Aids Orphans

Pack up the house, empty the accounts and auction all the children.
Tell them their father is no more, tell them he is dead.
Their heritage is the memories they cling to and the stories he told.
Let life be drained of everything, but sorrow. Deep heavy sorrow.

Their mother walks blindly into the future, hallow and fading,
Her days are numbered like certain famine after a poor harvest.
Soon her cries will be no more and all that will be left is silence.

Silence. Pure silence.

Silence like an eternity on a charcoal stove. Burning.

First the smell of human flesh, then the squealing of her spirit.

To the children, it’s a nasty cut that can never heal. A cut that can kill.

Promise

Promise me you will meet me there, on the lonely road that leads to the tree by the river where we first met.

Promise me you will wear the green lace that reminds me of the meadow under the lilac sky in which we first danced.

Promise me you will wave when you reach the top of the hill, the way you always do on Friday evenings at my return.

Promise me you will smile when I hold your hand one more time as though we are walking down the isle.

Promise me that you will promise never to forget how much I love you.

Promise me you will wait, even though you don’t really have to.

Promise you will always remember us dancing.

Promise you will never forget me.

Please promise me.

 





 

I Have

I have seen His face and touched His hands
And I know my Redeemer lives.

I have heard His voice and walked in His steps
And now I know that Salvation is here.

I have His Spirit and I am heading for the Kingdom
And I now know I am an heir with Christ.

I have the Kingdom in my heart,
Glory on my head and eternity in my soul.

   





 

Rebellion of the Teaspoon Poet

Coffee, very black, not filtered is his choice.

Coffee strained pockets of dreams
And a teaspoon full of talent.

Up late till 2:30 am. Nothing, not even a drop.
Waiting for the muse. She never showed.

Searching the streets at awkward hours for her.
Maybe she offers night flowers. He’ll pay for them.

At first his family thought he was joking. Poetry?
The rebellious son of a poor man was final. A Poet!

Repent of your ways and get a real talent. A real one

   





 

Autumn Comes

3 She always cries
2 When autumn comes to a close
1 He leaves her alone

   





 

Seduced

3 Autumn sets her gaze
2 To undress the distant trees
1 Seduced by her voice
   





 

The Heart

3 The heart is a house
2 Filled with restless hours
1 A house wife cleaning

   





 

Like a Dream

Wrote a love letter
With the sad light of the moon
It was like a dream

 



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