Posted in Poetry

OLD DAYS

The wind blows, the sound is nostalgic,

Of the old days when rains, used to be plenty

And children played outside, and herded cattle in the fields

The trees whistle in the forest

In a reminiscence of the whistling of the herder in the green fields

When the herd was plenty and the rain dropped from the sky

The land was fertile and the plains were never dry

 

The rain drops, on the metal sheet

Very intense but for a short time

Unlike the old times when, we had more than plenty

When we had bumper harvests and our granaries were ever full

 

Now on the wind blows, and brushes past the dry trees

The trees whistle a mournful sound, like a funeral procession

the raindrops are scarce, and very feeble, like a candle fire in the wind

The children never play outside, they are never amused by the sun and the desolate land

And the fireplace has no fire, only ashes remain, because the corn has since dried in the farm land

 

Adopted words,

Anonymous.

Posted in Poetry

THE DATE

After three hours of sitting down looking at each other

Feasting on the sacred moment of pure honesty and truth

Paralyzed to have a sense of time

Him staring at her curved bowed lips

Her… well, what about her?

She was definitely mesmerized by the cool eyes

So curious, searching, looking…

He asked her then, to pour him a drink

 

Heard by the eavesdropping birds, the words were weightless

To her, they were whispered words wrapped in petals

That floated gently into her rib cage and settled at her centre

It was a simple request, but her heart took it as a plea

Something changed, in a second the environment changed

The trance was broken, and the locks snapped

 

A harsh fell and the silence shouted at the top of her lungs

Confusion was written on her face

Wondered if he knew that she was just a picture

With a broken frame

A voice commanded her out of the state

Be everything your ego is afraid to become

Your existence is tied together like shoelaces.

 

Her eyes held so many tears, unshed for so many years

He said, “Rain on me”

Chosen not to be wiped, chosen not to be held back

She tasted her very emotions, a mixture

Of anguish, pain, bitterness, frustration and happiness

And it was the best wine he had ever had.

Posted in Inspire, Poetry

WHAT IS BROKEN IS WHAT GOD BLESSES

The lover’s footprint in the sand

the ten-year-old kid’s bare feet

in the mud picking chili for rich growers,

not those seeking cultural or ethnic roots,

but those whose roots

have been exposed, hacked, dug up and burned

and in those roots

do animals burrow for warmth;

what is broken is blessed,

not the knowledge and empty-shelled wisdom

paraphrased from textbooks,

not the mimicking nor plaques of distinction

nor the ribbons and medals

but after the privileged carriage has passed

the breeze blows traces of wheel ruts away

and on the dust will again be the people’s broken

footprints.

What is broken God blesses,

not the perfectly brick-on-brick prison

but the shattered wall

that announces freedom to the world,

proclaims the irascible spirit of the human

rebelling against lies, against betrayal,

against taking what is not deserved;

the human complaint is what God blesses,

our impoverished dirt roads filled with cripples,

what is broken is baptized,

the irreverent disbeliever,

the addict’s arm seamed with needle marks

is a thread line of a blanket

frayed and bare from keeping the man warm.

We are all broken ornaments,

glinting in our worn-out work gloves,

foreclosed homes, ruined marriages,

from which shimmer our lives in their deepest truths,

blood from the wound,

broken ornaments

when we lost our perfection and honored our imperfect

sentiments, we were blessed.

Broken are the ghettos, barrios, trailer parks where gangs duel to death,

yet through the wretchedness a woman of sixty comes riding her rusty bicycle,

we embrace

we bury in our hearts,

broken ornaments, accused, hunted, finding solace and refuge

we work, we worry, we love

but always with compassion

reflecting our blessings

in our brokenness

thrives life, thrives light,

thrives the essence of our strength,

each of us a warm fragment,

broken off from the greater

ornament of the unseen,

then rejoined as dust,

to all this is.

by Jimmy Santiago, 1952.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

A PSALM OF LIFE

Tell me not, in mournful number,

Life is but an empty dream!”

