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.
Always escaping when you should do so no longer:
a roach that scurries back to the dark
in fear of its life.
Being squashed – not a prospect to be relished;
but if life has no risks, then
it isn’t worth living.
Commitment is key, even if tomorrow
To fear is to escape all the time,
instead of standing one’s ground
against your worst fears.
Have faith, make a stand,
commit and don’t budge!
(Photo by Jesper Aggergaard on Unsplash)
My God is not stupid;
He’s wiser than you are.
Do not presume to judge Him;
He knows you from afar.
His thoughts are higher than our thoughts,
His ways above our ways;
Our wisdom’s but a tiny drop
In the ocean of His days.
If it were easy to discern Him,
Then He would not be God;
To pit your puny mind against His
Is proof that you are mad.
Look to the mighty stars of heaven,
The worlds that fill the sky;
Great is the wisdom that has made them.
Kneel, then, and weep, and cry!
I watch my daughter eat her food
Like Loki hungry at a feast;
She licks her fingers, fierce her mood,
Intent on conquering the beast
That lifeless lies upon her plate –
A sorry sight! But foe it is
To her whose appetite is great.
The plate’s now clean. She blows a kiss.
“For you to say that death is gain
runs counter to this world’s good sense.
We grieve at death for our great loss.
How can your words convince?”
But if a brighter world awaits
the saintly soul, what better word
can best describe the state of things?
Not “Death is loss,” but “Death is gain!”
We are not stones that cannot feel;
we mourn just like the rest of men.
But, Christian as we are, we can’t
suppress the hope that yearns and burns
Undying in our Christian breast
for Life blood-won by our Lord.
Death has been conquered. It now serves
as entrance to Eternal Bliss.
Yes, death is gain because Christ lives,
Transformer of the dark and bleak.
Tho’ death be bitter, the bitter’s sweet
if it transports me to Heaven’s Gate.