On the power of stories

Today I was reminded of the beauty and power of stories. I witnessed a friend of mine reading my poems, and to know that she was blessed by it was truly a humbling experience. It made me contemplate the reasoning behind me writing that poem in the first place. In other words, I brought to remembrance a story.

It was so profound, this revelation I had. My own story, producing yet another story that projected into the great unknown. In turn, it told a tale of not my story, nor the one that manifested itself due to my experience, but another story unique to the reader. It leaves you to imagine; How many stories can come from just you speaking what’s on your mind? 

Just think about it… Your one story of struggle, warped into ballads of success, fables of a glorious victory over harsh circumstances and unlikely odds… your story, creating one of love and romance, because you were able to share that one time when despite the hate and anger burning like a volcano within you, that you chose to forgive instead of erupt. 

So how about it? Never neglect to tell your story. Don’t ever believe it’s not worth hearing; it was authored by a masterful Artist, and you can’t even begin to think of what it could mean for someone else… perhaps it won’t get that far, but it might just encourage that one person to stand up and share their story, and through them- through YOU – the world changes for the better.

SHOUT IT OUT! 

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Waiting at dawn’s door

It isn’t easy

Staring out your window sill

looking at the stars above asking

why….

Ebon blankets serve no comfort

as the dim stars tease

Their light a grim reminder…

why???

To think that just eight minutes ago

they shone so bright,

But now so distant as the pale sky.

You feel just like that quiet night;

little stars do nothing to lighten you

you wish for nothing else,

but for sun’s light to return.

You know that dawn is approaching,

but that it will never be the same.

who said that the moon doesn’t shine during the day?

Mostly it goes unnoticed.

but the reflection of the light once seen before

can show up even as time moves on…

Don’t let it go unnoticed.

let the light shine on

show them you won’t stare out into the night anymore,

but be patiently waiting…

waiting at dawn’s door.

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Examination reprieve

Peace.

Speaks out in the midst

of written chaos, betwixt

the purse of tense, wet lips..

Breathes a sigh of relief.

Shoulders slouch

knuckles pressed to chin

As the lingering moments sprout peace within…

It is finished.

Creased foreheads round about

Thought taut across their faces.

But I, alone in the serene euphoria

Breathe freely, blessed with freedom’s grace.

That much lighter as I float in my seat,

Handing but one more worry to the Lord.

Made of Stone

The author of heaven; wrote upon the tablet of my stony heart. Like when he wrote upon the sands, His inscription remains hidden… sacred, and intimate. His whispered words, etching love, like no one else can, upon my very existence… the Michelangelo of all creation; He chipped away at everything I was… my lust, pride, doubt… everything chipped down to the beauty that is His masterpiece. I can’t say I am myself; for what am I, but a slab? Can I be anything but a cold, flat, purposeless and shapeless object, rendering nothing but a blank stare from the all judging eyes of this world?

It hurts… each stab of the chisel cracks me… it breaks me down and I feel so exposed… every imperfection, falling in front of me like a waterfall; strong, ever running and flowing into a pool of guilt… Is this really me? This wretched, filthy slush that leaves me dank, unwanted and an eyesore to the common Pharisee…. That mossy, slimy, slippery piece of stone. Solitary, alone and unwanted.

The Master brings polish… bah! Like if that would work! I’d just be a shiny piece of garbage! I may look cleaned up on the outside, but it will never change who I am… just a cold, heartless slab of stink. Not even worth a second glance. Perhaps, I may look a little better, at least… BOOM! The incoming hammer scatters me about like little ants at the sign of a fleshy giant. I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE! What do you want from me??? I never asked to be  broken… I never asked to shine and shimmer like a candle in the night… Why is Your love hurting me? Isn’t it supposed to make me feel better?

There He goes again… smoothening my edges. The sharp, narcissistic corners that were once my cornerstones: gone. I didn’t even have a chance to see them go; how I loved them… I felt as if those edges defined me; they weren’t pretty, but at least I could hurt others. That made me feel like less of a rectangular block of trash… And really, did you have to bring that chisel back? I really despise that tool…

I don’t even recognise myself anymore… naked, asymmetric, not even resembling that mould that I used to fit in so comfortably… I feel putrid; disgusted at my own existence… what IS this? This misshapen, half cracked piece of confusion… this was never what I asked for. All I asked for was to be loved, and not to feel like nothing… I don’t even know what I feel like…

But here he was, smiling… smiling??? He placed a hand on me… caressing the little chips and cracks… adorningly looking at all the faults in my rock shaped heart, and whispered, with such a soft, gentle tone… “I’m not done yet.”

If this half-made statue could lower its chin, you bet I would have. I’m not even sure I have a chin, frankly. But something in His voice told me just to trust Him this once, and to stop fighting Him for if but just a second.

