The mount was silent,
people had walked for days
descending upon a focal hillock
carrying their sick, their woes, their turmoil.
Dust danced in sun driven winds
the same sands brushed a drying
skull bleached white in desert heat
charged anticipation carried on that breeze.
Atop the hill stood a man without shoes
this was before the time of Hitler, Mussolini
Stalin. It was still politicking even sans
sandals, people versus the sate.
Litigation was a few simple words
and a touch of a sacred hand.
Maybe he even called himself the son of god
at that point who knows?
Some over eager paparazzi scribes overblew
early celebrity, turned sermons
fantasy. See, it wasn’t the teaching
it was the way he delivered,the entertainer.
With a flick of the hand, the blind could see
the deaf could hear, and two fish and five loaves
were a cross to bear while the
eagles waited above.
But they ‘belonged’, they were home
in that meeting ground of anti beaurocrats
waifs and strays there was something