Our ancient fathers had it easy.
Every now and again God would appear
To one of them on top of a mountain, in a dream,
Or what would seem to be a burning bush.
He would tell them where they went wrong
(which button to push)
Give them a set of instructions.
Then, presto! Away they’d go
And things would also go right for a while,
Until the instructions became obsolete.
Meanwhile, they would be scrutinised
And revised by God, and a new set provided.
Neat! In the Old Testament this was standard,
Now we come to the New: not so for us.
We have to formulate our own instructions,
Perform our own miracles,
By trial and experiment,
By logic or presentiment.
We hope, we fumble and grope
And often (but not often enough)
We discover a missing fragment
Of the Seventh or Tenth Commandment
(only a fragment, mind)
While the First Commandment,
Although we search, we cannot find.
Someday perhaps,
On a slide, looking down a microscope,
One of the laboratory chaps or some old bod
Gazing at the heavens through a telescope,
Might just catch a glimpse of God.
The hush of midnight settles upon my skin,
Windows flicker with distant city light.
Alone, my thoughts begin their silent spin,
Shadowed hours stretch deep into the night.
Windows flicker with distant city light,
A gentle echo of lives beyond my view.
Shadowed hours stretch deep into the night,
I gather quiet truths the darkness drew.
A gentle echo of lives beyond my view,
Soft footsteps fading on forgotten ground.
I gather quiet truths the darkness drew,
Solitude’s embrace is where I’m truly found.
Soft footsteps fading on forgotten ground,
Alone, my thoughts begin their silent spin.
Solitude’s embrace is where I’m truly found,
The hush of midnight settles upon my skin.
A glass of vodka on the table,
A chocolate joint between the fingers,
A Tokarev in the bag,
The brain infused with adrenaline.
Misery, a nightmare,
Being poor, a curse,
Forced to drown in illicit transactions.
Survival: a necessity to exist,
Bound to poverty since the placenta.
Murder scenes as the only spectacle,
From the watchtower, the horizon is mortiferous.
Reality proclaims its sentence with a firm voice,
The cruelty of the street teaches raw lessons to worn-out heels.
Gagged souls count the dirty money that corrodes their future,
A pact of survival sealed between greasy fingers and clenched fists.
The heart hardens to feed a hungry mouth,
Prayer turns into calculation, cash becomes language.
Yellow smiles are sold, worn-out allegiances are bought,
Eyes assess, tongues negotiate the unforgivable.
A shiver of metal recalls the origin of the debts.
No respite, the market demands its tribute without mercy.
A verse carved inside lacerated fists,
Ultimate testament of a centuries-old ordeal.
A Testament to My Loss
Beneath the scalpel's relentless song,
I faced a grief both deep and strong.
Two valleys crossed, two peaks laid bare,
My spirit trembled beneath despair.
A canvas blank, yet marked by pain,
Each scar a whisper, a loss ingrained.
The lines upon me tell their tale,
Of nights I wept, of times I failed.
The mirror shows a shadowed hue,
A broken image of someone new.
Not more, but less, my soul reduced,
A phoenix struggling, wings seduced.
In every shadow, darkness clings,
And every tear, the sorrow sings.
I made the choice to live, to be,
But sadness binds and silences me.
This weary heart with hollowed beat,
Still searches strength, though storms repeat.
Through loss, I crawl another way,
To find the dawn, though skies are gray.
For beauty hides, in what remains,
In fractured terrain and stubborn pains.
My double journey, my life undone,
A tapestry where battles spun.
The scriptures whisper of silent tombs/
Of wisdom buried, lost in gloom/
But I rise, carved from the night/
A witness to the truths concealed in blight/
They say the grave is thoughtless dust/
Where knowledge falters, fades to rust/
Yet voices linger past the veil/
The echoes of the lost prevail/
For darkness harbors secrets deep/
And silent lips still stir and speak/
Their wisdom weaves through midnight air/
A testament beyond despair/
I walk between the black and bright/
Shaped not by sun, but shadow's sight/
For in the hollow hush of night/
Truth is born, and minds take flight/
Do not believe the lie they sing/
That knowledge dies, a fleeting thing/
For even in the grave's embrace/
Thought endures, defies its place/
I am the proof, the breathing past/
The gathered echoes holding fast/
Through time and dust, through loss and pain/
The dead still whisper, and I remain/
So do not let their stories fade/
Or be deceived by what is laid/
Life's wisdom does not fear the shade/
It lingers, speaks, and will not trade/
If unexpectedly I were to die,
then this at least is here for all to see -
something of mine, a collection of what was I;
to survive the flesh, what could beat poetry?
