An Artists Impression.

My goodness, its been quite some time since I've used this blog. Do I feel guilty about it? No chance, I've been applying for university, give me a break! Recently though, I did go to America, specifically Missouri and New York City! So I wrote a poem about it.

An Artists Impression

I go.

Chasing you.

But, captured in my hand,

Is the spirit of this land.

It leads me through barren plains,

Leads me through chills and wanes,

It floats up high, then flickers down,

Leading me to the place of noise and sound.

You capture my gaze,

Brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, a blur.

Like a dazzling sunset,

Settling on a dusty sky.

Something to be chased,

Something to be wanted.

Do I follow?

Yes, still I go.

The city falls into vision.

The place of wasteful thoughts and wrong decision.

A fumbling mass of nothing good,

People walking, running, talking,

Fallen angels work as they should,

Grey clouds smog, settle, stalking.

Mystery enshrouds, judgements cloud,

Fluttering footsteps fly on steep, shadowed steps,

Sneaking in-between high-rise buildings and business concepts.

These darkened alleys paint a gloomy picture,

With shattered panes filling crusting frames,

Where rust and moth destroy,

And thieves break in and steal,

Where time itself draw out,

Stretching beyond all doubt.

Who will ever understand,

Who will ever know,

But still, I go.

We touch.

Racing through streets,

Where building, towers, skyscapers meet.

Waving aside smoke from cigarettes.

Tears from streaming debts

As headlights flood the way,

Red and blue glows have their say,

We push on forward through the crowds,

Hand in mine, safe.

We glide through the mass, picking up pace.

Kicking aside waste.

We skip through the racing lights,

Pressing on, moving up,

Stirring round, sprinting down.

Where time spins, spinning, spun.

Hit and run.

Who will ever understand,

Who will ever know,

But still I go.

Do I follow her where she goes?

Do I care, do I dare?

Yes, for through foggy pollution, stars are found.

Laughter is heard through this city sound,

Down desolate streets a smile is seen.

Where have we not already been?

Up rugged tower tops diamonds glisten.

Even small children, sit and listen.

And headlights flood a busy street,

But no-one stops to talk and meet.

Surely! This is no time to be alone,

No time to be without love.

For as smog settles,

And sunlight bounces from rooftops.

We see more than we expected.

Your brown eyes so deep and pleasant,

Your hair glistens in moonlight crescent.

We hold each other tight.

Touch wood, pause for a moment’s sake,

And remember the city,

And all that it held,

Remember the towers and shrilly bells.

The empty faces, the shadowed street,

The yellow taxis and running feet.

And as we ran,

Your fingers touching mine.

Our heart strings knotted together.

We watch.

The city’s spirit bursting within.

As the lights from the centre spread through the grey,

The colours of summer, the hues of May.

And in that city scene,

The picture paintings,

A place where time itself draws out,

Stretching beyond all doubt.

For who will ever understand?

Who will ever know?

Will they still remain?

But what is sure,

That hand in hand,

And heart in heart,

Still we go.

The Dreamer’s Dance

 

Evening breezes swept us high up off our feet,

To where voices of Heaven are heard.

Up to sit on clouds, tasting evening dew.

Me with you.

To sit on stars and planets, hazed and blue.

We danced around, forgot ourselves,

Swaying in each other’s arms till twilight.

We mirrored and parried,

We laughed and we carried,

Slowly drifting down to creation’s earth,

We leapt and splashed in inch-deep puddles,

And kicked the dew back to the sky,

Causing darkened heavens a-reply.

We waltzed and twisted,

Swung and assisted,

Til sweet raindrops raced down our tender faces.

So we sat for a while- silent.

                                                            We sat for a while as moonlight held us.                         

And as the breaking sun reached its dawning mark,

As the birthing light swelled the dark,

We spoke our first, gentle words,

Of love, truth and dignity.

Yours was an angel’s voice,

Of love, truth and dignity.

Our voices rose and fell with tremor,

We spoke of treasure, Venice and Rome.

And as ‘we’ turned to ‘us’,

We looked here, this and thus.

