Skip to main content

One and Thirty Pieces of Silver

Are we just pawns?
  Pawns in a gratuitous game of chess,
An amusement for gods veiled behind lofty clouds?
  Are we mere mortals, no more, no less,
Destined, predestined for some predetermined end?

Are we ill fated prior to nativity?
  ‘tis a harsh fate then,
‘twill be futile to fight it, won’t it?
  We would have been preordained to fall short.

What then is destiny?
  An inexorable preset end
Perchance, it’s whatever happens in the end?

Was that the reason for Judas’ treason?
  Was he damned beyond all reason,
Doomed; accursed before the beginning of days?
  Am I destined not to know, to be perplexed?
Then it’s all futility, no use fighting this fate.

So what if peradventure,
  For one and thirty pieces of silver,
The Maestro he did betray,
  What would become of his fate?
Would he destiny have thwarted?
  Mayhap, it would have been predestined,
Destined, some crooked destiny to thwart destiny.

Somewhere, up yonder,
  In that fathomless inscrutable blue,
Do hallowed Deities congregate and ponder
  Over senseless games of chess,
If it’s to be or not to be,
  One and thirty pieces of silver. 

*****August 19, 2007*****

(I once listened to someone preach about destiny. According to him, Judas Iscariot was destined to betray Jesus for exactly 30 pieces of silver, the said person even spoke in King James English. I wrote this after listening to him) 

Popular posts from this blog

Executioner's Business

I have not come here
To put back together
The Guinea fowl egg
That was broken on Her Majesty's sandals.

I am an Executioner.
The why and the how matters not,
It's the Who.

Those who in malice
Destroy good food in fits of pettiness
Then turn to mock the distended bellies
Of hungry children
Shall know no peace.

But today,
It is not scoffing egg breakers that vex me.

It is,
Those who in silence watched
While the dirty deed was done,
Unconcerned about hungry mouths,
Then proceeded to,
on the miscreants
behalf, plead for mercy,
It is they who stir my bile.

So may I not be blamed
When in swinging my blade
I, accidentally, chop off the heads
Of wailers who stand too close to the guilty.

The Executioner's job is urgent business
I have no time for the niceties
Of giving, those who loiter, final warnings.

***** August 3, 2016*****

Bedtime Epiphany of a Pining Heart

I contemplated
On things that were and were not,
On why
Light retracts different, in your eyes,
Like rainbows randomly ricocheting
Off my intangible thoughts,

On why,
Words sound different, on your lips,
How you laugh,
How the sounds take a path,
Across infinite dreams,
Into all my incarnations,
Into all my iterations,
Into all...

I concluded
You are a figment
of my imagination,
You must be...

God is not so cruel
That he made a Heaven like you
Then condemned me
To the Hell of perpetual longing
Wanting, and never belonging...

*****September 14, 2016*****

God is My Barber

The sickness that made the Vulture bald
would have killed the Crow.

It is because
the gods are petty
and would not be questioned
about who they show favor to,
That Crows live to,
Squawk hysterically
At Vultures' misfortune.

We have come to understand, that,
when a petty god is your barber,
Crows, who can't afford a razor,
with their benevolent destinies,
will punctuate our precious peace
with their shameless snickering.

the Vulture
pays any mind
wages a war of words
with mockers and scoffers;
for the cure for baldness
is not found in the laughter of Crows...

*****April 4, 2017*****
My Second poem about Vultures. I really need to stop this...😂😂😂