God/Allah looks from lofty dais,
scours His Earth with searing stare,
examines hearts and minds and souls.
“Where are my people now?” He weeps.
“One day a week to pay lip service.
Those who think they are ‘the chosen’
now believe interpretations,
not The Word I trusted to them!
“‘Love Me, also love your neighbour
as you love yourself.’ I stated.
Still I find you maiming, killing,
raping torturing and starving.
“Would you treat yourself so badly?
Could you pour scorn and derision
on yourself and those close to you?
Should you, then, do this to others?
“I am not a Muslim, Buddhist,
Christian, Jew, Hindu or other.
Those are your organisations.
Those are your interpretations.
He turns and looks outward to Heaven,
stops, turns again and tells us loudly,
“If you do not cease your hatred
hatred then will be your downfall!
“Don’t expend your life so cheaply.
It’s a gift to you and all.
All your enemies have that treasure.
Who are you to stamp upon it?
“Do you think I’m weak or stupid
Needing you to punish for Me?
Find a way to coexist!
That’s still your most important task.
A bead of blood like a small balloon
Swells from the tiny cut
Slides in a gentle rivulet
Down the wrist and around
To drip, drip, drip
On the cool paper.
Three drops grouped
Sitting red on palest yellow
Secretly soaking, staining
Slowly becoming a mere smudge
of triplet circles, mingled.
One pain, three drops, one smudge
Reminding like a poppy.
The smudges of other generations
On the pages of history.
The bloody trinities in fields
And fields, and oceans
And oceans of red
Dropping from heaven
To carpet our lives
As we walk over the lives
That others gave up
In their struggle
To fill our future lives
With tiny bubbles of blood
My blood is in this poem.
Their blood is in me.