Poetry
Hanging on to these walls of glass,
I try not to slip into nothingness.
I drag out my ghost’s broken body
and smear it all over with perfumed oils,
as the band approaches
to pay its last regards.
Then, I walk around in circles,
looking for a beginning,
searching for an end.
I glance at the sky.
Perhaps this time,
I‘ll manage to see the ropes
that are stifling my sight
on this dreary morning.
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This poem-prayer was written by my cousin and friend Chris Francalanza who met God last January and I hope he sees us from up there...
THE PATHWAY OF PAIN
If my days were untroubled and my heart always light,
would I seek a fair land where there is no night.
If I never grew weary with the weight of my load,
would I search for God's peace at the end of the road.
If I never knew sickness, and never felt pain,
would I reach for a hand to help and sustain.
If I never knew sorrow and lived without loss,
could my soul seek sweet solace at the foot of the cross.
If all I desired, was mine day by day,
would I kneel before God and earnestly pray.
If God sent no Winter to freeze me with fear,
would I yearn for the warmth of Spring every year.
I ask myself this and the answer is plain;
If my life were all pleasure and I never knew pain,
I'd seek God less often, and need him much less,
for God's sought more often in time of distress.
And noone knows God or sees him as plain,
as those who have met Him on the pathway of pain.
The following poems, written by Mae Caruana, are the testimony of God. To quote john lennon "God is a concept by which we measure our pain."
VOID
Hiding in the haven of emptiness,
the root of nothingness,
the slightly destorted shelter of artificial painlessness.
Sweet, sweet oblivion
lull my aching head and dim the pain,
that I may try to flourish once again.
Enfold me in the ample fingers
of misty green shadows of elation,
in the comfort of cruel yet hopeful equivocation.
Sweet, sweet , sweet darkness,
where not my eyes, nor yet my heart
can see what thou canst be, nor what thou art;
come to me.
In a peaceful, blank and restful sleep,
where even dreams evade the void in which I weep.
THE ROPE WHICH HAS BEEN BROKEN
I pull with pain the rope which has been broken,
I yearn the treasure I have lost long, long ago.
I bleed and sweat for dreams which have been shattered,
I know they're lost, and yet I want them so.
My hands are bleeding and my body aches,
and only they and broken dreams serve as a token,
of many wasted years and painful nights,
pulling, with fright, the rope which has been broken.
And now I will resign my hopes forever,
and throw the broken rope into the sea,
and though the pain will grow each passing second,
I know, at least, that I will then be free.
I will be free to mourn my buried future,
to dream about the music of my past,
to wish the rope which has been broken haad been stronger,
to wish my memories to vanish very fast.
Somtimes I start and think I hear a voice,
I think a voice from broken days has spoken,
but when it speaks again it tells me "Stop.
For I'm the past, and the rope, my child is broken."
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