Creative Writing

Balance

The deadly quiet oceans take their silent snuffle;
these titanic tarns like uncomfortable carpets furling,
over the sweaty planes of the unbalanced man –
pressing forth to cover all of his mountains and valleys.

His topsoil is trembling, it groans and quakes,
as his universe gets perfectly pulled into order
by almost every neuron fibre’s flame
mightily alight within His hard-bitten body.

The stony, strong legs, like cold and breathless planets,
elegantly cut their way across the sliced sheets of nothing,
to get his universe into balance and into order –
warmly wrenched to the draw of the glorified Sun.

The arms of the stardust-giant chant the strain.
Oh these pillars of grace trying to keep it all afloat.
His elbows bend to boast the Craftsman work.
His calloused hands are now his unorthodox feet.

Are we those essential hands? Those prominent feet?
Do we realise that “the LORD wilt bless the righteous;
with favour wilt He compass him as with a shield”?
I beg to stay within His house – the multitudes of His mercy!

Do not lay asleep between the shards of the rebellious and wicked;
the evil that falls by own counsel –
that which He smites into cold, hard nothing.
Oh, how “The LORD abhors the bloody and deceitful.”

But find rest; everything shall return to how it was breathed out at the start.

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Op Perdehoef Stofpad

Op perdehoef stofpad in die kontrei,
‘n kronkelpad, ‘n klippepad,
Is die Vader van Nou,
besig om handpalms oop, arms uit te sprei.

“O Langelier, Bokkie, warrellose wind,
gekniel in die midde van vlegsels
en stringe vetgevoerde druif,
laat My tog jou gees ontwaak!

O Langelier, Bokkie, pryslose munt,
Een uit My boesem van belofte,
kom tog in hierdie somerseisoen
jou aankoms maak!

O Langelier, Bokkie, My hart se punt,
kom proe saam die vetgeswelde druif,
die trosse purperrooi en heuningsoet.
Kom ons kraak tog oop jou hemelse granaat!

O Langelier, Bokkie, heilige kind,
kom huppel in die kokers salwing,
sodat ons dit in die gronde kan pers,
en die genesing in die aarde in kan dans tot laat!”

Kom trippel saam deur die stofwolke van perdehoefvlei,
Sodat ons kan verdwaal en giggel en sing en lag,
sodat ons, stofvuil en olienat, in eenheid kan rus,
op die Heilige heuwel, of waarheen okal Hy ons lei.

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Oh Dandelion, Achene Tree

Oh lion’s tooth, yay high clock, achene tree,
oh dandelion offspring, flying free,
why is His instruction so divergent?
The yearlong promises twisted non-convergent?

With net in hand and longing fingers,
I still look at thee with hesitant lingers.
‘Cause the end, no shift, through faith in sight;
I catch you at Zion’s hill with all my might.

But, instruction lately hath commanded: “Let her fly…
Let her be consumed by the ol’ starry sky.”
Flaming contrary to lowly logic thought,
It’s not a ‘shall’; it’s a cautiously weighted ‘ought’.

Alas, with informed decision and swallowed pride,
I kick into a vacant page with stammering stride.
And while you claim the stars; I’ll patiently wait,
‘til He sends me running ’round that idyllic hill’s slate.

Where I’ll try and net you in, with ‘chutes aflutter,
I may break cold sweat, I may start to stutter.
But if I have you, and you have me,
We’ll have a story to tell, oh, my bright-eyed achene tree.

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Caught off Guard

(Best read in a thick Scottish accent)

‘Twas when the chrome hand was tickin’ one, two or three,
aboard a mentally marooned, else fine lookin’ oak tree.
The sailor was unknowin’ly performin’ the act o’ sleepin’,
when his sails were smashed in and had to walk the plank weepin’,
so that his vessel started t’ waft, pointy straight,
t’wards a bearin’ unknown, one deemed by fate.

Oh where was that godforsaken, clandestine crack,
t’ pin our jack tar down, keep him safely in check,
when a brick-walled wave delivered one decisive smack,
t’ send him flyin’, unconsciously, from his mucky deck.

The only sign came when he returned back t’ thought,
t’ realize he was swoopin’ t’wards a dead nought.
Like a floatin’ feather, he was settlin’ like dew,
trapped ‘tween the hollers o’ the darkest o’ blue.

Wit’ sheenless eyes he started t’ perceive,
a squid o’ numbness snakin’ ’round his knee.
The ropes’ tentacles declared a state o’ war,
bindin’ and pullin’ this seadog straight t’ the floor.

But,

Jus’ when the las’ bit o’ bubbles were sent off squealin’,
t’ worm thar way back t’ the place they’d find healin’,
a before nailed wrist came dartin’ down,
t’ save this ol’ jack tar so that he would not drown.

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The Focus

Hurled towards a flaky black horse,
bleached to be pearly white,
limbs try annex the strewn out twines
jubilantly quivering in and ‘round
the froth steaming, blustering,
from the nostrils of the carrier; the focus;
the inward; the Godward.

As hooves drum on the consummate rock of ages,
intimate eyes declare a portrait in lumber;
‘cause the ability to grip and dwell
is entrusted to an individual,
whom has been timelessly lifeless,
only by charity again blooming.

Hence, while this soul keeps saddle;
let these crusty lips proclaim to Him;
praise unrelenting.

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The Restart

I’d rather have my foundations traumatized,
willingly smashed into windblown heaps of rubble,
painfully leveled with unfailing bedrock,
where I’m compelled to let Him discern all the footpaths I scampered,
to let His fire scorch through all the lies and hidden truths,
to reveal the precious gold and blow away the rest,
like fine, crispy ashes.

‘Cause my heart desired and God provided
the spirit of the deepest sleep,
to sooth my nomadic soul with the lies I needed,
for me to dawdle along selfish paths,
none sighted towards Mount’ Him;
the only true source of life and joy,
but rather to my seemingly innocent and corrupt desires.

So now I restart my journey,
with my dampened eyes fixed on His glory.
By His unmatchable grace alone,
I’ll be able to let Him build a house, worthy.
By Your unmatchable grace alone,
I’ll be able to give up it all, just to find You. Wholly holy You.

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