The hands of our souls firmly clasped,

The sweet harmony of our hearts singing.

Your feet beside mine swinging.

The little things- your smile, your eyes,

All added up, all made sense.

Still, I closed my eyes for a moment,

Seemingly for years…

And awoke as the sun reached it yellow heights,

As the rays of warmth found the flaming lights,

I turned, but you were gone.

Leaving no signs of arrival,

Leaving so signs of survival.

                                                         *    *    *     *    *

I’ll arise from my slumber, when the dream is truly over.

But now I rest with the after-tastes, sat in fields of clover.

My dreamish state fades away like grains of sand.

I awake to this harsh reality, hoe to hand,

Of hate, lies and ignominy.

I’ll look into the eyes of the earth,

And see hate, lies and ignominy,

Wishing my slumber would last for hours,

And think of bliss, and evening sun.

As for now, I’ll day dream my life away,

Hoping sleep will come to me.

Hoping you’ll be seen again,

When I dream once more,

Wherever evening breeze will take me,

Back where Heaven’s voice is heard.

Blind faith

-a convention short story

 

He was coming. We had heard the rumours for several days; we had listened to the excited chatter of distant travellers. This amazing, healing man was coming to Jericho – the city was brimming with suspense. The anticipation was thick and tangible. You could sense the awe, the expectation, the fear all jumbled together in a giant cauldron of feelings. It was rumoured that from miles away you could hear them coming, like a mighty army marching down to battle, and it was easy to understand why the authorities feared them and why they wanted this man. But here, sat under this fig tree, it all seemed so distant and made-up, as for me, I have no part to play in this story.

Rain pounds thick on my face, its droplets soak down my eyes and follow their path down to sit upon my broadening cheeks. The salty liquid slips from the tips of my hair, down onto bare feet, my head tilts up towards the heavens, my ears filling with the euphoria of the rain’s drumming beat. The wind sings its high-octave song, the leaves crackle and clash, the waves thunder and thrash. My body is soaked wet with freedom. The rain releases my soul. It brings me back to where I started, back to where my thinking began… Someone once told me: Seeing is believing. I only believe. To me, it’s a choice. Others will never understand. The years go by, it’s all the same for them, all so different to me. I’m an outcast. They like to call me a nobody, a figure they try to avoid. It doesn’t matter to me-because I’m always journeying, always moving on and forgetting them, like some old sojourner on an eternal pilgrimage.

We sit on these wet rocks and wait far outside the city’s mighty gates. Waiting for nothing. You can always tell it’s one of your own kind: the shuffling of clumsy feet, the heavy smell of dirty clothes, the stench of unwashed bodies, the usual scratching of long, knotted beards and the ruffle of robes shifting and fidgeting. We sit, as always, never breaking our code of silence, waiting for a miracle.

It was just as the heat was settling and the evening breeze began to drift into night, that the first touches of reality were felt. It was felt through the tremors in the voices of excited travellers, in the heavier breathing of mules and horses, and in the distant child, running and laughing. He was near. A group of travellers had set up camp, close to where we lay, they spoke almost without ceasing about this man, the prophet man, who healed the blind, cleansed lepers and even forgave sins. What man forgives sins? Only God forgives sins!

I cannot sleep. I am riveted with the thought that he might finally be here. Something that one of them said, weighs heavy on my mind,

‘This man, is so much more than we all first thought. This man, might be the Messiah, the chosen one, This man, is greater than our feelings, deeper than our thoughts, he’s more than a human prophet, more like a bridge from man to God, from heaven to earth.’

 For a moment, I lost a grip on my senses and looked reality dead in the eye. For a split second, Heaven came crashing down to earth, like some explosive cosmic supernova filling the night sky, like light bursting through darkness revealing truth in all its beauty. I didn’t sleep.

