I do not know?
My eyes can see
That the sand is like sea
And it stretches to the end of my mind
On a ship set to sail
with four legs and a tail
Tishmandu I set out to find
Now the wind is of sand
and can lend a hand
in tearing the flesh from your bone
So your head you keep wrapped
your snaps keep snapped
and you never travel alone
The heat at midday
is to kill and waylay
if the body and soul are not one
So you pray to the east
and prepare for slim feast
begging passage under full sun
Caravan of the seed
born on camels that breed
in an endless march between wells
Over lost count of dunes
under God and full moons
blessing passage with incense and bells
At the end of the day
when gold turns to grey
and the stars brighten the skies
A device is brought forth
to determine true north
and the path where Tishmandu lies
On the fortieth morn
pressing lips to the horn
a signal beckons us wake
Leaving water behind
on a course now refined
the final leagues we must take
Tishmandu is a place
where a white mans face
has never been seen or allowed
But the people have need
and my service agreed
in a land under sky without cloud
Like feathers of blue
in the distance I view
the flags on top of the walls
Though my limbs are worn
my very fabric is torn
I move towards Tishmandu halls
At last in the shade
a walled shelter is bade
I meet with the maker of rules
A service I bring
but to rules I must cling
or a tortures price must be paid
Twenty days and seven
in the passes of heaven
I treated the sick and the lame
With rules on my mind
the medicines I grind
The devil of Tish for to tame
As I washed the sick
and avoided blunt stick
the God of the desert did smile
For the people made well
in this fortified hell
where spirit is subject to trial
In the end I am paid
for the journey I made
and the healing and medicine new
On my camel back
salted meats in my pack
I Bid farewell to Tishmandu
Of bus stations I have known, this is by far the worst
A post Victorian folly that's a post Victorian curse.
A waiting room that's cold and dark a room ground down with grime
A fire bricked up no form of heat a floor all wet with slime.
A tiny little bus station behind the old town hall,
Six tiny little bus stands beside a red brick wall.
Built for smaller busses to host sightseeing tours,
For transport to the seaside or the rugged northern moors.
Congestion in the timetable brings many busses in,
To squeeze into the bus station like sardines in a tin.
December winds are blowing hard bring snow in from the north
The crowds just praying for their bus so they can sally forth.
The "Counties" bus at bus stand six is driver-less once more,
It's passengers stand huddled up outside the tight shut door.
The wind still blows the snow gets deep and piles up in the gutter,
The bus can't move the drivers lost the crowd are in a flutter.
At long long last a "rep" appears his clip board boldly waving,
All services canceled for the day it's time to hit the paving.
All services canceled can't get to work I'm wasting my time remaining,
For an act of God is an act of God and there's really no point in complaining.
The soul shatters upon death. Sentience fractures into a million variables that swirl chaotically into piercing eyes that melt into the color sadness, spinning into galaxies that shrink to the size of ants and you twirl in a blender of being for eternities until finally, at long last, something sticks. Perhaps it may be as simple as a strand of hair, nonetheless all possibility spins around it, flashing contradictions of rainbow transparencies, empty solids and polka dotted space, continuing until a second hair joins the first, clutching to the nothingness and refusing to move. Soon thousands of hairs arrive and synchronize above a scalp unto a face, torso, limbs… materializing ever faster… and at once you are born. And just as the memory of your trial and error experiments and prior life evaporate, you embrace the arms of a stranger, gazing into her eyes, hung between this world and the next… sobbing in a fit of omniscience, in awe of your hard earned shape.
