Gratitude, Always

It’s a minute to midnight,
I’m watching the clock tick-tock its way to a new dawn;
Trying to capture the exact moment of the transition;
This wouldn’t be my first attempt,
Though each time I’d managed to miss the tangibility
Of that sharp dividing line separating old from new.

Sometimes I wish everything would come to a standstill –
A moment of silence to acknowledge the passing of a season.
Sometimes I wish there would be a tremor
Through the fabric of existence,
To signal the birth of a new cycle.

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Find Me On My Knees

Find me on my knees,
Kneeling on my doubts and distresses;
Hands clasped, holding tight my faith;
Eyes closed firmly, that I may not be moved by sight;
My words are incoherent, rightly depicting the state of my mind;
My mouth seems too slow, not fast enough to articulate the flow –
The gushing of thoughts and emotions from my mind backed up behind my throat,
My tongue feels tired, but there’s a will
That seeks to push until something happens…
Giving no rest to self or God;-
The mystery that keeps mighty men on their feet in battle,
And keeps the sword of the warrior stuck to his hands
Even when his arms are wearied beyond remedy;
And keeps him facing a thousand as they descend on him
Breathing destruction and slaughter….
A small portion of the mystery, that brought a Man
To the carrying of the burdens of the whole world.

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Photo by James Wheeler from Pexels

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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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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Welcome

Take me to the Place where the saints gather,
To the convention of the just made perfect;
Where the clouds of glory settle and tongues of fire dance;
To the atmosphere so pure that I come undone to be refined.
It is where David dances and Solomon sits to be taught;
A place whose gates Sampson’s strength does not qualify him to guard.
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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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