Christian, life, poetry, prayer, Uncategorized

Arms Raised In Supplication

Dear Father,

 

In front lays a pen

And underneath, a sheet

Empty yesterday

Emptier today

 

And so shall it be thru eternity

For the pen, though firm and able,

Remains lame without the bearer

 

Therefore, my Master

I ask thee for divine aid

Grant me the ways to create

Let my words be Your words

And Your words be mine

That I may exclaim to it,

“Rise!”

And its purpose be realized

 

Lest in time, the ink dries

And my spirits falter

And my right hand

Could not any longer

 

Henceforth, I fully resign

I am myself no longer

And You shall be my Bearer

Him by which all things

Be redeemed

 

“…in order that henceforth at every moment of my life, and in each of my action, thou mayest deign to be my director, my guide, my strength, and all the love of my heart…”

 

So shall it be done.

 

 

 

 

 

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poetry, prose, Uncategorized

Christmas Solo-bration

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Photograph taken and owned by Fran Veale (07/12/2007)

 

Footsteps and footprints all around town

Sounds of impatience, horns, and rumbles

Smiles passing by, lights shining down

Souls elated by gifts that tumble 

Except for one sitting on the corner

Foiling up his leftovers 

Six pm, but he unrolls his covers

Saying,

“Gon’ save this for later,

…for the 25th of December”

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poetry, prose, Uncategorized

If I Were Anything…

If I were a place
I wouldn’t be a park
‘Cause like the birds
Noticing nothing but the scattered seeds,
You have forgotten my flowers
My freshness, my scenery
You before had noticed

If I were ever anything…

I wouldn’t definitely be the flower
Who for only a short time has been companions with a bee
As soon as it gets what it wants
It dances off and hops to my fellow flowers
Then I suffocate on self-pity
And question my worth and beauty
…Or the seashore
Because you love me to your high
Savour my salinity
But leaves when the sunset comes
And often, I’m left
Uncertain of your return

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poetry, prose, religion

The Father is the greatest!

Breathe in!

One…two…three

Breathe out!

That easily, He commands

My worries to flee

Through my nostrils

Down towards the dirt on the ground

And with might I shook the earth

As I crushed all of them

While crystals fell from my face

Now, I claim nothing but victory

For with the Father, there is no defeat

And while the war inside me resumes

I predict my glorious return

Sword raised on one hand

And the free hand reaching for the heavens —

A gesture of joyful surrender

A taste of everlasting peace

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poetry, prose, short story

Life of A Gardener

I am a gardener. But I have only got one flower to take care of.

Nevertheless, I consider myself a gardener.

This flower has been my companion for quite a long time now. I help her to live, to breathe, to be free. In return, she gives me the companionship I’ve prayed for so long.

She is my answered prayer.

And It is my job to make her feel the best flower among the rest.

Every morning, I greet her with words as sweet as her scent. I stand in awe the moment the sun shimmers, beams of light slowly tiptoeing from her petals down to the soil where she stands.

She is beautiful. Always.

I sprinkle her with water daily, so she may never thirst. I offer her space, the best one I could find in the house. I let her stand on the healthiest soil, and let her breathe the most soothing breeze.

I allow her friends, the bees, to visit and keep her company when I’m away…

So that she may bloom! Grow in the best way.

But it has never been easy.

She is silent.

Sometimes, I wonder what she thinks. She’s never been vocal about how she feels.

I spend hours trying to figure out what I did wrong.

“Did I give her enough water to drink? Or was it too much? Was the breeze too cold? Or too gentle as too safe?”

“Was the sun too harsh for her? Or did it hide behind the clouds to deprive my precious flower of warmth?”

“Had the bees forgotten to visit her? Had the soil become too stiff for her to dance and sway her vibrant petals?”

“Is she happy?”

Now comes the hardest part of a gardener’s life…when he becomes so absorbed with his own doubts, fears, and imperfections.

Being a gardener, I live with uncertainty…the uncertainty as to whether my flower is satisfied with my care or not…

The uncertainty as to whether she loves me the way I love her…

The uncertainty as to when she decides to lift her feet to fly with the wind

Or to bend down, to die.

To leave and wave goodbye.

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