Happy Easter to all my readers. We celebrate the greatest miracle of our existence, a symbol of hope as we witness one of the greatest tragedies of our generation. Pick up your heart, somebody needs it now, and also tomorrow...hope never dies.
Rise from the squalor of the promise of death.
Your wrongs hold you down like ladders fallen
To the ground, broken, crying.
The stone off your back rolls to the ground;
Your shoulder speaks out-of-breath to your brain,
And mixed with stress, the message is amplified.
Let it roll to the ground, this is a new day.
"Mother, behold, I make all things new".
Mother torn trying to grip the wind on its
Way to the mountains.
How do you hold the wind? How do you hold fear?
How much pain can one mortal vessel hold
In drips of blood on stone, and gasps for
Air on wood standing in stone?
All things are new.
Behold, the rainbow
Shoots an arrow of renewal past the sunlit
Perfumed clouds. It's all so beautiful that I
forget the nails, the thorns. The rungs of
This ladder lead to a new height.
Rise from the parlor, and celebrate far away
From family and friends. The electrons will
Bring your elation all the way:
It's resurrection time.
Do this today; tomorrow we'll all be back to our
Day to day.
(c) nyonglema
Do not be discouraged. Don't lose your heart as everything seems to fall apart. A chick will emerge from the shell; always does.
What do you see when the rough fire eats at wood,
Softly sintering what was splintered?
It's weird that pain brings togetherness
Where handshakes were fake, and escape
Was the constant. Now we crave to touch,
We crave so much as the mask falls off
To reveal the despair on the decaying
Banana on the medic's lips. Last touch
Gone.
What I see is pain, but not like Cain's on Abel.
I see the pain of a pierced side, or thorns
Crowning the start of a battle for souls.
I see the pressure of nails dodging wrist veins,
But getting some, missing the bone, hanging on.
I see years of preparation, patiently waiting
For that moment: the filth of coal felt like
Victory to the Virus smiling. The crown of the
Start of the battle, rattled to the ground.
Pressure, battle, the victor won without a sound.
I see Sunday morning, Peter's out of breath
Chasing John, chasing Mary earlier in the morn.
I see a cloth there, bare, where coal had dared
To start tears down my cheeks with biers. See,
The wood destroyed slowly became the coal of pain, but
What I see is not coal on worldometer's charts;
I see diamonds form, Love's pressure on the Sacred Heart.
(c) nyonglema
And to crown it all we're all going to die!
Or not. Despair is the flare from the barrel
Next to the six-foot deep hole holding my stare:
I can't climb out of CNN reporting in quarrel
After quarrel that the air is filled with ire
Not fire. They crawl up hands, to faces
And dig into alveoli where life lies waiting
To exhale through foetid mucus, a James Whale scare
As the doctors bounce of beds defibrillating
In vain or with success, but all in phases.
No I chose hope. New phrases like social
And distance breathe oxygen into more men
Than the global promise of living without care!
Oxymoron is the new hope for this ill omen!
Greet-distance, Meet-noone, Work-home, travel-local.
Hands-clean, touch-no face, calm-panic.
But how not to panic in the face of a pandemic?
The old, and vulnerable are main victim to evil's fair,
But all carry the burden even in transparent tunic
Taking some under for failing their civic duty.
(c) nyonglema
Stay safe. We can beat this. Wash hands, follow the hygiene and other instructions. By minimising the spread, we make more healthcare available to the more vulnerable. Don't panic, God's got us, and we got this.
Words from today to stir a new tomorrow from yesterday
waghni 