from our home
Looking down, I am pleased to see
Youthful pilgrims from St. Joseph’s and Francis of Assisi
In this Year of Faith
Making a journey toward many a sacred place
Mother is happy
As they proclaim a decade at each Holy Place
Giving Glory to her multi-ethnic face
She fills them each with her grace
It is glorifying to hear their wonder and awe
As they enter each prayer room and chapel, to their knees they fall
Complete with Apostles and Saints, each portrayed through time
Carved in stone, pieced in mosaic and painted detail, so fine
Blessings, I shall provide these
Pilgrims worshipping at the Immaculate Shrine
Our Lady of LaVang, Saint Tekawitha and Mary Queen of Ireland
Grant to them their heavenly presence divine
My life in replica at the Franciscan Monastery
Of the Holy Land
They glare at the cave of my son’s birth
Till death, where his cross did stand
They Kiss the spot where he lay, before interment to the earth
Grateful they are to Father Mark White
Carrying them on Spiritual wings
Like one of my Angel’s in Flight
And worshipping in a new comfort zone
Sounds of the Holy Spirit erupt, as they journey home
Many times I’ve longed to give up when tribulations did corrupt my life when I was
But then you told me I would be unworthy of your only son
So from that day on I traveled along that old yet rarely used path
And I was surprised to see that for centuries, people started out here then
suddenly turned back
And by and by I began to understand why they left this dark and perilous road
For what lies ahead, more problems more dread, was only for God to know
Yes the path is scary but I need not tarry, for I desire to see what’s in store for me
And as I look about, I see the many mouths of the wolves snapping at my feet
It was a horrific sound, but I stood my ground just as Jesus told me I should
They gnashed their teeth and their eyes burned holes through me, yet they dared
not move an inch from where they stood
It didn’t dawn on me what held fast their feet until I felt the presence of his
And before I was overcome with fear, He whispered in my ear saying I am your
protection and your Lord your God
And on and on as I travel along that old yet rarely used path
Many years the Devil hath preyed on my fears and tempted me to turn around and
He told me how silly I was to fall so many times and still haven’t had enough
And I said take thee leave for I know that surely God only count those times I got
I had passed many tests with complaints from the flesh, which time and time I
had to abate
But I had made a vow and no matter how or what I had to do, that promise I will
I told you Lord that I will give of me wholeheartedly and accept my persecution for
your name’s sake
And though at times I may cry my steadfast spirit will not die as long as I know
you’re worth the wait
And while I wait for that day I’ll offer up my praise just as the trees and the
And with your help I will forsake myself to take up my cross to follow you
And I will continue your way until I hear you say that I am to be no more
For I’ve pleased the Lord’s son for having done what I was indeed brought here
Until you appear and take up your dear ones to the King’s dwelling place
I’ll tell those with ears to repent for the judgment is near as I ponder when I will
see your face
And on and on I will continue to travel along that old yet rarely used path
And though I may not know where my feet are to go, as long as you’re leading
me, I’ll never turn back
Keep me safe wherever I go,
Whether through places of sand or snow.
Save me when I am in danger,
Guide me to the right strangers.
Help me wherever and whenever,
Help me keep it together.
Keep me safe wherever I may be,
Whether I am held captive somewhere, or elsewhere roaming free.
Save me when I am stuck,
Bring me better luck.
Help me travel,
Help my dreams and goals unravel.
I never travel without my diary,
One should always have something sensational to read
I am so glad I took it along
On my travel over the sea
As I opened its pristine pages
I knew I had to write.... this ancient legend
That touched my heart and soul
January 19, 9.30pm.
I wish you had read the legend of Kamadeva
The God of carnal love, decked with flowers
And ornaments, armed with a bow of sugarcane
Sitting on the wings of a parrot.......
With dancers all around---
Can you feel his lure
His ever shinning green eyes
His body, a carving in marble
As he enjoyed the dancers around
I sat lost in dreams....
When the pages fluttered in wind
The diary had caught the lure
Of this great God and his charms
When the sun woke me up in the morning
I saw the page of the diary open
It was reliving the ancient legend
As if our fates had been sealed
With this living myth...............
