The Thinking Poet


True Resurrection

Fossilized fame on celluloid or oxide

Provides a kind of immortality.

Though dead, we watch them still

Made lovingly or loathsomely alive;

A menacing face we learned to hate,

The smile that warms the heart,

A voice familiar as our own,

Music la carte.


Push-buttons and micro-chips

Give silent lips

And long-lost faces


Bodies rise

Without surprise;

We manage resurrection

To perfection.

Screen and loudspeaker

Make miracles seem cheaper.


But such patterned sound and light

Is insubstantial;

Mere ephemeral delight.

A dwindling fame, destined for the archives,

Goes out of mind when hidden out of sight.


Real miracles cost more than price of fame.

True resurrection bears the wounds

That mutely point to shame,

But still proclaims


Brighter than a silver screen,

Louder than loudspeakers.

We call it Easter