TROUBLING TIMES by Mide Benedict

Most times you wonder, about the country's chaos, you pounder. You can't understand why from place to place like thunder everywhere strikes harshly with horror, and terror and... creating fears in the minds of those who should say peace and hope and... silence... soon dominates.

Most times you wonder why your lover makes you suffer, and your home always does not differ from Hades' tongue and belly. And you stop sometimes, or look sometimes, and gaze at the sky to see God's eyes and oh no! You see nothing. Hope lust, frustration comes, but you never know he's standing right there with you. It's not your situation that matters nor your frustration that scatters your movement and your thoughts' orders but your ability to see God standing by, not with your sight, but with the eye of faith, only through which we can see Him. Why your problem matters not is because once you know God, then your problems are no more real.

What are you going through?

What are your greatest troubles?

You see, all those things matter not

What matters is your gaze on God, do you see Him

Or not or do you see your problems alone or God standing by you and say all is well?

I leave you with this question today:

How well do you wall your shallow wells with God?

Comments

WHO DOES THIS BELONG TO? By MIDÉ BENEDICT

This is for those Who see life as an unfair land, Where growth is fairly found only On luck's fragile and ferocious tree: It is for those whose eyes only See reality as a coin Always tossed to uncertainty: For those who see misery As an inescapable ditch, Never to be seen when its mouth agars, Never to be escaped when its venom runs, But to be delivered like a slave for a ritual, Thrown like a cotyledon into dry soil, To germinate failure like a blocked well, Hoping to salvage a droughty throat. For those whose first name is lucky, Whose last name is uncertainty And middle name misery, Know that which you know not that The poison in your tongue is The wine your life drinks; It drinks on and on till stupor calls for death And stupidity dresses its grave Like a young man before a mirror, Staring unthinkingly at his face, Till he sees greyness in his eyes. This is for those who see eye to eye With the words on this slate. Image by Midé Benedict

God and The Snail: Poetry For Some One Lost Soul

Sometimes it feels Like all is done, That this life of ours Is caught in deadly thorns: From where we cry for help in a land Where to have ears is a great taboo! But in all these... we remember...

Mute by Mide Benedict

That Friday, everyone was spitless, yet it felt as if we spoke all at once in fading tones. Adiza, Halimat's sister wore it differently, her eyes, blood red, her tongue, twisted. Mine was twisted too. Halimat laid right there, silent and unmoving; each gaze at her drove tears out of my eyes.

Temple of Words

Search This Blog