By- Tahera Mannan
For Constance La France’s contest, ‘The Diary’
Roaring engines, wheels on tarmac
Flight 82 is running late
Pilots push the throttle forward
Flight 82 disappears into the black
The nose rises, the speed quickens
G-forces push you through your seat
Inkiness outside the windows thickens
The planes’ destination silently beckons
The plane reverberates with a steady hum
Passengers unclasp their belts
A little girl looks into the eyes of her Mum
As this huge metal object gathers momentum
The pilots are weary, they’re working overtime
Their minds and focus drift
When the birds’ big nose begins to climb
And red lights flash and alarms chime
Something’s wrong. Pilot’s now wide awake
They go into survival mode
But the plane takes on a deadly shake
As they try to figure out their mistake
Panicking passengers silently say their prayers
Praying for God to watch over them
Others confused with frightened stares
Sit motionless in their chairs
Flight attendants jump into action
Trying to calm the passengers down
Giving out emergency instruction
Disguising their fear, showing no reaction
They’ve done this drill, in class, on the ground
But it’s so different miles high in the air
Surrounded by chaos all around
Where crying and screaming is the only sound
The Captain speaks over microphone
Stammering, stuttering, and trying to sound calm
Saying “Get into crash position as shown”.
“Stay that way til more is known”.
One engine’s gone, another is dying
As they radio to the tower
“Mayday, Mayday”, the Captain is crying
As the co-pilot shakes his head, sighing
Heads between legs as the passengers wait
Bewildered and confused
To hear the Captain tell of their fate
Praying hours from now they’ll celebrate
The pilots stick rigidly to their role
But their hopes have quickly faded
Cos they have lost all control
They can’t save anyone, not one soul
As the plane falls from the sky
Minds going ten to the dozen
People on board keep asking, “Why”?
“Why me”? “Why today”? “Why did I fly”?
Pilots in the cockpit, tracing the sign of the cross
As the Earth races up to meet them
Making their peace, with their maker, the boss
Why would God allow this devastating loss?
A deafening silence encompasses the plane
As they come to terms with the inevitable
People writhing in excruciating pain
Suffering in silence, going surely insane
The impact is like a nuclear explosion
Metal disintegrates, body parts strewn
One hundred souls begin their next excursion
A leap of faith, hoping heaven’s no illusion
Flight 82 lies crumbling in its grave
The once intense fire, peetering out
Poor old bird, not a one could it save
It failed in its purpose as a human slave.
Eternity is endless, but time is measured by a “beginning” and an “end”
But from the beginning of creation, male and female made he them
Historical parenthesis within eternity the flow of time
Preparatory, Fulfillment, Consummation three distinct phases of time
Time, the historical framework in which things happen, yours and mine
Creation, Regeneration, Redemption, the nature of time
Soothing wounds of the heart, body healing accommodation of time
Time was given for our "benefit
Don’t look at oneself as timeless misfits
Our real home is in the heavenlies, "outside of time
Make haste all ye men it’s God’s time, seek refuge this present time
From events and occurrences shadows of what to come end –of- time
©Copyright November 16, 2013 by Brian Pierre-Alexander
© All Rights Reserved
My desicion was made.
I wouldn't allow myself to be controlled.
If that makes me a rebel,
then let it be.
I'm a Rebel.
At least I can Make my own choices now.
I can love and care about others.
"You are here by stripped from your wings."
Then it was like someone had bound my wings
and pushed me off a cliff.
it felt like forever.
til finally i reach the ground.
When i hit, it felt like everybone in my wings
I had fallen.
and It hurt so bad.
but it was worth it.
Don't do all the talking
Give God a chance to 'speak' to you
"Acquire the habit of speaking to God
As if you were alone with God
Speak with familiarity
Confidence as to your dearest and most loving friend
Speak of your life
God will speak to you
Not that you will hear audible words in your ears
But words that you will clearly understand in your heart
These may be feelings of peace
Interior joy, or sorrow for sin
(St. Alphonsus Liguori, Doctor of the Church)