poet poets

Ron Baron
© 1999

The Pygmy God

He shuffled down the narrow trail

the jungle steaming hot

A place to meditate . . . .then die

and let his bones just rot

The place from which he came was full

of stress and strain and strife

Now all mixed up at twenty one

he sought to end his life

Two tiny darts hit neck and arm

each caused a burning sting

With venom they were tipped and soon

he wouldn't feel a thing

His senses reeled - three tiny men

had come into his view

Head hunters were these pygmy men

he knew what they might do

He thrashed around through brush and vines

each minute losing power

To them he must have seemed a giant

a weaving six-foot tower

But soon he stumbled falling down

he lay there on the ground

A marijuana joint his last

he reached and quickly found

His pocket also held some pills

just which he didn't know

He slammed it all into his mouth

and hoped the pain would go

He woke and found he wasn't dead

with sweat his clothes were damp

They'd gotten help and somehow brought

his body to their camp

The marijuana, pills and such

had stopped the darts effect

His arm was badly swollen and

great pain was in his neck

Next morning half the tribe was there

and stared at him in awe

Rejecting death had proved to them

a god was what they saw

A cross he'd worn the day before

now hung beside the bed

An eerie scepter hanging ‘round

a sacred shrunken head

 

 

He'd been a bible student but

rejected what it taught

Could now the cross be used to reap

a life he hadn't sought

They stared at him and then the cross

for nearly half an hour

It seemed they thought the cross must be

symbolic of his power

They brought him food and gifts and then

they knelt down at his feet

He waved the cross to signal that

their worship was complete

They made a longer spear for him

and too a special knife

He had the choice of all the girls

and need not take a wife

He hunted with the men and killed

more game and larger too

In battle fought beside the chief

their enemies he slew

For months he lived a carefree life

and played their godly game

But slowly in his soul he felt

a creeping sense of shame

He placed the cross around his neck

and to the tribe announced

Henceforth they'd see as he'd decree

new judgement be pronounced

The things he taught seemed strange at first

don't steal, don't kill, don't lust

Don't covet what your friend may have

and strive to earn his trust

He taught them he was just a priest

to show what must be done

They learned to praise another "God"

the true and only "One"

In years that followed all the tribe

enjoyed love and peace

And came to live in hope and joy

and war and killing cease

But one day evil raised it's head

a murder someone did

They searched and found the guilty one

where he had fled and hid

The judgement they'd been taught now said

a price must thus be paid

 

 

A sacrifice for this dark deed

be on an altar laid

They asked the one who taught them now

perform their chosen will

He said he couldn't do this task

no longer could he kill

When asked what would be done by them

they asked what choice have we

He said perform your sacrifice

but now instead on me

They tied his hands behind him to

a tree the way he said

Then blew their darts and as before

they thought he'd not be dead

His head slumped down and for a time

they waited patiently

But life would not return that day

in death his soul would flee

Years later when the tribe was found

by men from distant lands

The works of he who died were shown

a small church still there stands

When asked how they had learned of God

and knew that Jesus saves

The tribesmen took them out behind

the church and showed them graves

But there was one with precious stones

and gifts laid all around

A tiny silver cross hung from

a spear stuck in the ground

When one man from the group had read

the name upon the cross

He said, "this fellow worked for me,

I used to be his boss-

This guy was bad he lied and stole

now here he lies-how odd !

He ran away and came out here

then gave his life to God

It's hard to judge a man and know

what he'll turn out to be

I hope that someday I might be

as fine a man as he!"

Poets: a page of Rosa Clement´s site