This poem by Rudyard Kipling was what the pastor at the church we attended this morning opened with. I’ve heard the first part re-done many ways, but I’d forgotten what an excellent poem it is. Enjoy!
If…
by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise: Continue reading “If…”
Who is he;
angel of salvation,
or angel of death?
He’s spent his whole life
as defender of the defenseless,
champion of the downtrodden,
crusader against injustice.
He is revered by his subjects.
They cheer when he rides by.
And yet, when he is alone,
separated and isolated by the walls of his room,
it is he who becomes the Dark Lord.
He is the demon from whom he has defended them for so long. Continue reading “Demon Among Us”
At no point in my life have I ever thought of myself as a poet. Most days I could not write poetry to save my life. But once in a while – when in a highly charged emotional state – something that resembles poetry drips from the point of my pencil. None of this has ever been published – or even submitted anywhere – but I thought I’d toss out a few pieces and see if they float. This one could be considered the flip side of the coin for Walls.
Lost in the Fog
Photo by Allan Douglas
Depression is a fog;
A thick grey blanket that steals in.
A few wisps at first
That wrap around your feet unnoticed.
Then rise higher, thicker
Until you are enveloped, trapped, lost.
You find you are alone,
You know not the way back home.
You have no direction;
All paths are swallowed by the mist.
You are lost!
You need another.
Someone on the right path with a light,
Providing direction.
You move toward the light hopefully
And find a savior.
Who guides you out of the low lands
Where wood is sodden.
On the high ground mists are thin
And firewood dry.
Build a bright, blazing campfire
And drive away the fog.
Keep your fire stoked.
Gather crisp branches and add their worth.
Fire dispels the fog.
The heat drives back the chilling mists
Warming your bones
And bringing joy to your soul again.
Keep your fire stoked,
Allow it to serve as a light for others
Who have lost their way.
Watch for travelers, trapped in the fog,
And repay your debt.
At no point in my life have I ever thought of myself as a poet. Most days I could not write poetry to save my life. But once in a while – when in a highly charged emotional state – something that resembles poetry drips from the point of my pencil. None of this has ever been published – or even submitted anywhere – but I thought I’d toss out a piece or two and see if it floats.
WALLS
Oh, how I hate the walls.
Entraping, confining, restricting.
I’ve wandered through their labyrinthic confines all my life,
And never known happiness.
Except once.
For one fleeting moment, a spark of freedom broke in
Like a ray of sunlight in the darkness.
I held it to my breast, kissed it and cherished it.
My heart rejoiced with the feel of it.
And I was whole.
Then it was gone.
Shut out by the seething black-heartedness of those walls,
Sealing out even that one moment of happiness.
In rage, I launched against the walls.
I flailed the walls with my fists until they were torn and bruised.
The stones mocked me with their bloodied stains.
They thrived on my misery.
I withdrew.
Closing in upon myself until there was nothing but myself.
And in my own private world,
I began to plot against them.
How I would cheat them.
I would steal from them their very source of nourishment.
In death I would exit this hall of pain.
As I sunk happily into the dark abyss,
Self-amused with the joke,
My spirit suddenly cried out in anguish.
For I found that death is but a door
Leading to more walls!
Who is he;
