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The StruggleThough once I said it was adversity
That birthed the most imaginative verse,
In darkness lies no creativity,
Despair itself destroys and gives no birth.
It murders, leaving no recourse for mercy,
Swallowing up the brightest minds, its maw
Insatiable except for vilest cursing
Of self-inflicted wounds all rubbed and raw.
But when the light inside me flickers fire
And cuts through darkness with its needle rays,
The smallest candlelight might then inspire
Poetic justice for defeated days.
In light alone do shadows find their shape,
The struggle from which poems find escape.
WoundsThe time when verses flow most freely from my mind
Is not when life has altogether been too kind:
The echoed strains of joy, what words could catch and capture
The speechlessness of laughter, hearts abrim with rapture?
It's hopelessness and sorrow baring wounds through words,
A crust of scabbed emotions daring to be heard;
It itches mightily, and though you want to rip
Apart the hurt and all reminders in one strip,
It stings to know there is no bottom but an ooze,
This awful spring of inspiration, pain-infused.
But give it time to heal, protect it from all harm,
And off it comes. The skin beneath is new and warm
And paler than before, but solid in its form.
Memory #4: The CostIn my sophomore year, we would have prayer meetings every Wednesday afternoon. I would say that weekly meetups and prayer meetings were the times I learned the most that year. On one level, I learned about prayer itself, and how many different ways you could pray. You could pray through the Word (praying through a psalm was a particular favorite of mine), you could pray in one voice with each other, you could simply praise and adore God, or thank him. Along with my meetups I learned more about confessing in prayer as well. On another level, I learned a lot about the many different things we could intercede for. We would pray for our campus, our ministry, our missionaries, and most importantly, our people and the various facets of their lives. It felt that every prayer meeting was learning a new thing about prayer.
But even more than these substantial lessons, I learned a lot from the older people who led the prayers. Seeing their example as prayerful men and women left a deep impressio
UnspokenUntil the day appointed when I stand
And tell you all the hope you fill in me,
I'll tell you naught of what I understand
Within my heart, unseized by urgency.
For in the promise now I see no need
To haste the swelling feeling deep inside
Nor give up hope: to pray and not to plead,
To slowly bridge this shortening divide.
But we are closer than I could have thought,
And in the light of such proximity
The sentiment our interactions wrought
Are all too easy for your eyes to see.
For now, let this reward you for your wait:
The tenderness my actions indicate.
LifthrasirWhose princely air proudly
Passed the sea in freefalls,
Who sought peace, sword flaming,
Striking words like forgefalls,
Pride of Berk, battleworn,
Breathing life where strife falls,
Prized by Líf in prayer:
Their pressed lips, blessed footfalls.
Away at HomeLord, be my home and all my stay
When even home feels far away:
Let my own kin say what they may,
Lord, be my home and all my stay.
For heaven holds me in its sway,
My single passion day to day.
Lord, be my home and all my stay
When even home feels far away.
Sandwich IslandPotato salad and a turkey bacon:
All it took to show me how the days
Have heaped on like a sandwich in the making.
Twenty years now stacked on bright red trays
With food and paper plates and Styrofoam,
Symbols of good taste and friendly ways.
I wonder what had roused her then to roam
And settle in this aging college town.
She heard me speak the language of her home
And something must have moved her heart deep down
To save my weekly order in her mind.
Some turn to comfort food upon a frown,
And yet more consolation there I find
A fullness of a heartfelt， hometown kind.
Memory #2: NinjaIn the final days of APUSH my junior year, our teacher had us write letters to ourselves five years from now. Last week it came into the mail, and understandably, I was curious to see what my 16 year old self wanted to tell my 21 year old self. As it turns out, he didn’t really have much to say (so my memory of not knowing what to write was confirmed), only to talk to a bunch of my friends and to refer to a game we used to play: Ninja.
I don’t remember who brought Ninja into West Ranch High School, but I remember that when it did hit it was the bomb. The basic premise of the game was that everyone would stand in a circle, and you would count to three. On three, everyone would strike a pose, and taking turns, you would try to hit other people’s hands to get them out. The goal was to be the last person standing.
I’ve played it a couple times in college, and hearing of other people’s different versions, I can safely conclude that we took Ninja way too serious
Memory #1: The Perfect BiteI don't remember what age I was exactly when I had In-N-Out for the first time. It was when I was five or six, around preschool or kindergarten. But I can vividly remember what it tasted like, where we were, and how I earned it.
