A cleft in the Rock
(Exodus 33:21-22)

A place by him to stand on—the rock.
As his glory glides by, he hides me
in its cleft; covers me with his hand
while his glow dazzles, brighter
than a million suns.

The rock, immovable rock—a place
of safety; by his side—warm in winter,
cool in summer. There he shields me
from his glare; from the splash
of his churning wrath.

But God’s slow to kill—rarely does,
restrained by love heftier than hurt
the world heaps up on him. His anger
may boil, drive me mad; a cleft
by his side, wide & deep, yawns

a hide away. Not ready to roil his
heart, he holds back the bile, wishing
I see his strength lies in love;
would let his son clean up the mess:
die for me, so I may live for him.

He knew my form before I was; knows
me now, tender and weak: he, firm.
He framed me of frail dust—tending
me down the way of dust on the wing
of his love till, perchance, I step

on street of gold. His love’s golden,
there for me. And that, by his grace!
I can’t fathom the mystery, for I’m
wilting grass, unsafe in the sun,
save in the deep cleft of the rock.

© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi

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A Tiger & A Dear

A tiger and a dear,

slogging out: heaven and hell,

which was real & where. They won’t

let; eyes were red, voices taut.

 

Show the way to heaven, one yelled.

I will; I will, when time’s ripe.

A dark man barged in with a dagger

and a gun, eyes redder than theirs.

 

The room dropped dead as night,

a bell about to toll. Both fled,

one made for the door; the other,

for a window yawning into the dark.

 

Down a dark lonely path, they met,

both panting, eyes bulging.

Are we safe, I saw a crouching tiger?

I saw a dear, lurking at a corner.

 

 

© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi 

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The Spirit Of The Sun

 

 

The bee knows where to find pollens;

the spider, how to span a chasm—

      driven, in the blood.

The stream follows the slope,

the way to the sea

      in rustling meander,

gathering moss, throwing gloss.

 

The sun, none can block

      his way, or slow his course

  till decked with a garland

      of golden rose.

             

It’s in the blood,

    in a genetic transmutation

       wrought by the ageless hand

that sculptured

    floating moon and winking eyes.

    

The sun cuts a highway in a jungle,

    drills light in pitch darkness;

       he sucks honey from rock,

draws the ire of fleas in the lea.

 

Cry against the scotching heat,

    but embrace his warmth less

       winter whines when summer

flees for lack of spring.

 

 

 

© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi 

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Scrap Note

Scrap Note
(Heb 4:13)

Nothing
in all creation
is hidden
       from God.

Everything
is naked and exposed
before his eyes;
       he’s the one

to whom
we are
        accountable.

© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi

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A Tear For Syria

The nation sprawls, prostrate:
broken limbs, crumbling bodies;
valley of vultures,
cloud of flies,
frisking scavengers.

Victory throws a party for ghosts;
a once boisterous land—
now a silhouette of what was:
a land of the dancing dead.

The victor towers over rubbles,
wearing rueful impish glee.
He stands, stern, gaunt as death,
tight-lipped; grim irony on a face

pondering the weight of victory
as soot settles after an inferno,
soothing the pain of death
paling the pants for life.

Civilization without humanity;
blood turns muddy,
red puddle, and bricks—
homes for ghosts

in a land once of the living.

© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi 

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A Moment’s Silence 

Eulogy echoes in a quiet heart
at the death of a beloved one.
In silence, the soul reaches
out where tear tarries

and sigh blocks the mind
from pondering: “Who next?”
The mind floats in space,
the eye reads a one-liner, bold:

A time for everything on earth.

© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi

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I Still Love My Love

Don’t ask,
who splashed my daughter
with dungy water?
Don’t ask, what next?
For she indeed is dirty;
not worth my hug.
Awful, she stinks,
a hog wallow——
her beauty all gone.

Swarms of flies find
a spot——a perch
for a trillion legs.
Vultures hover,
crane to swoop on her,
on my beauty.

I’d warned her on the danger——
the hazard of roaming from home;
and the price. I did!
But she failed to ponder
the croons and whooper,
and fell for the lure

of one, who, pretty sly,
cares for nothing
but damage my cause.

She’s been my daughter, still is!
She’s still my beauty, in spite
of the muddy water.
I always see me in her;
time freezes with her,
her eyes, a spell.

So, I, shall clean the smudge.
My diamond shall wink again
and sparkle, day or night.
My rose shall glow, undimmed
by the filthy splash.
I see through the smudge;
the me in her speaks elegantly:
my just essence.

I won’t mind the pain,
the sweat, the blood
to win back my love.
I shall redeem her, take her out,
and give her a clean up.
I shall recover my joy!

I, shall retrieve my lost!

© 2017 Celestine Ikwuamaesi

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Pray The Easter Message

Every season has a story meant to stir the human reason.

Easter isn’t just a rite of passage

but God speaking in due season

to a world straying from His purpose.

No time for fervent praying than now,

that God turn all eyes to the cross,

where His love for the world stands,

offering to all a life like His.
© 2017 Celestine S Ikwuamaesi

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Dripping dew

A rumble in the sky, 
a croon dews down at dusk.
In drought, it drips all night, 
at times a light shower, then a torrent; 
thaws crusted hearts behind shuttered doors. 
         Life blooms, flowers at dawn
causing the earth to know no winter 
but spring and summer; and spring 
streaming to summer. I hum 
the rich ballad while my heart croons 
a continuous refrain. I cuddle the lullaby, think
        no more of the dark hours of howling storm. 
Awake, I drip honey, 
        infused with life. So real:
              God’s pristine love.

The world wilts, 
withers from stanching 
the flow of heaven’s dew. 
It loves romance with death, 
stench of blood down the streets;
       death gasps, a melody.
There was once life, 
        and still is! 

His voice rumbles. 
I hear it croon from turrets, 
in booms and blasts; it shrills 
at irreversible drift to a brink, 
        the end of life. 

If cost of arms 
had armed the poor;
turrets of rage aimed at morbid hate, 
love would’ve stanched the flow of death, 
dew down heaven’s tune, flood the earth 
        with sweet refrain.
© 2016 Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi

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