[qoutes from this book i'm reading: Testament by Nino Ricci. The book is historical fiction- a reaccount of the four gospels. ]

It seemed that what Yeshua taught us was that we could not divide things
into clean and unclean and what could be kept and what cast out, but must take
all as one, and see how it made us.

But there was in Yeshua that quality that made one feel there was something, still, some bit of hope, some secret he might reveal that would help make the world over. Tell me your secret, I had wanted to say to him, tell me, make me new. And even now, though I had left him, I often saw him beckoning before me as towards a doorway he would have had me pass through, from darkness to light.

It was possible, I saw, to return to the old ways, even when the truth had
been laid out before you, since what was familiar was always lying in wait to
reclaim you.

If we have no quarrel with anyone, he said, then we stand for nothing.

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You ask me.
Who is responsible for all this this this this
it's all hit or miss, the skeptic says.
Too prideful to stick to yes or no
lest the buzzer goes while you're
holding onto the temporarily wrong answer.
Drink, drink up, I say. This is the land of milk and honey.
suck. suck the earth dry. His wrath will come. when ho-
one raw and gusty night when all the lights are out
and your infections creep on you like a blister suddenly popped
who do you turn to then? A curious mind wants to know.

If this were a battle ground, land mines and sweating men,
gunshots drowning out the sound and they've forgotten what they're fighting for
then where are we now.
Watchmen are watching no signs of surrender my poor heart breaks.
"its like walking on a wire in a circus."
walking. walking slow and cautious.
When will we tell, and divide. separate.
Can't wash colors with whites lest the bright of the white will fade.
Not meaning black or white war but deeper than that.
This war will rise higher than that petty skin deep disagreement.
This is in souls. and soul saviours. and who controls it all.
And things that didn't seem to matter then keep coming up now
like pitter patter pitter patter rain falls. falling. colors bleeding. revealing
you are of the world and i am of religion-
both being ruled by a passionate conviction for social change.
But I hold my tongue resisting what I really want to say
because we could talk all night but if i mention jesus christ
then i've ended the conversation and i love you but this can only go so far.
"its like walking on a wire in a circus."

I am standing errect, politcally correct, holding my breath-
inside my thoughts are rolling, doing what they were trained to do
With white knuckles I reluctantly clutch my bow,
lean back preparing my aim ... hold, hold.
Watchmen are watching no signs of surrender,
my pour heart breaks. Aching for a way out.
Can't you see according to philosophy that we are enemies?

You ask me.
How do two souls that seem like twins have two different makers.
why is the sky blue? the sky is blue well that's just the way it is my friend.
Let's touch just our fingertips first. please, feel my spirit so i won't have to tell you.
dreaming of a white flag, muttered sky.


---- Anna Irby

"Something Calling"- by Tony Kushner (and Anna Irby)

There is something calling,
if you still retain a shed of decency
you can hear it- it's a dim terrible
voice that's calling-- a bass howl, like
a cow in a slaughterhouse, but
far, far off...
It is calling us to action, calling us
to stand against the calamity,
to spare nothing, not our blood,
not our happiness, not our lives
in the struggle to stop the dreadful day
that's burning now
in oil flames on the horizon.

What makes the voice pathetic
is that it doesn't know
what kind of people it's reaching.
Us.
No one hears it, except us.
This Age wanted heros.
It got us instead:
carefully constructed, but
immobile.
Subtle, but
unfit
to take up
the burden of the times.
It happens.
A whole generation of washouts.
History says stand up,
and we totter and collapse,
weeping, moving, but not sufficient.

The best of us, lacking.
The most decent,
not decent enough.
The kindest,
too cruel,
the most loving,
too full of hate,
the wisest,
too stupid,
the fittest
unfit
to take up
the burden of the times.

The Enemy
has a voice like seven thunders.
What chance did that dim voice ever have?
Marvel that anyone heard it
instead of wondering why nobody did anything,
marvel that we heard it,
we who have no right to hear it-
no right!
And it would be a mercy not to.
But mercy... is a thing... no one
remembers its face
anymore.
------ Tony Kushner---

precept upon precept line upon line
hearing this word but not doing anything!
woe to the street criers woe to the bell ringers
the school teachers the church goers
who know this word
but don't do
anything.