Hubris begs me "Don't leave this world unknown!"
In secret I agree, but as for pride,
it tugs my sleeve and beckons with a groan,
"Are you worthy of such a haughty stride?"
Thus, I compromise, only my best work
will here be shown. The rest I’ll bring along,
gravebound for that eternal gloomy murk
beyond the mortal, to the ghastly throng.
Alas, the end is nigh, the poem closes,
I only ask my tomb be strewn with roses.
For when life's journey ends, I'll at last die;
and won't be sad (for I'll be old and glad)
because I gave my very best reply
to God by praising him though I went mad.
Now, I pray daily to be God's chos'n light.
In spirit, with Him, I make communion:
light candles, burn incense, to spark the night;
and call His presence to bless our union.
Pure, naked, unblemished, I know the Word.
In inspired scripture, I'm joined with His flesh;
with verse, I wield His powerfully sharp Sword,
to let the Waters of Life flow afresh
in measures and rhymes for this testament:
The one I love, the King of Kings, the Rose
(of this poem that inspires my sentiment)
of Sharon from Song of Songs, whom I chose!
In his gospel, Matthew says you can buy two sparrows for a penny;
but in his gospel, Luke says you can buy five sparrows for two.
So here's a very simple math question for you, Jenny.
Would you get more sparrows if Matthew or if Luke bought them for you?
28) "Am I a God near at hand," says the LORD, "And not a God far off?" Can anyone
hide himself in secret places, So that I shall not see him," Says the LORD; "Do I
not fill the heaven and the earth?" Says the LORD. Jeremiah 23:23-24
29) "My covenant was with him, one of life and peace, And I gave them to him that
he might fear Me; So he feared Me, and was reverent before My name. The
law of the truth was in his mouth, And injustice was not found on his lips. He
walked before Me in peace and equity, And turned many away from inequity.
For the lips of a priest should seek the law from his mouth; and he is the
messenger of the LORD of hosts. Malachi 2:5-7
to be continued latter on.
Cracked dusky humid industrial decay
Perched crows survive death of abandoned Chevrolet
A testament of humanity’s constant change
Character is the breath of fresh air,
the gentle insistence of places left behind,
the test itself taken solo, without study aids or observers,
just you—bare and unseen.
It is the weight pulling down the earth,
unmoved by winds or whims,
an invisible force that supports all,
severe and longstanding, without foreseen witness.
"How can this be?" the old man said,
As shadows fell on the temple’s light,
His voice was low, his heart was lead—
Would faith grow pale in the nearing night?
But Gabriel, bright with timeless grace,
Stood firm beneath the altar’s flame,
"The Lord has heard you, face to face,
His promise lives, though you feel shame."
Oh, doubt not power that moves unseen,
In darkness still, the seed is sown,
For even now, though skies may lean,
Your heart’s small prayer becomes his own.
A cryptic deed writer drafted our will,
wherein division of wealth was defined
but spoke not of habits that make soul ill
and how we may become divine entwined,
with strobes of love and light within aligned,
so we shared our thoughts, a mindful preface,
pointing out how heart may invoke God’s grace.
Beige-white heat blisters his brow
until sweat pours masking his face
protecting his vision – cooling without a breeze.
His calloused feet burn with resistance to
indiscriminate grains of settling sand
filling his footprint from his labored stride.
White and green linen draped casually
around his heated torso
tugs and shifts from his movement.
Blurred by the endless desert dunes
warped in mirage, he searches
this place with little room for the living.
Following a dead man’s journey to cast hope
amidst an apocalypse in time and space
he clamors with all that is within his will
straining to find the direction
that provides life.
It is a detour taken by youth.
The inertia of the age-old quest
to boldly find the efficacy of one’s soul
while fearlessly striking the citadels
of this desert dominion to declare
“I am the seed of my own existence “–
The love that’s in my heart
Many wouldn’t understand
All people see is a monster
When I’m just a hurting man
Tell me it will be ok
And that you understand
Please don’t be the reason that I feel this way again
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