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Crossroads

Walking down memory lane, I come across many strange sights;
Strange, not because they’re unfamiliar, surprising or unnatural;
But because down memory lane things just look different.
Some things which seemed heavy, look like feathers now;
Some things that flitted through barely leaving a mark,
Now seem to have made and left trenches deep and wide;
Fleeting moments that were regarded ordinary, barely noteworthy,
Now seem to be set in gold, with silver linings and adorned with pearls.
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Bloodstained

The mysteries of divine irony:
That an ancient symbol of shame
In one day became the ultimate symbol of hope;
The price was a life so pure that shame fled.

The crying cross that weeps blood,
Lamenting at the silence of the Saints –
Silent in comfort, but powerfully verbal in persecution –
Blood-marked men wrung through the wheels of suffering
Their robes made white by a thorough washing in Blood.
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Soul Song

Sing me a song that sounds like the cry of my soul.
I don’t have the voice or the skill,
But I’ll like to hear my soul’s song outside the confines of my being;
So please, If you can, sing me that song, that keeps stirring me up.
I don’t want to be the only one with these goosebumps,
Or the euphoria and the resonating sympathies of these chords.
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The Rising (Fathers)

I’m unqualified to write about fatherhood,
I have enough trouble just being a son;
Yet the thought is one that weighs heavily on the mind…
I realise I’m caught in a cycle where sons become fathers:
How would it feel to have a son today,
Who treats me like I treated my father yesterday,
And treats his son tomorrow like I treat him today – blessing or curse?
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Relapse

When the past, long thought dead, suddenly becomes the present…
Of course, it’s usually the unwanted past that creeps up – go figure…
So sly, playing possum, waiting for that atmosphere – the crack in the psyche.
For it knows, that with the pressures of life come cracks and fractures;
And oftentimes the more rigid the structures, the deeper the damage,
The louder the snaps, and the more forceful the bursts.
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Still Grateful

Here’s a story for those who love such things:

I was once a man (seems like so long ago) who didn’t have much,
But I knew how to love, and loved all I had.
One day I got something I grew to adore and prize
Above all else I had, and I desired not much more.
But not long after, I began to lose the little that I had.
After each loss, I would say to myself and to Him on my knees,
‘I’ve lost something quite dear, but I’m still grateful.’

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Sing Me A Song

Thirteen minutes ago, I got a call.
It wasn’t good news, Granny was ill,
And I somehow knew this was going to be the last time.
We spoke over the phone, and she said not to come over;
The voice was Nanny’s voice as I remember it,
But it carried something more now,
A certain weight I couldn’t place,
Though she sounded frail also…it was the strangest thing.
Nanny spoke like I’ve never heard her speak before,
And I listened as if I was in a trance:
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To Those Who Make Words Fail

There is a well from which the thirsty draw,
It is an ancient well that never runs dry;
The abject woe of this generation is that
There are few who know how to draw from this well;
And even fewer who know the value and use of that which they draw.
There are those who draw only to quench fires and thirst;
There are those who draw to nourish themselves and others;
And there are those who teach and encourage others to draw too.
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