O Night of my soul, ever so dark!
Into your darkest corners I shall embark.
Swimming through the deepest oceans of tears,
Withstanding the howling winds of my fears.
Seeking what every noble soul has sought,
A treasure that is neither sold or bought!
He whipped his soul,
his entire life,
for what was not his fault.
And now the scars,
from all the wounds,
we’re there for all to see.
I saw the boy,
I saw the whip,
I saw through all the pain.
I told the man,
he was the boy,
and he was not to blame.
The man’s tears fell,
he dropped the whip,
and hugged the little boy.
His burdens fell,
his wounds were healed,
and now he tasted joy.
16 years ago, on my first anniversary of incarceration, I walked into a rectangular concrete yard with high walls. The yard was empty except for a pigeon with a broken wing who was in a state of absolute panic. It was stuck in a frantic cycle of bursting upwards into flight, then crashing into the wall, then falling to the ground, and then trying again… and again… and again.
Continue reading “Wounded Birds”
My father?
My father is an enigma.
A puzzle I have yet to solve.
I still remember his song (or prayer):
“O Zakaria, O Zakaria!
May you fall in a pit of poop
And find no one to pull you out of it!”
Prophetic words that make me smile to this day.
Oh! and by the way,
Now I know where my poetry flows from…
I love you Baba!
How could You be when all I see is suffering?
When all I see is orphaned children cry in pain, wondering.
How could You let their innocence be robbed away in darkness?
How could You let their blood flow like endless streams, it’s madness?!
I wrote these heartfelt poems to my daughter while I was incarcerated for 16 years. A part of me hopes that they played some part in helping her grow into the beautiful young lady she is today. May God protect her and look after her now, just as he did when I was inside. Amen…
When I am Gone…
Continue reading “Poems to my daughter…”
We could escape from prison, but we can never escape from ourselves. We could try to distract ourselves from ourselves by flooding our lives with every luxury our hearts desire. We could try to fulfill every fantasy our minds can imagine. We could do all of this and may even feel “happy” for a while, but soon, that hollow feeling, that sharp painful angst, returns.
Continue reading “The Girl with the Tattered Crimson Dress”
I finally learned to surrender,
entirely,
wholeheartedly,
without resistance.
Inner revolution.
White flags swaying calmly in the wind.
The heart, not mind, is king again.
Anxiety and despair,
shadow ministers of the mind,
exiled and banished,
to the outer limits of consciousness.
Nearly forgotten memories returning,
slowly,
like freed prisoners;
The children are free again!
Sublime surrender echoes
through every fiber of my being.
Thoughts are now like endless rows of soldiers,
all bowing,
in one direction.
Weapons down forever.
The time has come,
for everlasting peace…
My fate
hangs around my neck
like a necklace.
My life is an outline of a portrait,
drawn by God,
that I must pain with my deeds.
The Journey of the Boy and his Sandcastle 