I am silent and listening. Waiting for fulfilment and waiting for my hopes to be confirmed. Then I heard it: a distant marching, a faint vibration, the rumbling of a thousand men, the chatter of a multitude of women, the laughter of child upon child. They were here! I scrambled from my rock and began to run towards the road. I couldn’t miss them, I wouldn’t miss them, but I am blind. My foot slams hard against a stone, I trip and fall headlong onto rocky ground, the unforgiving rocks bite away at my clumsy body, my knees, my feet, my hand, are open and bleeding. I keep going in a frantic frenzy not to miss them, not to miss him. I must be healed, but I know I can run no further, I cry out,

 ‘Son of David! Son of David!’

In my blind panic I feel my way to the road with my hands, crying out with all my might, scraping away rocks and thorns in vain. I sit and wait.

I hear them come. My chance is now, so I shout out in a loud voice,

’ Jesus, son of David! Have mercy upon me! Son of David! Have mercy on me!’

I hear the grumblings from the crowd, and with bitter disgust they try to keep me quiet,

 ‘Be on your way!’

’ Don’t bother the master!’

But I cry out more, desperation straining from my voice, from my very soul,

’Jesus! Son of David! Have mercy upon me! Have mercy upon me!’

With that I sink to the floor, my energy spent, my soul drained.

But then hope.

‘Get up!’

‘Cheer up!’

‘The Master calls you!’  

I hesitate, doubts and fears, worries and uncertainties, all hit me, but without uttering a word, he simply speaks my name,

’Bartimaeus’

 I cannot help but fall to my knees I cling to his coat and between the sobs I utter out,

‘Rabbi… I want to see!’

Even as the words fall out of my mouth, Heaven hits my heart. His love overwhelms me, His peace draws me to Him, and His joy fills my soul.

‘Go, your faith has healed you!’

And then it happened, colour drains in from every corner, light bursts through darkness, I am overcome, I cannot utter a single word, I cannot think. Trees leapt out at me, flowers sparkle, the sky so blue, the grass so green! All the things I heard of, all these things I had felt, I now saw! I laughed almost uncontrollably. The unbelievable- believed, the madness all made sense, the confusion cleared, my life created anew, my heart restored and my body healed! The others dance and laugh and share my joy as we go on our way.

He heals me. He restores my soul. He makes me new. He has finally come. My story is Him.

Someone once told me. Seeing is believing – I just to believe. To me, it’s a choice, others will never understand. The years go by and it’s all the same for them, all so different to me. Often I’m an outcast, they like to call me a nobody, a figure they try to avoid, it doesn’t matter to me-because I’m always journeying, always moving on- following him, an old sojourner on an eternal pilgrimage.

Passing Nightshade

 

- a poem on stars

 

Tumbling blocks of dazzling light, rumbling towers held in flight,

Holding ground, far and near, twisting flame, shining sphere.

Dotted scene, knotted shapes, distinct form, on darkened ‘scapes,

Mapped on minds, held with fear, a sense of awe, and ever clear.

As fallen gods upon their thrones, azure and silver, all deep tones,

Fiery, flaming foxes hunt, tumbling bears, big and runt.

Distinct face– white on black– dog and man above, attack,

Their arrow-marks stain the sky, a painter’s magic set to fly.

These giants simmer, seethe and blend, waning to a boundless end,

But, sunrise pinks reveal their course, euphoric darkness shows the source.

The dusty moonlight turns to morn, aching light rivets, torn,

Breathless twilight hides its figure, hauled and bruising by the bigger.

   As fading dark gives way to light, this waking land emerges bright,

Scarlet blood slips down the hills, birthing light beckons, thrills.

Dazzling colours, scarlet sky, haunted forests, trees so high,

Birds begin their morning song and fly on journey’s far and long.

The day-break sun begins its rise to heights so glorious in these skies,

Gracing every bird and flower, tipping clouds bound to tower.

We see a beauty in this art, a streaming joy from God’s own heart,

Tender souls warm to this view, but hardened minds freeze out what’s true.

This scene soaked in celestial thought, an act from heaven captured, caught,

For it is here that hearts are made; it is here in past nightshade.

 

We Lose Ourselves

 

- on our unseeing eyes and our unwilling hearts

 

Life in itself is a novelty,

Twisting, turning, never stopping,

Always jumping up, pushing on,

Never waiting, ever gliding– a novelty.

