*Third poem in series of Judas Iscariot and Pontius Pilate -Chels*

JOHN’S EYES

We and The Disciple Whom He Loved knew Him
face-to-face. He was the beginning, coming as the Word and
going as flesh. How could the world reject Him?
How could they fail to recognize Him? There were signs. There were so
many.

We are limited, yet the two who graced that holy face were
infinite. There was that all-seeing nature
we shall never possess within His deep sockets, Undying,
Soft, beneath His wide gyres, ever-rotating—
unionized.

Swiveling across that face, we present to
the Disciple Whom He Loved a view of the gloriously
Seen. It is not the Unseen here that puzzles,
but that which Is. That foolish nature of human beings to
have and to hold.

We could say that we are the Disciple Whom He Loved’s sight but,
truth is, he is blind like us. Unseeing and
black, led to shelter by hands of competent Strength yet weary
of that step. Is it going to be the last? Then
what? If we fall, He’ll catch.

Falling is a scary verb. It tumbles out
our lips, wriggling like a fish, jerking for that elusive breath,
catapulting us upwards, blocking our light.
Sending us into black, and we press the panic button. Beep!
Hello? Hello? Jesus?

“Don’t leave us!”
We scream and Brain clicks on,
transports the message through the caves,
down the tunnel, and into the pumper.
Suddenly there is the constriction. But the
Ever-life in us, pulsating, sings a song of calm.
And the Disciple Whom He Loved is moaning,
finger-licking the memories left, for it is finished.
Those words, ever-moving, on loan to the world.