Arise, I say!
Cry out in the night
as the watches of the night begin.
Pour out your heart like water
in the presence of the Lord.

When will you come,
fall down at the throne of grace,
lay down your inabilities
lay down your emptiness
lay down your impotence
and say Father- here i am.
use me. me. me. i will go.
i will obey. i will seek you.
i will. i will.

-------Anna Irby

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mary mary quite contrary

mary mary quite contrary
how does your garden grow,
with silver bells and cocka shells
and pretty maids all in a row.

women, we dress to impress
with our high heels and short skirt
pretending like we don’t mean to flirt
with the men, the women, the pink umbrella
in our underaged nonalcoholic cranberry juice

a night out with the girls
we pretty maids have
grown out of our mother’s pearls,
we now have our own style
and have learned to reconcile
our hips to shashay left right left right
and oh, we look stunning.

who’s that girl… lalalalala
we come together on the dance floor
look into each other’s eyes and like
a beautiful song our souls begin to harmonize
the beat is moving fast I am forgetting what I lack
hiding in this mask of painted nails and silver bells
and regardless of what our inner subconscious
insecurities have said and whether I dressed up for
me or your or him or her
and whether it took me
15 min. or an hour or 3 and a half hours
to powder my nose for you
I am a pretty maid dancing with my girls.

this moment of bliss reminds me
of the time when we
played Chinese firedrill by the Norfolk train
or the time when we
played that game of freeze out in the rain
or the time when we the time when we
when time fails to change
the sister to sister-
we fell in love with god together
singing at the top of our lungs-
I want to fall in love with you

pulling over to run through
that field of yellow dandelions
crayons melted on the back dash
easy bake oven with the light bulb burnt out
endless spend the nights eating ice cream
when we didn’t count calories and my
out fit didn’t define my identity.
when little girls have no one to impress
because boys have cooties
when faith was real and time stood still

when what he said, she said, doesn’t matter
I have no one to flatter and I am me
dancing on the dance floor
just me and my girls with silver bells and cocka shells
pretty maids all in a row
happy to stand together but shattered when I sit alone.

because when I am alone
there are these wasted nights
with the sound of rain on my window, and I-
bent over my journal, am wrecklessly writing words of doubt
and when I ask myself- am I
pretty enough? slim enough? smart enough?
and when I begin to let
cosmo and seventeen tell me what pretty is
and when I compare the size of my thighs to
hers and hers and her

mary mary you better water your garden or its not gonna grow.

I am standing on quick sand
reaching for your hand, begging acceptance
resisting rejection needing protection from this war in my mind
brought by the beauty of you.
friend, you are beautiful.
elevated to perfection making me feel as though I need correction.
losing hold of what little assurance I never received
not knowing who I am trying to please
or how I will ever fill this need,
Father, oh Father tell me
that I am beautifully and wonderfully made.

when we look to our maker to find our identity
we see our steel magnolias releasing their sweet
smell with angels leaning over them,
whispering grow- grow.
women, we are meant to connect with each other
we are meant to connect, not compete with each other.
soul to soul and love to love.
mary, mary, your garden grows beautifully,.
and so does mine.
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in rememberance of the pope... his words to the artists

"With this letter, I turn to you, artists of the world, to assure you of my esteem and to help consolidate a more constructive partnership between art and the Church. Mine is an invitation to rediscover the depth of the spiritual and religious dimension which has been typical of art in its noblest forms in every age. It is with this in mind that I appeal to you, artists of the written and spoken word, of the theatre and music, of the plastic arts and the most recent technoloies to the field of communication. I appeal especially to you. Christian artists: I wish to remind each of you that, beyond functional considerations, the close alliance that has always existed between the Gospel and art means that you are invited to use your creative intuition to enter into the heart of the mystery of the Incarnate God and at the same time into the mystery of man." 1999, Letter from Pope John Paul II
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