MADE OF DUST NOT DIAMOND

Closer than breath is my God,
Though I seek Him far from near;
Though His love for me is dear,
My desires at His grace jeer.

His thoughts and acts are about me,
Making my good His sole desire.
His words guide my steps to aspire;
Reach His goal before I retire.

What else do I ask of my God,
When in Christ He meets my care?
That I grow a wheat, not a tare;
So, I don’t at calamity stare.

In my power no good dwells,
For Christ in me does His will.
On the cross He paid the bill,
There, He freed me from the mill.

He’s with me always to guide;
Ensure my steps are in His light.
For before me, His way is bright;
I need not stumble, grope in fright.

What a terrible bear I’ve been;
Missing the rest His grace bestows!
What a dusty speck, in vain crows;
Not a diamond in strength glows!

© 2014
Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi

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By savingwordtracts

The Senator

 

A friend, a very dear old friend,
Waved at me with a noble nod, a smile.
His car glared like barren summer sky,
And hissed to a halt; the door opened
With a soft creak, hitting me flush on the face
With sweet perfume and strange tuneful air.
He graced the ground with flare, grinned.
His teeth were not like mine, but golden milk.
His grip was steel, warm, but distant; his hug
Lacked the good old flavor, the scent of
Yesteryears when bread was lean and wrinkled,
And we spent the night yawning. He rambled
While I longed for the familiar tune of church
And mouse and dreams of once-upon-a-time.
Instead, he rattled power, winked wealth from
The Rock that stands against wind and storm;
Where friends are foes in the hunting woods,
And their prey, the sweat from aching backs,
The till, Manna, scoop of welling black gold.
His patterned Agbada lit the faces of the crowd
That stretched bony hands for a prized touch.
The youth clapped, flapped a banner:
The lion’s home in white, a shining light.
The women sang and danced with grace.
The men danced the hero’s war dance.
My friend stood, an Iroko, the Lord Senator,
A Predator of the Federal Republic.

© 2014
Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi

By savingwordtracts

Nothing Can Stay

Nothing Can Stay

Morning leaps with dew;
Tint of the day’s hue.
The sun strolls with gay,
We gather the hay.
Then, the clouds grumble;
Face’s frosty fumble
Dims the lofty dream.
Life’s like flowing stream;
Soft thrill, a gurgle,
Makes hope a bustle.
Then, a sudden whirl,
Then, a somber skirl.
If all days were gay,
The heart’ll hum a ray.

© 2014
Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi

By savingwordtracts

Who Cares For An Empty Shell

 

They nestled in bed with childish chuckle,
and slept with visions of a cozy future;
but woke in a dream, a nightmare, a gory
fantasy in captivity. Each dawn promises free-
dom; each dusk blackens the visions, receding
in hopeless hope. Each day, tears blur the
rolling pictures of a glorious future framed
before the night turned Sambisa darkness.
Hope puts on fear: fear of the day, when the
gun rattles; fear of the night, when beastly
claw fondles studs of sprouting womanhood,
and grope for the junction with brute lechery.
The flower wilts in the dew, droops from terror;
their sobs are muffled by the dense thicket of
Sambisa forest, where innocence is smothered
by bestiality. Six months after! Who cares?
Who, the captors, or the rescuers, or the frozen
conscience of a nation numbed by gory stories?
But mothers whose tears gray residual hope,
furrow pallid cheeks, and seal limp lips from
futile groaning; but the flowers, brutally
trampled, marred by ravenous beasts.
Who cares for spent shells of wasted bullets
from the armory of a greater tomorrow?

© 2014
Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi

By savingwordtracts

Here I’m, Lord

 

Here I’m, Lord, first in the day,
To feel your love and warmth.

Here I’m, Lord, me and You,
To share my concerns with You.

Here I’m, Lord, my heart and Yours,
To feel the burden You bear.

Here I’m, Lord, away from the world,
Free from cares, and from tears, too.

Here I’m, Lord, flooded by Your glory,
Nothing matters but You alone.

Here I’m, Lord, enjoying the peace,
Nestling in Your warm hug.

Here I’m, Lord, soaked in Your grace,
Charged to face the day’s storm.

Here I’m, Lord, guided by Your Word,
Sheltered in Your secret place.

Here I’m, Lord, last in the day,
In my nest, for the night’s rest.

Copyright 2014
Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi

By savingwordtracts

The World Church

The World Church
(Isaiah 2:2-3)

The klieg light, the jarring cymbals
—Titillating purple rhythm!
On the pulpit are men of wind,
Decked out in lilac, sparkling silk.
They strut, babbling fairy blather,
Rousing the itching drowsy lust.

We crave the lone voice in the wild,
The flashlight that gleams in darkness;
But hear howling wind from the pit,
Rustling silk from the king’s palace.
We hear clamors for the belly,
Rumbles of greed, now or never.

Lord, your word’s tiny in our time;
The world seems richer than the hope
You promise your beloved in Christ.
The bald sky dries our skin as stone;
We drop in the drought, cry for rain,
The spray of mountain dew at dawn.

Where’s the lamp on the holy hill?
Who’ll lead us to the mountain top,
To the house of the Lord our God?
There He’ll teach us about His ways,
So we walk secure in His paths,
And find rest when the day’s spent.

© 2014
Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi

By savingwordtracts