Man

A tightrope trod by hanging hands
Is the tight path of human plans,
And on this rope between the canyon
Treads one lone climber, named Man.
Some thousand feet is his height,
And miles front, back and side,
So he pulls from rise to set,
Never ending, never beget.
Lone climber of the monuments:
Cool ruler of temperament,
Binding strong to the rope
Where blistered hands bear his load,
To pull, push, press and part,
As is the nature of his heart.


In all the canyons in all the world
Men do hang in them alone:
From the princely palace to the streets
Shall he be working for his needs.
From every walk of life is Man,
Who works, fights and lives by his hands:
Man, who is not as those who pretend
To be as the decent gentle Man:
But Man shall wage war against all
Rather than from this tightrope fall;
Bearing the world upon his back
Never failing, never slack.
And Man shall still hold to his rope
Climbing for his greater hope.


He who stands in the coliseum
Of life’s harshest competition;
Of beasts, monsters and all things evil,
Of Goliaths and giants armed in steel;
Each hungry for a fleshly taste;
And yet will he stare them in the face,
And fight the good fight to the death
Until his enemy is undone and bereft.
Standing, bloody, without a sound;
Bearing his scars like a crown;
Still treading the rope as he hangs,
Holding tight with scarred hands;
And years may pass as he holds on
To be the winner, the champion.


And for all that he toils under the sun
He counts all toil for none:
All he works and wars in blood;
He labours first and foremost for love.
Man, who though he utters not a motion
Has a heart riddled with emotion:
Made of pure unquenched passion
To win his heart’s Rose of Sharon;
Whose absence leaves a hole in his side
Where divinely came forth his bride;
That he should be her gallant knight,
Her midday sun at dark midnight,
For she is why he treads this rope;
To catch her when her hands let go.


And there he hangs, despite all things,
With raw nature as company,
For this is where he was birthed,
From the wilderness’ earth;
A complex composition of clay,
Who’s will to climb come what may
Is forged into his being at every part,
For Man, if nothing, is wild at heart,
And he shall keep on through the rain,
The sleet, the snow, the anguish, the pain.
For, what has man fought for
That he shall not die for?
Though violent winds may blow
He shall never let go..

The Rose of Sharon

My Love, are you not the Rose of Sharon?
You are the full-bloomed Lily of the Vale,
So are you, as the Lily among thorns;
For you shall never dim, nor fade, as they.
A thousand flocks ride over the mountains,
To be ten thousand too few for your hair;
Honey will go stale; bitter, the fountains;
Yet you shall remain eternally fair.
Scarlet is too less a thing for your lips,
And sweet wine is all too bitter a taste.
Consider not then Life, for he does miss
And forever falls short your perfect face.
            Songs of Songs for eternity, and more,
            Can never describe Her who has no flaw.
.

The Dawning

.This morning, when I first saw you,
As every morning, you were like no other morning.
The same sweet perfume smelt sweetly new,
            And your blue eyes
            Did bluely shine,
Upon this newest dawning.


This morning, when I first saw you,
My heart beat faster than any other morning.
And my same feelings were painfully new,
            As looking in your eyes
            My heart did cry,
Upon this newest dawning.


And this morning, as I behold you,
I know not what to say, as every morning.
But I would love to give a thousand praises new
            To your blue eyes
            As they do shine
Upon this newest dawning.


Yet this morning, as my heart beats after you,
I do the terrible same, as every morning.
And I do that same, not the new,
            Despite your blue eyes,
            And my heart cries,
Upon this newest dawning.


And so this morning, as I look at you,
I will speak untruly, as every morning.
And so I pretend to despise that which is new,
            As in your blue eyes
            Starts the smallest cry
Upon this newest morning.


And this morning, that was made for you,
I will ruin, again, as every morning.
Despite your beauty, I put down the new,
            And epitomize
            The worst lies
Upon this newest dawning.


Thus this evening, I will cry after you,
As every evening, but more than any other evening.
And for myself, nothing is new:
            For I again I lied
            To my heart cries,
And I will I cry for tomorrow’s dawning.


And this morning, when I first see you,
I will be crying, like no other morning.
And I fear my words that shan’t be new,
            And this is why
            My heart does cry
In the morning, when I am mourning;


And this morning, before I see you,
I can see your beauty more than morning,
More than the day is just new,
            And so do I
            Adore your blue eyes
More, upon every day’s newest dawning.

Emmaus

Why those tears? Are they from that supper
Where He broke bread and wine?
            He said that we were to speak no more
            And never again to dine.


Why this sorrow? Did you see His trail?
Did you hear the crowds jeering?
            From Him we heard no denial,
            Only the crowd cry, crucify Him.
           

