This, never before posted, was written some years ago when
I was in a plane looking down on the Alps, perhaps because I
was thinking of my mother who knew the Man personally.
Call him what you will, he was
a most uncommon common man,
born in knowledge of who he was and
of the alien world that looked on him,
knew him not, except the few who
mattered not, or so it seemed at the time,
a man of charisma, there at once to see,
to touch, to feel, to hear
in the voice of things to come,
even at twelve, in the midst of many years
and studied wisdom,
a man of spunk
who would ride the streets astride an ass,
fill bellies of thousands with a pauper’s meal,
rebuke the wind, wake the dead,
walk on seas, defy
the strong, bless the weak,
scold a friend, embrace a foe, weep
for both, conform not to conformity,
a man of mystery, a mystic
who worked his magic quietly,
a teller of simple tales
who taught an uncluttered philosophy
to the many that gathered from many miles,
the ones that listened and stayed to follow,
the ones that listened and fled,
the ones that listened and schemed to destroy,
a man who stood his ground,
shrugged the stones, dismissed the ridicule,
a man of peace, a man betrayed,
judged a fake, outrageous revolutionary,
a radical agent of blasphemy, a heretic,
a laughingstock,
a man alone
who quietly stumbled and dragged and lifted
the mind of the mob to the hill of the skull
for the world below to witness
and record the madness
that lays no claim to time or creed
or place of origin,
a comforting man
even as they pierced his hands with spikes,
stung his wounds with salt,
taunted him with false reprieves,
even when he knew they’d hang him anyway,
even in the hurt, even in the smell of sour wine,
even in the loud and disenchanting cry,
even then a most uncommon common man,
the Man on the hill
who some said died at thirty-three,
some said never died.
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Peace,
Dan
With your kind and deep mastery this should become a classic. I am passing it along to some friends and family. Thank you. - Bill
Be always safe,
Karen
Carole~
What a blessing this poem reads.
Cynthia
With Love,
Cindy
stan
prophets. What a miracle if one could time travel and see first-hand,
the man on the hill at work.
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :D
This is an awesome, awesome write, Gene. I salute you for all that it says, and how skillfully you have written it. If I weren't very tired, I would perhaps find better words, but your poem has said so much, my poor words would only fall by the wayside as dust.
Connie
Blessings and Love - Micke
Already reviewed this, I thought: again, worth noting that He died, yet arose on the third day, defeating the powers of sin, death, hell and Satan - He lives! Beautifully, thoughtfully penned; well done! May you and yours have a blessed Easter week.
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
You forge an essence here, see into the heart and soul, a man misunderstood, betrayed and given an ignominious ending on the "hill of the skull"
John