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online today
thankful for a singular
post
quite selfless
and self-shedding
[+] saved

               --HSM

in a room prepared
Harvey S. Mozolak

there this Thursday meal
he in the center
as he always was
and is
the lamb lying on the plate
of God at table
among reclining cushions
in their midst passing
over to each the cup and bread
amid the bowls of salted tears
and portions of sweet mortar
the stained  hard memories of captivity
the women wait for the dishes
and the freedom after their cleansing 
while the disciples stir knowing he will rise
to go as they often do
to the park of the olive grove
outside the wall
someone kicks the foot basin
and the water spills
reddening where Judas spilled his cup
in his hurried leaving
their soles track their steps in red
from the upper room
toward the lower places down across the Kidron
because he is still hungry
and they are not yet full
it was a meal more of signs
awaiting their posting

lattice question
Harvey S. Mozolak

do we climb the hard hill        
with stabbing spear and deflecting shield
much like an occupying soldier
armed ruthless with oppression
or as a gawking crowd
spit-mouthed by curses choking silent fears
or drawn with tears and stumbling
bereft like mother and fumbling brother
or does the ascent of the attached
anointed by blood
carry and lift us there
branches bound to bud
of his bruised and bleeding vine
seeping the answer
that uncurls our turned within?

greater magnificat
Harvey S. Mozolak

Mary listening
again
this to Christ without
he cries
fiat mihi
as the Word
flesh born
flesh torn
the cords of death
entangle strangle
and the greatest
is made the least
and low a servant
bound to the grave
in soundless praise
to God
and it was good

breathless counts
two rests before the discord of the cross
Harvey S. Mozolak

i.
the heavy mallet pounded
spikes pointed thrice
slicing into his hands
and Jesus stretched himself out
on the wood raft above our flood
now his feet anchored
waves of sweat
pooled in the hollows of his cheeks
rivulets of blood from the nest of pain
crimsoning them
searing his eyes with suffering
by these he sees all
from this last mast

ii.
not fisted
palms open in pouring
the Father’s hand is withdrawn
but not his ear
the wind of the Spirit dries his lips
but the fever that boils
the blood on his brow
is a holiness cauterizing
the world at noon
in the Son who has left heaven
far from the shade of the womb of the woman
now as near and under
the shadow of sin and its fallen race

un-cinctured alb
Harvey S. Mozolak

the white clothing of winter
at this present warming
flows away in water folds
like vested holiness
before laughter