At the time, I had two major haunts: the Duarte public library and the LA Zoo. Now in those days, the public libraries had a deal of some sort where if you read five books, you could get a certificate for a free hamburger. Being the kind of kid who would check out and read 20 or so books a week, I made short work of it. I remember my mom taking me and my little sister to the In-N-Out in Arcadia, the one that has no indoor seating, and I remember she took us to a park. It was quite a nice summer day, and we sat on a picnic bench in the shade. My mom let me carry the bag, and I remember that I was ravenous by the time we got there. It smelt so good, and when I bit into it, I don't think I have ever had a better bite of a burger than that first bite. Soft bun, sau
ThorI hear the voice of thunder speak,
an ancient primal language
which vibrates throughout my bones
and sings within my soul,
my blood hums power,
my heart beats
Can'tI can't take my revenge
For I myself was forgiven.
I can't lie to keep a secret
For someone knows what's hidden.
I can't hate, for I was loved.
I can't fulfill the lust I would sate,
For my body is now a temple
For the One who took my fate.
I must admit I sometimes
With His prohibitions, I don't agree,
But I can't help but trust Him
For He only wants to protect me.
So I can't encourage a love
That's as beautiful as it is deadly.
It's not hate, I just can't stand it
If you succumb eternal death's melody.
Creation's CorruptionI've grown sick of the world of men
they corrupted every message I dared to send
For as long as they existed
they manipulated and twisted
Everything I've ever said
F-ck them all, I wish them dead
I gave them one rule, and one rule only
they broke it so fast and left my heart lonely
And so the apple they did bite
mixing wrong with the right
And as betrayed as I might be
I attempted to drown them in the sea
I sent them my son to fix their path
but they did not fear my Holy wrath
They executed him in front of me
for that you sinners will pay ultimate fee
Since my word you will not hear
I leave you now, with no wheel to steer
Lost in course
but f-ck your remorse!
Dare to call me the clock maker
but you Deist are the true risk taker!
The final journeyThe light fades
Yet night is not falling
Yet I hear the calling
The darkness cold and harsh
Yet soothing and cool
The river of death engulfs me
My final journey,my final fall
I cannot fight it
I cannot resist
This is it
I fade into the mist
Big Bad WolfI make you
do what I won’t do
to make what
I won’t be
(what I cannot be) seem true.
And you say, "amen".
a steel umbrella
I call it –
but really, it’s just control.
And you say, "amen."
It’s all rules:
these lines upon lines,
hide the truth.
Necessary for my Sheep.
And you say, "amen".
When no one’s looking,
I shrug off
and help myself to lamb chops.
and you say nothing.
Fremde Herrlichkeitbedenket dem Herrn zu dienen
(zweifellos Befehlen folgen)
rät der Nutznießer seinen Bienen
Seelenhonig zu schleudern
darf dies Blutbuch nicht annehmen
welches nicht meine Ahnen erdacht
möcht' mein Wohl selbst wählen
kein Futter werden eurer Allmacht
© j.w.waldeck 2006
Please do not USE
anything of my work!
ForgivingThe tide comes in,
Like Jesus washes our sin.
Always away when we ask,
We shouldn’t have to wear a mask,
To pretend to be good
When we’re not.
God can always tell,
If we’re doing well,
Or just being sinful again.
He is forgiving,
Every moment of living.
You don’t have to hide
So look, now,
And turn around.
Wataha: Zamglony Las upadaLas mgłą tulony i okraszony gwiazd śmiechem
Oznaczał ongiś świętość. Dziś chwała jego echem...
Drzew soki i traw rosa klejnotami tej świątyni,
Dziś gmin nieroztropny swawolnie w nie czyni!
Biją toporem, łamią gałęzie i odrapują z kory
Smaganej przez palce mgliste. Wilk skory
Pomyśleć o utraconych drzewach przed
Atakiem! Niewiasty na łące tkały mgieł pled...
Ścięli...! Olchy! Wierzby! Lipy! Dęby!
Pozostawili pniaki...! Las szczerzy swe zęby...
I ku swym katom błyska słojami.
Zawisną ciemiężcy. Zawisną niszczyciele,
Co nigdy nie przestaną. Tych krzyży zbyt wiele!
Nie wygrają z Lasów Bogami!
Wataha: Ostrze trucizny smakujeTen słony smak potu płynącego po twarzy...
Gdy sztylet raz po raz tonie w płynach zarazy;
Obmyty w toksynach warzonych po zmroku,
Czeka na swój występ - na misterium uroku.
Na skrytobójcy głowie kaptur narzucony,
W ciszy doskonali śmierci jadu kropel miliony.
Sztuka cichej likwidacji doskonałości pragnie...
Zabójca jest Wilkiem, niechaj cel skończy jak Jagnię...
Odczłowieczenie ofiary dokonane samoistnie
Skończy się, wnet białko ślepi agonią błyśnie
Pod naporem Synów i Cór wyniszczonego Rodu.
Oprawca dostąpi skwaru trucizny i stali chłodu.
Wyją Welesa drapieżcy do świateł odległych...
Zawyją ponownie. Nad padliną. Wrogów. Poległych...
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
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