April 1: Holy Thursday, Poetry Workshop, "Last Suppers"

 Greetings all of my loyal disciples!

Yes, I am still alive.  It has been a long week, heading into a long weekend.  I have found myself feeling overwhelmed by life in a lot of ways.  But, Holy Week usually does that to me.  I find the whole Triduum emotionally exhausting.  In fact, it starts on Palm Sunday for me, with the reading of the Biblical narrative of Christ's passion.

This time makes me reflect.  Take stock.  Often, I find myself lacking in a lot of ways.

Many years ago, as a Lenten practice, I wrote a poem a day, from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday.  It was a fool's undertaking, but I managed to see it through to completion.

Saint Marty is still a fool.  And he's still taking stock.

Last Suppers

by:  Martin Achatz

3 days until Easter

Details from Andrew Caldwell and Honesto General


For years as a child, I hoped, prayed
My last night would be cataclysmic
And holy, a meteor roaring
Out of the heavens to smote me
As I descended church steps
Onto sidewalk, Jesus lingering
On my tongue. My parents starved
Me before mass, Body of Christ not allowed
To mingle with grilled cheese or Milky Way,
Holiness absorbed as fast as
An atomic flash. My mother told me
If I got killed by a bus immediately
After communion, I would go straight to heaven,
The host my get-out-of-Purgatory-free card.
If I ate only holy wafers,
I could be like Padre Pio, who bled
From his hands and feet for 50 years,
Tasted the flesh of Christ in his mouth
When he died, warm, thick as the lentil soup
John Belushi consumed his last night,
Or the French onion Julia Child ate
The day her soufflé finally fell.
Custer stuffed himself with buffalo
Steaks, beans and molasses,
Roasted wild corn and prairie hen,
All fresh kills, prepared by his chef
Before Little Bighorn. Marilyn Monroe
Ordered gazpacho, chicken breasts
As full as her own ample cleavage,
Layered taco dip, meatballs, refried beans,
Veal parmigiana. Ginsberg made
Fish chowder, stored two gallons
In his freezer before his last howl.
John Lennon noshed on corned beef.
John Kennedy, first Catholic president,
Breakfasted not on the Eucharist,
But soft-boiled eggs, bacon,
Toast, marmalade, orange juice,
Coffee on the morning he rode
To Dealey Plaza. Martin Luther King,
Had fried chicken, Louisiana hot sauce and vinegar,
Black-eyed peas, collard greens, cornbread,
As he stood on the mountaintop,
Saw the Promised Land, his dream.
On Good Friday, Lincoln ate
Mock turtle soup with oxtail,
Roast Virginia fowl with chestnut stuffing,
Baked yams, cauliflower drenched
In cheese sauce. He carried his cross
To Ford’s Theater, was set free
Next morning, Holy Saturday. Jesus consumed
Grilled tilapia, jugs of red wine,
White and red grapes, olives, dates,
Melon and lamb, pit-roasted
And dipped in wild honey.
His friends got drunk, sang songs,
As He broke bread, passed the cup.
They had no idea what was coming,
The meteor bearing down on them
As they descended the stairs, stomachs full,
Into the hungry streets.