The face of day is darkened in this wilderness -
The earth, from a curse is barren of lasting happiness;
While these black clouds are hanging here so low,
From toil and strife we’ll never respite know…
Across the great river, there is not a shadow of gloom
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Down in the valley of ash and bone
Zion’s hope was worn with chagrin,
Until, on those who sat in darkness, light shone;
Jesse’s stump had budded once again!
… He was a gifted rabbi for sure
And did such miracles none had ever seen,
Yet they could see neither king nor savior
In this most humble Nazarene.
[Culled from an ongoing work: Justice is not man-made]
How do you judge the betrayal of a body that not only survived the assault but prospered the seed of rape? Or what kind of redemption is in the healthy birth of such a child that reminds the mother of being ravaged by a beast? Apparently to my frail mind, such redemption may be as evasive as justice is elusive.
Dazzling in their mystic garbs
Apostles of a late testament
They shield their faces inside a veil
And bear an emblem of a serpent, leprosy and blood -
All three signs of Moses.
These prophets carry strange fire on their heads
Noisy blinding firecrackers, unarmed,
All I make of them is a big suit full of hot air
Beclouding others with the pomp by which they discharge flatus
Primeval is the lust to close the gap between man and his maker
But man is hardly satisfied for God to be the reconciler
Man ignores his debts and presumes he is his own savior
Than God’s Word, crucified, they decide they can use more
They have learnt how the spirit rules the physical
And so they study to be mystical -
Through extreme exercise to enter ‘the spirit’.
Today scientists research on how God is a lie
And mystics try by assorted rituals God to demystify.
Since the garden, man has challenged God’s knowledge
The desire to be His equal has thrown them over the safe edge.
I look at the spot, where the worst of Criminals died
[Golgotha’s place of a skull]
Save the case of the innocent man who himself sacrificed
For all transgressions to take the fall
Whilst shafts of pain may transfix my soul
In the six by six of uncertain questions
Of this void and vague life-prison,
My heart, free as a bird
Will trace dawn’s golden streaks
Up my cell’s iron bars
To greet God’s grace in the morning.
Come O suffering wayfarer
I Am the Bread of Life
To the wells of salvation draw nearer
And quit from wayward strife
Come and be relieved of your guilt-burden
No matter how dark your taints
Come and find rest from vain laboring
At the fountain that births saints
Some have said that this bitch of a life
Likes to be mercilessly raped
That there is no eating her fruit
Except taking it by force.
Well, if they are right,
Then real men must soon be extinct
And only dogs will be truly alive.
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It comes to me marching like an army of rain
Sometimes with stealth footfalls of dawn and dew
But it comes to me
Then, I’m at the bottom of the waterfall
Drenched, washed and one with the fountain
It comes to me and then it flows
And when it gets to you
I’m no longer the same.
©2010, Poem by Tee Akindele
