Welcome to Four Lines! I have a goal I would like to write at least four lines of poetry or a haiku every day for the rest of my life. I'm excited about this challenge! Also, along with my daily poem, I will be reading at least four lines of another author's poetry. I'll try to include that here also. So I'm thinking - how difficult can it be to read and then write one poem a day? We will see! - Claudia

All poems on this blog, unless noted, are written by Claudia Callaghan.
© 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016 Claudia Callaghan
Used only with permission. Please feel free to join Four Lines and request permission.

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

The Argument 

Frustrated in tears, I say,
"How can you mean that?
It's like He's on the cross again,
nails through feet and hands."

He responds in fury,
"How dare you?"

"You are turning
His teachings upside down
burning them in a fire
of desire and greed
for power and possessions.
Can't you see that?"
I'm grasping to create an epiphany.
"What if Jesus stood in front of you
in jeans, plaid shirt and long hair
speaking the highest holy tenants,
'son remember... remember
God.
Your neighbor.
Love.
Forgiveness.
Non-judgement.'
Would you hear him?"
Shuffling my feet I feel
like I'm pleading.
"What about love and forgiveness -
loving your neighbor as yourself?
Jesus was a beautiful, radical.
How can you love,
profess Him as your Savior,
while ignoring his teachings?
What about the poor?"

"What of them?"

"What of them?
Some republicans remind me
of modern day pharisees,
who abuse and use holy words
to advance their agenda,
unconcerned with anyone else.
It's me and mine.
Mine better not stray out of line
or they'll be disregarded and discarded
faster then they can say, "Tea please."
On TV, like on biblical street corners,
it's 'Look at great me and look at those sinners.
I know God's laws and will not compromise.'
That's not the way it is.
We are equal like blades of grass
in a garden.

"Your diatribe is faulty.
Blades of grass in a garden?
Like you don't have an agenda?
I don't care what you say
or how fervently you say it.
I will not compromise.
Those who compromise are weak.
No new taxes means no new taxes.
An inch means a yard down the road. 
I am not ignoring His teachings,
and what Jesus came here for."

Stepping back I say hesitantly,
"You may think you follow him
but it is a thought, a feather falling,
when followed by opposite beliefs
and actions. That's hypocritical."

He steps towards me,
suddenly looming taller,
wider, undeterred, indignant.
"Who do you think you are?
Forgiveness?  For everyone?
Love?  Love everyone?
Be realistic! This is not
a utopia we live in.
You are the one who is a
judgemental, unloving -
He's on the cross again? -
socialist, un-American
hypocrite."

Starring at each other, intensity fills
the long and melancholy moment,
as if we are walking down an empty, echoing hall,
doors at the end in different directions.
"I'm sorry... what I said about Jesus on the cross,
for naming, labeling you hypocritical.
You're right, I am judging.
I just don't get you." I stammer. "and I...
instead of... that way divides... I ... hoping...
I was hoping to open a window..
I was shaking you, shaking you to see..
trying to wake you up..
It was the wrong way."

"Trying to wake me up,
shaking me to see?
I'll open my own window, thank you.
Just you see who wins the election.
Apology accepted and...truly...
I don't get you either.
Opening your eyes to see my view?
Opening your window?
Futile.  Hopeless.
I wouldn't even try."
he says as he turns and walks away.
Looking down, I feel a waterfall
of silent tears and hear his shoes
on the tile floor and the opening
and closing of the door.

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