And then I saw it.

It was like in a mirror; not quite clear, but I know what I saw. I was made in His image and likeness; perfect… righteous and holy… I was fashioned with purpose; remarkably remodelled to everything I wish I could have been. There was nothing wrong with me. He was there too; He looked upon me, held me in His arms and said, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” I really didn’t understand His words at all; as far as I could see, He did all the work. All I did was sit there and feel sorry for myself.

Snap back to reality; I see myself once more… miserable, lonely, struggling and about ready to simply break to pieces. Yet, within all this stony, stubborn mess, I see evidence of His work; I see that the chisel and hammer was what was shaping me; the polish was a bit too much, in my esteem, but hey; I’m no artist. So, I’ll trust Him. Clearly, He has a much better idea of what He’s doing than I am. 

 

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(image from http://www.istockphoto.com/)

Called

Here in this moment I speak to you

to breath anew

the life to which you have been called.

It was never about the things you make

the golden calves called mistakes

but to raise you from your fall.

The rising edge glistens

as hands uplift,

cutting loose chains of bondage.

Once again, love conquers.

Listen,

Taste… smell.

Engage your senses as your spirit blazes

releasing passion from within your cages.

doubt, guilt, fear and rage

destroy it with the words of freedom

drink the cup of destiny until that day

when “it is finished” is all you say.

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Matters of ‘her’ heart: Phantom traces

Hi.

Yes, it’s been awhile, and I miss offloading whatever comes to mind, and so (time permitting) I will be able to get these out to you all in the next few days… cause I have a lot to say.

Really and truly, there hasn’t been much between ‘her’ and I, because we both happen to be in our own separate worlds, which, for now, is just fine with me. Just this Friday I heard that she had popped in church to check up on me, although I hadn’t seen her, but nevertheless, it was a nice gesture and it made a smile brim my lips. Which brings me to the reflections of today: these phantom traces of what once was.

One cannot help but recall the times when the sphere of their existence was once incident upon the that of another, especially when it blossomed not only into a beautiful relation, but a significant change within the existence itself. It’s like the scent of your perfume that you like that you no longer have within your reach. It is perhaps accented with little whims and fancies of what you recall it to be, but such is the fallacy and bliss of memory.

I remember that no matter how much I tried, there was, and I believe there still is, this one thing that I could never truly grasp about her. Even as she slips silently across the fringes of my conscious (she literally lives about a 3 minutes walk from where I frequent every week) It’s perhaps something that I never will grasp…

For whim and fancy sake, I shall call it the Zecks Uncertainty Principle 😀

Perhaps it is because the experiences of my own life does not line up enough with that of what she went through, but to see both rivers flow into the same stream is just one more thing that makes me in awe of the beauty of life. To me, it’s the source of who she is; the synergetic, supportive, strong and charismatic person that she has bloomed to be, dappled with traits that bring these to life in such a way that is unique to all but her. It’s how who she is can scream at you without saying but one word… nothing short of awesome, in my book.

Even as I go on each day, “phantom traces” of ‘her’ are seen in me… the way I talk, the way my passions have surfaced to such a degree that I never thought possible; the confidence that I emanate, proud of who I am, and not because of whatever traces remain. But because I am no one else but me, fashioned with a marvellous design and free to be who I am destined to be, and no one else. There’s no shadow to live in; but simply to walk out of the darkness and into the marvellous light…

She taught me that 🙂

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Annie Lobert Testimony

A very touching testimony from Annie Lobert, the President and Founder of Hookers for Jesus; an NPO that addresses prostitution, sex trafficking and the evils that come from it. Guaranteed to bring a smile to your face 🙂

All that jazz

Pumping me with its rhythm

entrancing me with its odd time

this jazz is bringing me to life

Pulsating fast in my mind..

Backbeats spurning me to feel

Crescendo

Oh the Crescendo

Carries me so far that I can’t let go

Swing, taking me high

Blues whenever I’m brought low;

In the days gone past

I was never prepared for all that jazz…

Song,

sweetly, softly… singing.

No autotune but tuned to me automatically

knots tie in my belly, wringing ever at me

They speak, they talk to me

whether silent or screaming into dreams

they talk, and tease me.

They invite me to a familiar territory

That feels so right but just isn’t real

The bass player keeps time with my heartbeat

as I struggle to breathe…

Escape, liberty, alive,

acceptance.. these tones they never hide

It flows, it shows wherever I roam

surround me and trap my soul.

Yet somehow they stop me when I’m just about to crash.

There’s just no way to describe how it moves me

But I just can’t walk away…

It strings me along

High, slow, LOUD! fast…

You’re never really prepared

For all that jazz.