God works all things for our good,
To conform us to his image.
All his commands obey we should,
As we behold his visage.
So daily do his cross we bear
And of our sins repent;
And daily give ourselves to prayer,
And for his work be spent.
For holiness is our goal;
Towards this end we strive.
Deep change he works within our soul
And Hope he keeps alive.
Soon we will in his presence be:
Spotless, holy, blameless, free,
Because the Lord on Calvary’s tree
Gave up his life for you and me!
Should I write poems?
Could I make a difference doing so?
If not, why waste the time
I throw pebbles into the pond
and watch the ripples grow
That is my life.
A few investments here and there;
a few waves, small and large;
and then gone . . .
I have no confidence writing poetry.
I do not know whether I do it well or no.
All I know is:
I do not dislike making some.
(Photo by Jordan McDonald on Unsplash)
His soul has gone to heaven,
his body left behind,
his friends are all a-weeping,
his loved ones all resigned
to what they deem unchangeable
– the Almighty’s stern decree:
The soul, although immortal,
must soon the body flee.
But still they bravely carry on,
their grief can’t overwhelm them.
They know the One and Only Son
will comfort and sustain them.
And tho’ their loved one might be gone,
’tis only for a season.
The One and Only Son shall come,
and he will rise again!
(Written on 03 December 2017)
It is midnight in the chambers
Of my melancholic soul;
Witness are the empty hours
To my struggle to be whole.
Listless faces, unsmiling,
Fill my vision of despair
While the voices of the dying
Sing the burden that I bear.
Tears are lost in the uncaring
Of my icy eyes unfeeling
Common anguish we all share.
I have seen the hungry dying
I have heard the cries of fools,
And the hopes of men a-waning,
And the misery that rules.
Yes, the misery proliferating
And the poverty of souls –
Men alive but no more living
In their void-of-meaning roles.
I am near to realizing
What before I did not see
That to live a life of loving
Is to set my spirit free
From the selfishness that binds me
To the coldness of despair,
From the midnight of my misery
To the dawn of loving care.
Here is a pen that needs to be wiped;
The ink overflows a bit.
I am that pen, am I not?
Beautiful and shiny: a Lamy Studio!
But it doesn’t write right;
The ink is uneven.
Tolerable and even better than other pens,
Given the price I paid for it.
I wonder what God thinks of me?
The tick-tock of the electric clock
disturbs the late night’s silence.
I then discern the crickets’ hum;
the gecko also joins in.
I see no stars or shining moon
outside my library’s window;
but the night feels right – the peace and quiet
soothes my fractured ego.
I thank you, Lord, for simple joys:
the fact that I’m alive
and able still to breathe – inhale! –
without a worry on my mind.
I think more often I should do this
during times I cannot sleep:
Let the words flow from my pen unbidden,
and let gratitude run deep.
Doubts like leaves blown by the wind,
frolicking by the roadside,
dance painfully in my mind.
Which should I choose?
Only One can be my bride;
all the rest must be left behind.
Shall I be a poet or a preacher,
a jazz pianist or a lawyer?
Shall I be whole or torn apart?
But to be whole is to be torn apart!
Hagar’s husband was heartbroken
when he left her with his son:
What a cruel fate he gave them!
But the thing once done is done.
If I choose to be this one and not
the other one that I could be,
I will be murdering one self so that
another self might fully be.
In order to be truly me
I must decide to not be me!
The leaves are lifted by the wind
only to fall gently once again
dead and silent on the ground.
Disconnect is the order of the day,
given all the stuckness in the world
in the web of communications.
How come we prefer to remain stuck
like flies to a web?
The spider’s coming, the spider’s coming!
(Photo by Fabian Michel on Unsplash)
Fear bites like a mosquito
and gives an itch to my right brain.
“I’ll live to be a hundred – no?”
Mortality is my name.
Every ache I ponder deep:
“Is this the beginning of the end?”
I find it difficult to sleep;
When will darkness be my friend?
Sing like a mosquito’s hum
When it buzzes near my ear;
That’s the melody of anxiety,
What I hear when I sense fear.
A fleeting breeze am I; a flame
About to die; the final note
Of a concluding dirge; a warm
But swiftly passing touch. And why
Must I desire to be a star
Eternal in the heavenly realms
When I am not forever? Soon
My flesh and bones will turn to dust,
My footsteps in the sand erased,
Because I am what all life is:
A fleeting, passing, dying breeze.
But ere I pass this be my joy:
To touch thee ere this breeze pass on,
To warm thee ere this flame be gone,
Ere this sad soul melt with the sun,
Ere my life’s dust fly with the wind,
Ere my brief candle turn into night
And I be a forgotten dream.
This be my task while ’tis Today,
Ere I conclude my fleeting stay.
Mine is to touch and pass away
Mine is to touch, then… pass away.