The Day of the Cross

I will not celebrate
That tree of torture
I will not soften
The edges of that pain
And torment
But I will remember
That when all looks lost
God is working
To bring His redemption
That when it looks like
Powerful systems
Determine our future
When it seems as though
Justice is beyond our reach
When longed-for hope
Slips from our hands
Like the last sliver of light,
God is working
To bring His redemption.

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Time Travel

The places I've lived Live inside me Like so many Russian dolls. Their different faces Appear, with a certain scent, A particular quality of light And air. The smell of freshly cut grass Brings England out to greet me. Tennis on a hot afternoon; Cold beer beside a canal; School uniforms; the BBC news; Christmas carols with the smell of Hot cloves. Crashing waves on a wintry beach And Cape Town grabs my hand. The smell of ozone on damp air; A certain vibe, somewhere Between vintage and cool; Sundowners on the stoop, and I'm there. Fresh fish roasting on open coals, Mozambique makes an appearance. A drumbeat heard outdoors; The smell of candle wax Or kerosene; bumping over a pothole; Sleeping under a mosquito net; still Getting bitten. All these places are inside me. Not part of history but Part of my soul. Time is not a straight line of Consecutive events So much as a kaleidoscope, Concertinaed within. And I am all these...

Silence

I think of the poem I wrote, That I wanted to read to you. I think of the way I wanted To ask you to pray with me. And yet my words are stuck In my throat, I can't afford to need you this much. I can't risk the disappointment o f disinterest, The disillusionment of good intentions Fallen flat. They say hope disappointed makes The heart sick, and my heart is sick. And fragile, and full of shadows. But the risk of sharing that with you Is too great. I cannot be the needy one, Am tired of being one thing Instead of many things. I want to claim my strength and perseverance, My resilience and fortitude. But all you see is this sadness And so, I keep silent.

What is Beauty?

Wild, untended spaces, Enclosed. Or open. Brushwood and leaf litter, Thorny. Tree canopy overhead, Welcome shade. Not far away Well-tended villas, Manicured lawns behind High walls. Clean lines, lush green Bright and showy. Beauty is everywhere. We find it, We make it. The best kind of beauty Is the kind we share with others Easily, generously. Like sitting in sunlight Under a tree Content to be ourselves.

Gobble Funking Around With Words

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