For the soul is dead that slumber;

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not it’s goal;

“Dust thou art, to dust returnest,”

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to- morrow

Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long and time is fleeting,

And thou our hearts, thou stout and brave;

Still, like muffled drums are beating

Funereal marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of life,

Be not dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act, act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God overhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time.

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing

Learn to labor and to wait.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Posted in Poetry

LANGUAGE

What the… How dare you… What is wrong with your…
Anger, Frustration, Sadness, Hate, Emotions, Oh my!
It’s just a strict map of impersonal facts, I say.
Umph! Whatever, just shut up. You say.
It’s just words that are rhetoric, dismiss them for superstition. I say.
It’s a creative force that gives wings to perceptions. You say.
Language, it aspires to sciences natural condition. I say.
Haaa!! The arrangement is poetic, literature illiterate. You say.
Well, aren’t you just a humanist. I say.
And aren’t you just a positivist. You say.

Mind your language!
Hold your tongue this instant!
Language tends to form a framework around our ideologies,
Philosophers gain a skill to pattern words to seek their implications.
Its twists and turns tend to form a mathematical equation;
A decoded puzzle of grammar hard to some and easy to others,
Linguists in their peculiar solidarity so enthusiastic that it seems a wordplay.

Posted in Poetry

THE AFRICAN LADY

She was wearing an African blue print couture dress
Fully defined edges that brought out her delicate hedges
That cover her Alice in such a magnificent wonderland
I think she got it from Etsy, just saying (whispering)
Her voice, “Oh! That voice”, I can’t forget it
It was so coarse, so coarse it seemed like…
As if it was ragged by the rugs of her past.

Well, to be frank with you, I love her, I really do
I know she has loved me for her entire life
But you see, I’ve loved her for my entire life
So that’s like how many years now?
I think I can say I know what love is
So original, so… not perverted by the external forces
Just speaking from experience here that’s all
If only I could give her one thing in this life…
I would give her the ability to see herself through my eyes,
Only then! Only then, would she realize
How special she is to me.

Posted in Inspire

WHO IS A REAL CHRISTIAN?

Episode 2

As I sit down to write this I wonder what you are thinking, your ideas and opinions. Once upon a time…In the beginning… In everything that is here in this world there is always a beginning to it. So, as we explore more on this topic in “Who is a Real Christian?”… Why don’t we check out the history of Christianity since this will help us have a clear picture on what it is all about.

From the Holy Text, i.e. the Bible, we find that in…
Acts 11:22-26
[22] Then tidings of these things came unto the ears of the church which was in Jerusalem: and they sent forth Barnabas, that he should go as far as Antioch.
[23] Who, when he came, and had seen the grace of God, was glad, and exhorted them all, that with purpose of heart they would cleave unto the Lord.
[24] For he was a good man, and full of the Holy Ghost and of faith: and much people was added unto the Lord.
[25] Then departed Barnabas to Tarsus, for to seek Saul:
[26] And when he had found him, he brought him unto Antioch. And it came to pass, that a whole year they assembled themselves with the church, and taught much people. And the disciples were called Christians first in Antioch.
In the history of mankind, the word Christian is first mentioned in the Bible referring to the disciples and this was because when people looked at them, they saw them doing everything just exactly the way Jesus Christ did.

They preached like Christ,
They lived like Christ,
They taught like Christ,
They did miracles like Christ,
They took people to supernatural places like Jesus Christ
Their conduct and way of life was outstandingly parallel to Christ
Thus, they were named after Him, Christians.

Now, the only way that anyone can be called a Christian is on that same merit, their lives have to align with that of Jesus Christ. No matter how learned, educated, wealthy or whatever achievement you might have, the standard still remains that for you to be a Christian, the life of Christ must be in you.

Now these disciples didn’t impose that they were like Christ, the un-believers are the ones who said so. The unbelievers confessed it from their tongues that the disciples were like Christ. Being called a Christian isn’t something you implant on yourself and if you do then it’s just a word that you use to justify yourself and deal with your own guilt. 2 Corinthians 13: 1 Paul tells us that “In the mouth of two or three witnesses shall every word be established.” Christian is a word and not just a word. This word that keeps spilling from our mouths in self-identification has it been established as true in the presence of witnesses? Unbelievers have to bear record that you do live like Christ. These disciples didn’t implant that name on themselves but it was the un-believers who bore record and confessed it.

