Issue 13 | August 2025
Welcome
Thank you for visiting Issue 13 of Soul Forte: A Journal for Spiritual Writing, featuring writing by Zachary Nelson, Anne Gorsuch, Lucas Santo, Joann Renee Boswell, Laura Boatner, Tony Bates, and others. May you read and resurrect.
Eleanor Hubbard
All My Sorrow Lived: Poems by Eleanor Hubbard
Van Gogh’s the Pieta: A Lenten Meditation
Help me,
My beautiful boy is dead.
So smart, so willing to help.
Astonished the priests,
loved the common folk.
Healed the broken,
broke the imposters.
Everyone he knew took a piece of him
the crowds wanted food, health,
his companions to sit beside him.
I only wanted to hold him,
only now will he let me.
Many thought he would save them
from hunger, mental illness, the Romans.
They must save themselves
as his ministry came to this.
All my tears wept.
All my sorrow lived.
I didn’t want a savior only a son.
A Country Holy Week: A Narrative Poem
It begins on Sunday, a guy rides a donkey into town,
Pretty weird in the west where everyone rides horses,
But this guy seems different.
His cowboy hat pulled low, his denim jeans dusty,
Having just built bookshelves for friends.
Why did he decide to ride into the seat of power today?
This guy doesn’t say, must be the strong silent type.
His friends thought it was to enjoy his successes
Hear the love of friends and followers.
But no country song has a guy riding a donkey
And this guy doesn’t say.
Some typical country fans, some more ironic urban types,
All cheer him along, and wave hankerchiefs.
The Chorus of the Crowd:
“I love you,”
“I love you,”
“I love you.”
“I’m your biggest fan.”
The guy mouths, I love you too, even though he doesn’t
Know anyone he sees. He smiles and waves, like a queen.
Is it a joke? A satire? A parody of kingdom?
Crowd having fun, not thinking of the whys.
He jumps off after a few blocks.
The crowd mobs him,
Laughing, and singing, and celebrating. While the cops stand by.
Everyone goes to the local pub for a beer,
Leaving one lonely woman to clean up the mess,
The donkey’s poop, the Starbuck cups, the deflated balloons.
She is not celebrating.
On Monday, he decides on a different performance.
Black T-shirt, black jeans with holes at the knees.
His long hair braided, held in place with a red bandana,
His guitar slung over one shoulder.
He looks like a young Willie Nelson.
Then he sees the ones selling Merc.
The Chorus of the Sellers:
“Bibles for sale.”
“He’s the one! T-shirts”
“The guy wore this headband yesterday,
Still wet from his sweat.”
“Get ‘em while they last.”
The guy is furious.
“Who are these traffickers?”
The sellers think he just wants the money himself,
But this guy seems furious about something else,
tips over tables, stomps on the debris.
Somehow, he’s not quite loved as much as yesterday.
Grumbling, the crowd melts away.
He returns to his friends, who hold him and let him weep.
One lonely woman cleans up the mess.
It’s Tuesday. The guy is determined to go back.
His friends urge him to stay home.
Or if you must go, here’s some ideas.
“See a play, go to a concert, attend a rally.”
“Why do you want to go back, after yesterday?”
But the guy doesn’t say.
He only shrugs and heads back to the city.
They would rather not go, but he’s a friend.
No one is waving bandanas today.
There’s anger, anguish, heartache.
The guy absorbs the pain,
As he absorbed the admiration.
He sees the ones we do not see,
The poor, the lame, the sick.
He hears the ones we do not hear,
The despondent, the desolate, the sorrowful.
Was his work in vain?
Was his mission unfulfilled?
And once again he weeps!
The lonely woman holds him in her arms.
No one has seen him all day. It’s Wednesday.
It’s Thursday. The guy decides to have a party.
His friends think, “Maybe he’s finally out of his funk.”
The guy says, “Some friends will host us on their farm.
Go make arrangements.”
The Chorus of Friends:
“Why me? I want to sit here and listen.”
“Why me? I need some rest.”
“I have to do all the work around here.”
“I’ll go,” says one.
The others wondered, “Is this guy for real?
Or will he sell us all down the river?”
However, preparations are made, friends gather.
Nobody knows this will be the last time they are all together.
They laugh, eat, talk: sex, politics and patriotism.
Then the guy takes off his leather vest,
Kneels in front of each, using water from a cattle trough
Washes everyone’s feet.
His friends are uncomfortable, wondering what it could all mean.
Then the guy stands up, picks up his beer and a pretzel
Says, “Let us pray.”
“Why not,” they all thought.
Then he offers them each a sip of beer and a bite of pretzel.
Saying, “Think of this as my body, think of this as my blood.”
Gross, they all think, but he was a friend,
A little wacky maybe, but a friend.
“You are all gonna wish you didn’t know me,” he says.
“Don’t be silly,” they all say, “We love you and will stick with you.
This story will end well, like all good stories should.”
But the guy looks skeptical.
“I need to pray some more,” he says.
“Tomorrow,” they say, “It’s late.”
“No, tonight.” “OK, maybe he has gone off the deep end.
We need to chaperone.”
So, they walk into the desert, sagebrush and dust.
The guy kneels, the rest curl up and fall asleep.
“Why do you want my death?” the guy prays.
“I believed I was sent for a purpose, but this is a terrible ending,
Please no!” But he heard something nobody else did,
And acquiesced.
While the rest slept,
Somebody, nobody knew who, tips the police, “The guy is alone, “
They see a troublemaker, not a savior
And arrest him.
His friends melt away and deny they knew him.
The police take him to the city, beat him all night long, and it is Friday.
The Chorus of the Mob:
“He’s a menace, beat him,” yell the religious.
“He’s doesn’t understand politics, beat him,” yell the politicians.
“He just stirs up trouble, beat him,” yell law-and-order people.
“He’s anti-wealth, beat him,” yell the rich.
“He cozies up to the rich, beat him,” yell the poor.
“Where is your donkey now? Where are the crowds now?”
“Take him away.” They all yell.
The police wrap his head in barbed wire
Walk him to a distant field.
They tie him to a fence and leave him.
The sun beats down, the dust swirls around,
The guy needs a drink of water.
The lonely woman cleans up the blood, wipes his face
And gives him a small bottle of water to drink.
He dies.
It was Saturday. His friends hide.
Maybe they will be accused next.
The crowds want more blood,
His friends don’t want it to be theirs.
The guy’s body is moved out of sight.
The lonely woman arises early on Sunday.
She wants to prepare his body for burial,
if she can only find it.
A stranger points the way to where he was laid.
And there she sees his broken body healed.
And his heavenly body shining.
She laughs with joy, sings:
“Blackbirds singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.”
Pietà (after Delacroix). Vincent van Gogh. Oil on canvas, 73 x 60.5 cm. Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.