Happy Easter to All!

The following is a rePost from last year. This is a poem I wrote a few years back. It's a sestina, so you'll notice the repetition of 7 words throughout. I hope the poem draws you into His presence and reminds you of events long ago…

Silver and Red

Jerusalem’s dusty streets watch money changing hands
among the robed merchants, traders who parley silver
for gain. In the sepulchral halls where lush tapestries kiss
the cold stone behind the throne of the chief priests in their red
robes, it is no different. A solitary creature, bent with burden, has come across
their hallowed threshold to hammer

out a deal. Whispering oaths and an offer, his heart hammers
with fear, indecision. All the while he holds out his sweating hands
to the holy men. Phylacteries weigh lightly on each priestly brow and ghastly smiles cross
their lips for a triumphant moment as they smugly deliver thirty silver
pieces for a life. Reclining later with his rabbi at a table of bread pale and wine red,
he feels on his thigh the electric chill of the new coins, like a harlot’s kiss

teasing. Fleeting like a tryst, the wealth leaves him empty--the betraying kiss
delivered later that night costs his life--and more. A hammer
strikes a bell with forlorn finality as the soldiers with their drawn swords and red
torches surround the gentle man, roughly bind his hands
like a common thief. Marching down the mountain with moonlight silver
upon breastplate and helm, they drag their outlaw across

the streets where he mended lame legs and gave sight to many, though cross
and bitter men chose to stay blind. Made to kiss
the ground before the lofty seat and silver
signet ring of the Roman Governor, he rises to one knee, is hammered
with questions. No guilt found but pressed by mobs, the leader washes his hands
of blame only to gouge the name Pilate red

on the stark scrolls of history. The frenzied crowd, seething red
faces, demand a murderer set free while the innocent one goes to the splintered cross.
Centurions mock the condemned man, placing a reed scepter in his hands,
a scarlet robe on his now flayed back, and, upon the head once kissed
by Mary, a crown of biting thorns. Jeering words hammer
him worse than blows: Save yourself! Prophesy, who struck you? The same silver

centurions force him prone on a wooden beam. The captain removes one silver
nail from a leather pouch. Anticipating the explosion of red,
the captain turns his head just slightly, brings the hammer
down three times. Jerusalem’s skyline, stained as his cross
is raised, darkens but the stifling heat remains. Not even a kiss
from a gentle breeze to relieve his agony as life drains from his feet, his hands.

Memory of that brutal hammer haunted Judas and crosses
time. Will we covet silver above red
or kiss, pierced for us all, His sweet scarred hands?

A Poem...

As some of you already know, I got my creative writing start as a 6th grader. I wrote a scary story for a contest and won a chocolate cat. Mmmm...and a writer was born. But what you may not know is that my first creative passion came in the form of poetry. In high school, I constantly found myself feeling all manor of extreme emotions. Poetry became an outlet. I still love to write poetry and song lyrics. Here's my most recent poem.


So Many Ships

So many ships set sail.
In the beginning, strong
ships, sturdy
ships, and proud.

Their tall masts
like stiff necks, spurn
the shores, break
free from port, and wander
out into a vast
and churning
sea.

So many ships.
Uncountable sails
of every color,
every type, a mighty
force, but the sea
is bigger still.

In the middle
of a wide and featureless
sea, far away
from the horizon,
the ships are tossed
about by rolling
waves. No rudder,
no ship’s wheel, but wide, wide sails
to catch each breath, each gust, each gail.
And spare sails below
deck for when the first ones tear.

So many ships sail a zig-zagging
careening path
but always into the storm.
Always fearing, never steering,
these ships go on the whim
of wind or wave. The current takes them,
and they barely resist.

Suddenly, a few
ships, a tiny remnant, break
away from the leery
crowd and race
toward the Sun.
These few ships, outcasts
all, with their closed
cabins, leaning
masts, and tiny
sails are no longer slaves,
no longer Captain—less.

But the other ships, so many ships
sail on, now refusing
to change course. Sails tattered,
decks and masts creaking
In the end, as night falls,
there are stars. They shine,
they guide, they beckon,
but the ships ignore
the call. They sail aimlessly
on. And the horizon is close.

