Dann Thomas Poems

At Khalighat, in the temple of the house for the dying
When the night has slept through its darkening.
And the tired watchman's watch wane.
At that ungodly hour she again kneels in pain.
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I feel rain
I see a rainbow.
To me a butterfly is pretty too.
But I don't see it the way you do.
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Lips smeared red, dark and swollen
Eyes shining black and bordered
Her hair held loosely by a pointed pin
A large red dot darkens her forehead
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Knotted, gnarled, bruised and cut
Fingers missing and hands no better
Bandaged where raw, torn and sore,
These then are the hands of a leper.
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No greater temple desecrated
No greater god mocked
When we in silence watched
A little life bled in the dust
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It ruffles proudly when filled with the breeze
Darting into clouds or just spinning around.
The little kite mischievously pulls and tease
At the long string that's holding it down.
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The first step was in purple,
Robed by the soldiers, condemned at Pilate's seat.
Mocked by the Pharisees, crowned by the people.
Then pride took a fall, and into the dust conceit,
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A lady cried out ‘Souls'
At the gate of the Mayo Hall
With neither begging bowls
Or open palm for coin to fall.
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A touch of light green on dry wood is sawn
Slowly stretching herself from a veined bundle
This story begins cocooned in chlorophyll.
A little heart is born
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When in school I was sent to a prayer gathering once,
They thought it would change some of my ways hence.
And around me, each Bible had page and pages inked in red
My lines of black on white, well, looked kind of dull and dead.
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