 

We used to think we knew it all,

Like colossal giants, twisting turning.

Frenzy forming in a melting pot,

Overlooking our very souls– ‘we knew it all’.

 

Distant, sitting, waiting for something.

Life in itself was unplugging,

It’s very meaning sucked out by us,

With no fixing formula, waiting for something.

 

We are fossilised, addicted to blindness,

Always waiting for a cure– satisfaction

Bleeding, burning, bruising, brimming.

Feelings form, emotion erased, addicted to blindness.

 

Where is God, and this divine design?

Created, confusion, then ransomed, restored.

Deliverance made clear through a man on a tree.

Through seamless death, righteousness restored– Divine Design.

By Joshua Pike

The City

 -on our blindness to self-destruction

A fumbling mass of nothing good,

People walking, running, talking,

Fallen angels work as they should,

Grey clouds smog, settle, stalking.

Mystery enshrouds, judgements cloud,

We sit in this room, eat, walk, sleep, die, breath in deeply, give a sigh.

Yellow light scrapes on the sky, purple noise screams and loud.

The breathless living reach out to us, making thoughts birth like, ‘Why?’

 

Stompa, stompa, like a drummer boy,

The feet of those who are walking, beat life into its heart.

The ancient smoke billows –respiration.

Forgotten light simmers through –restoration.

The dazzling signs of those who are showing, end and start.

Flasha, flasha, like a fishing coy.

 

Beata, Beata, like cries of eaten souls,

The echoes of ancient stories untold, mysteries unfold.

All babbling tongues of men, unveiled,

But forsaken, darkened pasts entailed.

Ambiguities leap from hot to dark, light to cold.

Patter, Patter, shadows consume our goals.

 

What is this life anyway?

The drink spills over the edges, is this what we live for? There must be something.

We sit solemnly, silently, waiting for something wise to say.

There’s nothing.

We push forward on an endless trail, pushing weightless millstones.

Bitter memories fill in the edges, sealing any hope of escape.

We are prisoners on our thrones.

Locked in this room emptiness, remorse fills in any shape.

Again, we contemplate.

 

Thunda, Thunda, blood rain falls from red clouds,

Ears perk to hear sharp echoes pounding these grey halls.

We crane through smoked windows to see the light of stars,

But they are lost in ominous headlights of cars.

We open this rusty metal door to see outside past the walls.

Smatta, Smatta, rain disperses the star-gazing crowds.

 

Tappa, Tappa, we breathe this toxic air,

And walk down calloused streets through acid rain.

We walk around the block and then again.

We form fickle relationships and then again.

Nothing new, just reimbursing the old pain.

Whacka, Whacka, twisted tales add to our despair.

 

The city’s lights fogged by us,

The city’s streets clogged by us,

The city’s parks ravaged by us,

The city’s people savaged by us,

The city’s gates charred by us,

The city’s soul marred by us.

Yet we still continue in destruction true,

Yet we still do what we do…

 

By Joshua Pike

Godless

 

A poem on the gagging of God...

 

Why do we debate our soul’s very existence?

Lacking abstinence and persistence.

We left our consciousness far behind,

As the rotting soul eats its fallen mind.

We chase our tail –around, around,

And fall hard on solid ground.

Exhausted bitter, grieved torn,

Filling our minds with sulphur –we forget to morn.

We, the murderers of humanity,

Bask in our mistakes and drunken clarity.

We awake from our beds, to sleep in our graves,

Whipping the truth, as evil behaves.

We cut our feet and march up mountains.

What is of the Greeks and their knowledge fountains?

For what we knew is lost,

And future learning comes with cost.

Will we have to reverse this cycle?

But it seems we have broken the cycle.

The cry, ’The Horror, the Horror,’ haunts the halls.

The marching of men with the shots and falls,

We laugh at the burnings of history and life.

Strived, will strive, strife.

Adam and woman knew not of the cost,

Did they not take that which is lost?

The tongues of Babel, the Flood of earth,

The new dawning of man –rebirth.

