The forest

Under the rustling ferns and bushes
Lies green moss, dripping with winter dew.
Woody roots dig silently below, concealing their strength
With seasons of autumn leaves that keep their secret.
Happy earthworms devour the mulch of browns and greys
In which the mushrooms grow.
If you listen carefully, you might hear the earthworms eating.
Beneath them lies the soil of ages past,
Dark and still, visited only by the roots of tallest trees.
The soil knows nothing of the chirping forest above,
That leaf by leaf it fed.
Down there, amid the rocks and clay, forgotten,
      lies who I used to be.

Stones

Oh curse this heart of a thousand stones
And find a home to grow alone
A heart of more than flesh and bones
And things I can’t imagine.

For every smile upon my face
Is laced with bitterness and hate
Of things I cannot change,
And things I cannot fathom.

I was a pawn in the hands of fate,
Picked and placed without a way
To break the chains of my skin.
Now I sit again stagnating
With pen and hand and heart still shaking
Upon the path my soul is taking
Or being taken from.

Yet I will find a way to grow
More hope along this narrow road,
Load my heart with brighter tones
And throw away the stones.

Here world, have confusion...

I felt I should break the silence of my blog with something. Sadly I cannot be bothered writing much, but I just wrote an interesting poem to distill my thoughts at the moment...

___

Stupidly I think,
Giving further food to silly thoughts that plague me
And drain me,
To become like a cake that forgets to rise.
I’ve made them a few times.

Every day these thoughts return,
Accost my mind and turn my eyes
To see things that aren’t there.
Disappointed when I compare
All this with wishful thinking.

Yet in these dreams
My heart sets sail
To catch the wind of what could be,
Pulling me to places
I wouldn’t dare normally.

Enjoy the ride.
Enjoy the scenes.
Enjoy the sound of
My heart beat
On the verge of something different.
Why can’t I stop and listen?

But if I can’t still
These currents beneath
I need not fight their tow,
For if I float on stormy dreams
That take me past new futures seen
Then maybe I will find some peace
Despite not knowing where they lead
And despite stupidity.

The troubled mind

Just sat down and wrote this... I find it helps me collect my thoughts sometimes, I wonder if anyone can relate...

These are the thoughts of a troubled mind
Searching for better fate to find
Wrestling, restless, thoughts inside
A cog in the clockwork hands of time

Questions creeping without relent
Echoing fears of discontent
Shrouded paths are bent astray
With soft lament, ambitions fade

How great the fall of highest dreams
How dizzying the stars
For light, for strength I have no need
But simply a place to start

So scarce to find, are answers gained
And doubts are certainty
But these are nothing in compare
To You being here with me

The lawnmower and the painting

I just rammed my nose into a lawnmower. Very painful. The handle-bar, specifically. Always the way, I guess – right where you least expect it, there’s a piece of steel.

So here I am, rubbing my aching nose. Pondering...

This...

----

A canvas hangs, in an empty room
Waiting in shadows of passers by.
Wishing to tell of more than shadows;
Wanting a lingering eye.

Stark light drowns the faded paint
That time cannot erase,
And jaded lines waver,
On the painting’s pale face.

Would people stop if it were changed,
Or perhaps if more the same
As other works in other rooms
More designed to fame.
Would clicking heels and unturned heads
Notice it not there?
For a painting is but empty space
To those who do not care.

Yet there is one just past the lights,
A faithful looker-on.
Who stays all day just out of sight
And seeks to not compare.
Who never lets the shadows or the
Heels get in the way,
And has unending interest
In the single painting there.

What is it in the work He sees?
In frenzied lines, in broken stokes
And sweat upon the canvas soaked?
Why gaze upon a thing so long
that others never note?

The answer lies not in the work
But in the careful hand
Of the One who looks past unturned eyes,
            For He painted this man.

The flicker of a moment in time

Seems all quiet on the blogging front these days... haven't had many comments lately... perhaps I need to advertise =) I just wrote this instead of doing work like I'd planned - I just needed to get it down 'cause I was "in the zone" - I'm sure you creative people know what I'm talking about. I'd be keen to hear some interpretations of what it all means and stuff... I quite like some of the imagery...
==============


Life is the flicker of a moment in time
Like the snap of a camera,
Flash before your eyes
Many faces, places hastening to slide
Like shimmering shadows in the light

Now echoes of teardrops trickle from the past
And faintly paint a memory of times that didn't last
But the colour soon fades as the shadows play
On the candle flickering away

What can I do, while the wax still burns?
Before attacking history obliterates my turn?
Can this one flame ever create from the ashes
The echo of a diamond in the minds of the masses?
For crashes of the shadows so hastening to die
          are captured by the flicker of a moment in time.

Words on a page

Along the same lines as the last post, I thought I'd share a little bunch of lines I thought of while in the car - well, the first two stanzas anyway (there's a word from English at school). I wrote them down to remember - but obviously not while I was driving - it was while I was stopped at traffic lights.

Just to explain it a little. It's all about service, love, humility, and how God uses the broken people - not those who build themselves up to be something.


Words on a page

Is this all I am?
The words on a page,
Empty letters from an empty name
Crowding white-space, just to say
Is this all I am?
The sum of my abilities to summon praise,
Creating nothing, to captivate.

Why toil and struggle
For ashes to burn into rubble,
Turn myself inside out of this muddle
And find nothing,
If this is all I am.

Why raise myself only to crash to the ground,
Find myself hollow, and cringe at the sound,
The echo of silent words on a page,
Written in days seldom wet
by drops of honest love?

No, for above lies more than empty space.
And of myself, I hold nothing
But the priceless spring of Salvation gained

Though I am nothing more than rubble,
A Living Stone, I'll not forget;
On the lowest ground the Water flows,
And in broken rock the fountain springs,
          Through humble words,
          on an empty page