Perilously close.

by Wayne Thomas Batson

From the files...

Getting ready to teach a poetry introduction to my English classes, I delved into my digital file folders and found a bunch of poems I wrote in 2002. They were all from portfolio of poetry I wrote for a class at McDaniel college. Amazing class! Published Poet Kathy Mangan taught the course--and taught me SO much about writing...the economy of language, muscular verbs, enjambment, etc. Here's one of my favorites:

During the Game

One moment--I’m there, in my easy
chair. Monday Night Football flickers before my vacant
stare as my wife folds
laundry in the bedroom upstairs.
The children finally put away
for the night, exhausted from activities--tag, catch, kick
the can--that I did not share
with them. I recline in peace,
my fingers coated with salt, spice, grease,
my tongue still wet from my last drink.
The two minute warning, I begin to stand breath caught
heart stut-
ters, mind tingles, gray fringes close
in, vision fading.
Pressure, like a phantom
standing on my chest, crushesmebent-
over in agony as tiny knives
jog from my shoulder down my arm.
Next moment--the only
thing that matters, my
wife’s hand gripping
mine through the cold
rails of the hospital bed.

Funny how life can change in an instant. And until that sudden moment, how easy it is to take things…people for granted. So what about you? Are you cherishing the blessing of life? Are there people and things you need to be more attentive to?

Have a Peaceful and Reflective Ressurrection Sunday.

Somehow or other, Easter just sneaked up on me this year. Normally, I spend some time thinking about the Lord's sacrifice, the hard road to the cross, the mocking, the empty tomb. Maybe you're there too. You just got too busy, and then, here it is, the anniversary of our Savior's rising from the dead. Here's poem I wrote a few years back. It's a sestina, so you'll notice the repetition of 7 words throughout. I hope the poem draws you into His presence and reminds you of events long ago…

Silver and Red

Jerusalem’s dusty streets watch money changing hands
among the robed merchants, traders who parley silver
for gain. In the sepulchral halls where lush tapestries kiss
the cold stone behind the throne of the chief priests in their red
robes, it is no different. A solitary creature, bent with burden, has come across
their hallowed threshold to hammer

out a deal. Whispering oaths and an offer, his heart hammers
with fear, indecision. All the while he holds out his sweating hands
to the holy men. Phylacteries weigh lightly on each priestly brow and ghastly smiles cross
their lips for a triumphant moment as they smugly deliver thirty silver
pieces for a life. Reclining later with his rabbi at a table of bread pale and wine red,
he feels on his thigh the electric chill of the new coins, like a harlot’s kiss

teasing. Fleeting like a tryst, the wealth leaves him empty--the betraying kiss
delivered later that night costs his life--and more. A hammer
strikes a bell with forlorn finality as the soldiers with their drawn swords and red
torches surround the gentle man, roughly bind his hands
like a common thief. Marching down the mountain with moonlight silver
upon breastplate and helm, they drag their outlaw across

the streets where he mended lame legs and gave sight to many, though cross
and bitter men chose to stay blind. Made to kiss
the ground before the lofty seat and silver
signet ring of the Roman Governor, he rises to one knee, is hammered
with questions. No guilt found but pressed by mobs, the leader washes his hands
of blame only to gouge the name Pilate red

on the stark scrolls of history. The frenzied crowd, seething red
faces, demand a murderer set free while the innocent one goes to the splintered cross.
Centurions mock the condemned man, placing a reed scepter in his hands,
a scarlet robe on his now flayed back, and, upon the head once kissed
by Mary, a crown of biting thorns. Jeering words hammer
him worse than blows: Save yourself! Prophesy, who struck you? The same silver

centurions force him prone on a wooden beam. The captain removes one silver
nail from a leather pouch. Anticipating the explosion of red,
the captain turns his head just slightly, brings the hammer
down three times. Jerusalem’s skyline, stained as his cross
is raised, darkens but the stifling heat remains. Not even a kiss
from a gentle breeze to relieve his agony as life drains from his feet, his hands.

Memory of that brutal hammer haunted Judas and crosses
time. Will we covet silver above red
or kiss, pierced for us all, His sweet scarred hands?