He’s wandering the lanes of Assisi
while other men sleep
or find pleasure
in their sweethearts’ arms.
Holy man Francesco.
Il poverello.
All skin and bone
beneath his patched-up robe.
He’s chosen
Lady Poverty’s embrace,
begs for his bread
and shares it with outcasts.
The merchant’s son
who shed his fine clothes
at his father’s feet
and took the narrow way.
He tamed a killer wolf,
some say; calls the earth
his Mother, talks to flowers
and herbs, birds and fish.
Holy fool, roaming barefoot
until a full moon
at the sky’s plumb centre
illuminates his path,
pulls fields and trees
into its orbit
of overflowing light
and he runs to the church,
climbs the tower,
rings the bell,
and summons townsfolk
from their beds.
They wait in the courtyard
for news of fire or pestilence.
Look, he cries, look up
and see the moon!
© 2019, Shiela Jacob
Arriving at our stop, it would spit us out … so much cattle, the regimented and the ragtagged, tired and numb. Once dumped, the rail-car doors would close behind us and we were whirled in the wake of the train rushing to the next station. Then, a sudden silence, and we were free to plod our way home, a final few blocks in Gravesend, a new ‘s-Gravenzande*, if you will, but an old irony. I’d stop at the bakery first and go on to Paul the butcher and his merchant’s rictus. His beef, he told me, “is like butter,” perfect for my carnivore husband. Paul’s face seemed bloodless to me, as if in some moment of devotion he chose to infuse the dead. Still more child than woman, I would study the varied cuts waiting to be bought, waiting to be devoured. I’d fancy their missing eyes, bones, and very souls crying out. These offerings of body and blood from Paul’s steel blade to my tattered tin chalice fed me for two years on the futility of hope.
“Art creates the dream of life“
The BeZine 