Why are you low? Did you see His crown
And His battered, beaten body?
            We saw the thorns, but we frown,
            For what we saw was hardly a body.


Why such grief? Were you not there
To be with Him in this hour of need?
            We were behind, for we were scared,
            And further denied knowing His deeds.


Why do you cry, is it for His death?
For seeing His bitter crucifixion?
            It pains us to have heard His last breath
            O Father, please forgive them.


Why do you weep on this week’s first day?
Is it that the tomb is empty?
            Yes, we cry that the stone is rolled away
            And no longer therein lies His body.


Then, why do you cry? Wipe you eyes:
Let us now sit and break this bread.
The tomb is empty, there is no need to cry,
Why are you weeping? I’m not dead..

Hot Water Bottle

Painkiller odour flows through my veins.
Hands are shaking; head is aching.
Yet the sun is shinning and the wind is still,
And meadows am I contemplating.


Pavane whispers sun to me;
Warm body and light day.
But belly is churning and arms are shivering
And legs are weak like soft clay.
Children leave doors open;
A favour they think, but I hate it;
I’m cold and tired and bored
And feel like… air..

Take Me Home

Take me back home
To the refuge of my Lord,
For too long have I wondered alone
In a spite of my own accord.
I long for Your warmth and sweet embrace,
The way You call my name.
I need Your holy touch upon my face
And how You rid me of my shame.


How long I have drifted.
So deep in mud I am,
That I feel I cannot be lifted
From its tight grasping hand.
The bitter taste of pride,
Making my instinct to run,
But leaving me no where to hide,
My only option was to succumb.


Yet as the sun is sure to rise
So to was the call of my name.
As if from a parting in the skies
Though still caring it came.
You took my hand and held it tight
In the warmth of Your palm.
And there it felt so right,
Secure and peacefully calm.
And then it was plain to see:
No longer were the lions that roam,
For You my Shepherd have found me
And taken this lost sheep home.


.

The Tongue

A beast lives in us all. Each one
With virtues like a venomous snake bite:
Teeth sharp and hissing it comes from
Our heart and flesh: deadly as cyanide.
It builds bridges, and it crushes the soul and body;
It strengthens, and it weakens and divides.
Wisely, it can restore and bring harmony,
Or demonically twist truths into lies.

No wall too big, and no foe too strong
It is the weapon of choice.
It has the capacity to annihilate all day long,
And do your bidding at the sound of your voice.
The claws are ready; they are your eyes
Hunting down one by one like a lion.
You see nearby those that you despise
And they are what you pry on.

A scorpion that cannot help but sting,
A mantis just waiting for the prey.
Unprovoked it attacks to the death and clings
To the corpse, sucking all life away.
Too fast for diluting it soft,
It births roots in the blink of eye.
To tame it is to kill it and cut it off
And let the thing rot and die.

A fire in the water, a wolf in sheep clothing.
It is a temptress gently drawing you in,
So that you’re blind to it and not knowing
That what you’re doing is a sin.
Slender smooth and passion red,
Down it goes: the whips harsh crack.
Your didn’t see it, and now you’re stone dead
After stabbing yourself in the back.

Designed for life, perverted to kill,
Hastily it destroys the old and the young,
A beast we feed too happily at will:
The author of circumstances, The Tongue

Futile

Success on a thread,
It dwells in my mind.
Of all the things I have said,
And for what could be mine.


I think it’s beginning to flow,
But myself is only weak.
The only thing I know,
Is that I’ve got to get away from me.


Solo it cannot be,
Nothing but a blue moon.
It is you who succeeds me,
Brings the flower to bloom.


Without your hand,
Trying is futile.
You will me make me the man,
You will walk the extra mile..

Scream in the Storm

The third poem I ever wrote, age 12


Darkness falls,
Sunlight dies.
A feeling of destruction,
Lurks in the sky.


Clouds of black,
A smell of fire.
The forecast:
Another liar.


Bolts of light,
Like forks they attack.
The pandemonium of sound,
Rocks the rack.


People in the street,
Houses do they hail.
Another bolt attacks,
Hits like a nail.


But sunlight begins,
The darkness dies.
The smell of light,
Fills the sky.
.

Anger

The second poem I ever wrote, age 11


This feeling is dark and spare,
This feeling is strong as sea.
This feeling hurtles through the air,
This feelings taking over me!


It sways at no command,
It kills and hurts.
Its aim to leave a mark,
It is a fiery spurt.


But, during it’s attack,
It stops and rests.
But then comes back,
And destroys even the best.


It’s a feeling of death,
A feeling of power.
It attacks the mind,
Destroys in under an hour.


It moves fast,
Across the land.
The fire terrorises,
The stubble will not stand.


The end of the earth,
Will end in this.
Hate and destruction,
Not happiness and bliss..