The best people who can bear witness that truly you are a Christian, it’s the people around you who don’t go to the same church with you, they have never known you before but when they meet you for the first time, they can be able to bear record that there’s something special about you, you are a peculiar person since that is what God has called us to be…
1 Peter 2:9
[9] But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvelous light:

Will leave you with this…
Galatians 2:20
[20] I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.

A true Christian is the one who is completely dead to his own will, personal issues, surrendering all and totally yielding to the leadership of the Holy Spirit. And that’s the only time that Christ lives in him/her.

Posted in Uncategorized

THE OLD TIMES

The wind blows, the sound is nostalgic,

Of the old days when rains, used to be plenty

And children played outside, and herded cattle in the fields

 

The trees whistle in the forest

In a reminiscence of the whistling of the herder in the green fields

When the herd was plenty and the rain dropped from the sky

The land was fertile and the plains were never dry

 

The rain drops, on the metal sheet

Very intense but for a short time

Unlike the old times when, we had more than plenty

When we had bumper harvests and our gannaries were ever full

 

Now on the wind blows, and brushes past the dry trees

The trees whistle a mournful sound, like a funeral procession

the rain drops are scarse, and very feeble, like a candle fire in the wind

The children never play outside, they are never amused by the sun and the desolate land

And the fire place has no fire, only ashes remain, because the corn has since dried in the farm land

 

words by,

anonymous writer

Posted in Inspire

WHO IS A REAL CHRISTIAN?

Philippians 3:3
For we are the circumcision, which worship God in the spirit, and rejoice in Christ Jesus, and have no confidence in the flesh.

Who is a REAL CHRISTIAN? This is a wide topic, I have to admit, believing that by the grace of God and the guidance of the Holy Spirit you will find words that will bring an awakening into your life. Will make you put your life on the weighing scales of the Word and check yourself. Let us judge ourselves lest we be judged.

In a world where, there are so many churches and people seem to have a religious aspic in everything they do. Living lives so organized that one may envy or be influenced by it. On Sundays, people flock and fill the pews in different churches all over the world to sing, pray and more so to listen to the Word. But now, there’s always something astonishing about this, every church has their own doctrine, teachings, systems and order of doing things. And every member of each congregation will stand boldly and claim that their church or their pastor, bishop or priest is right. The truth of the matter is that there’s a lot of confusion in all this.

The wind blows where it listeth;
though cannot tell which way
it come or where it’s going.
So is everyone who is a christian
that’s borned of the Spirit.

Paul wrote in Romans 10: 2 – 4 ; “For I bear them record that they have a zeal of God, but not according to knowledge. For they being ignorant of God’s righteousness, and going about to establish their own righteousness, have not submitted themselves unto the righteousness of God. For Christ is the end of the law for righteousness to everyone that believeth.” Paul was speaking of the Israelites at that time, though now it seems we are falling along the same path hence the critical question… Who is a REAL CHRISTIAN?

Posted in Poetry

DOWN BUT NOT OUT

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Living day after day, till it feels like, we are just surviving.
Holding on, to a string that may give in and we fall down to a bottomless hole.
Seems like, the way down never ends, it goes on and on and on.
Our eyes clear as crystal though we are surrounded by destitution.

Tears have been shed so often a time that,
It seems pointless to continue with such a pitiful act;
Our hearts beating at an accelerated rate as if its on fire yet its so freezing out here.
Our history showing a few victories, but far in between our lowest points.

This challenge before me whose breath seems to dim the sun with it’s fumes…
It raises so many a wounded thoughts that I find hard to endure;
Reliving that day over and over again till I can’t take it no more!
Can I please just teleport to another dimension where am free from my own conscious?

Well, I might be down right now but am not out,
A stubborn spirit you might think I have,
A naive one perhaps to not realizing my predicament.
I believe I know this situation better, for its mine you see?
Say no and I will surely carry on.