse in torture.
Unable to stand, as if my own legs are broken.
Outside of Jerusalem, at Golgotha.
Three young men are crucified.
All their dreams, and those of their families, destroyed.
Dismas, his friend Gesta, and a stranger called Jesus.
Crucified.
Cruelty personified.
Will anyone remember their names?
Gerry Cody
Brother, Mentor, Friend
In the stillness of the night
When the world is in repose
I survey the dormant land
And battle fiendish foes
I ford the yawning chasm
Across the silent years
Call your name with fondness
And say hello with tears
A symphony of goodness
Makes trouble disappear
Gentle humour touches me
And soothes away my fear
The future and the past are one
Dissolved the great divide
Sun is shining everywhere
And souls no longer hide
The solace of our meeting
Eases painful strife
Courage, truth and wisdom
Encapsulating life
Towards this grand Nirvana
Where joyful hearts accrue
The pilgrim’s weary footsteps
propel me close to you
Though the road is undulating
And it doesn’t seem to end
It leads us to salvation
Brother, Mentor, Friend.
Pat Cody
Apples and Conkers
My love is round as tea-rings circling
13-Down in canal-walk brown
His pen beside the folded Times
An inked baton to be carried on
Wordlessly except “Did you get 3-Across?”
My love is round as wide hips, as
Lips that coo reassurances
Spirals on stone washed in glitter and
Sea-foam
Soft words swoop and swerve
And never
Cut to the point
I leave behind the straight lines of
Tall buildings, of men with
Hard-backed confidence and
Clear
Lines
Of vision
Pillars of the community
I bend them out with
Round, love-clenched fists
And make grand, sweeping arches of them
I walk them now, these
Moss-drenched bridges that bow to
What is oncoming
I pluck at the offerings
Apples and conkers
And eat from a plateful of humility.
Bridget Cody