Burnt, burns, burning.

The very wheels of Heaven turning.

Forget about development and lovers of truth,

Forget the wise, look to the youth!

The romans came crashing through,

Born from providence, born from lies, straight and true.

They civilise land.

Coliseums and palaces with ‘happiness’ and ‘joy’ a-grand.

Their gods we make our hero,

We cry, ‘Hail him, make Nero Hero!’

Obscuring lines of certainty and the sure,

We change the whims into towers secure.

Then the Messiah –we surely agree?

No! We twist the truth and leave Him on that tree.

Then the fall of Earth’s  great city,

Divided in two, eaten up by pity.

From which emerges a dishevelled flower,

Destroying Grecian knowledge and Roman power.

Naturally, we change this for the better,

And for the sake of generations to follow –for days that are wetter.

But the flower blooms to Renaissance flame –love, peace, joy singes,

Tearing the reformation from history’s hinges.

We scrape away church and saintly calls,

As screams of religion echo in ancient halls.

‘THE HORROR! THE HORROR!’

‘The horror, the horror…’

A little life surfaces from the rubble,

The other lands bathe in trouble.

We live with Louis in Versailles,

And make up long and deciphered tales.

We try to gag God through the arts,

But history fails without essential parts

Yet still we gash true life from World Wars and strife,

We spit and shout, slash and stab, sword and knife.

We try to kill the reason we live and walk,

Burn the truth –let youth talk.

As if we are in existence by mere chance, we can’t perceive,

We forget the truth of Adam and Eve,

Like an agnostic atheistic world we deflect and repulse.

Then we realise we are dying –we have no pulse.

 

 

By Joshua Pike

What we need

Recently I’ve been thinking about what we need. This question can be answered in many ways- First, it can be answered in a physical way, we might need, food, clothing, a home. Or it can be answered in more of an emotional way- we might need happiness, joy, love. But I quickly came to the conclusion that this isn’t enough so I decided to see if it was answered in a spiritual way, we might need a hope, a destiny, even a God. However, to truly answer this question, we need to look more closely at what is important to us. Food is important, we all need it to live. Love is important, we all need to show some sort of affection. A destiny is important, we need something to aim for. But in my search I found there is something far more important than food, love and a destiny. There is something so important that people live for it. There is something so amazing, that people give everything to it. There is something so incredible that some die for it. The answer wasn’t found through my thinking and through my attempted intellectual analysis, it was found in the lives of my friends and family, through their examples and testimonies. It was found in the passion and power I saw in the young, it was found in the wisdom, joy and peace of the old. It was found in the Bible when it says, ’I AM THAT I AM’. Ultimately, it was found in Him- in God. That short verse showed me that God is all-powerful, absolutely completed and totally self-sufficient. He doesn’t need my worship, he doesn’t need my praise, he is God and utterly God. He doesn’t depend on my emotions and my feelings to be ‘more God’, he doesn’t rely on my thoughts and writing to be ‘more alive’ because He is absolutely all-sufficient and among the many aspects of God, this ‘all-sufficient nature’ brought me to the thoughts that are written below.

My God is more than my imagination, greater than my feelings- deeper than my thoughts. He‘s more than a cross on a church, more like a bridge from man to God- from heaven to earth. He’s different, cause he’s holy. Special, cause he’s Lord. Jehovah, cause he’s Jirah - He is who he is. Breath-taking, cause he died a death you see, on the cross –even though he never needs me. Champion, because he rose again. Infallible, cause he’s perfect and then, He’s the Saviour who saved me,- Shepherd, who  guides me. The Lamb, the perfect sacrifice. The Priest who will intercede, He’s I’ll ever need –and all I ever will, and when that day finally comes, He’ll look into my eyes and say,’ Yes you, you my child are mine.’

So to answer the question what do we need? We need God. Nothing more and nothing less. We have to have fervent passion and an unquenchable desire to need God. We need to give ourselves over to God and let him show us the life he has in store for us. He alone is sufficient, He alone will satisfy and He alone, and only him, is all you will ever need.