God's Plan (ii) | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

POEM 266: GOD'S PLAN (ii)

From me to God:

Dear God, good morning, Father
Why do I feel like you slept last night?

While I slept, as the manner of men is,
you also laid you down to sleep?

It's dawn but look, the sun is gone.
Not one bird tweet a song.

The little plans I tried to carry through,
they've failed.

The tool I thought to use,
they're frail.

Yet your word would not I sorrow,
to pause a little while, and try, again, tomorrow?

But yesterday, like years past, is lost,
I can't see beyond this storm of dust.

Got plans for me? I don't feel good.
I might scale through, who knows? Do you?

Your son,
Stefn.

From God to me:

Dear Stefn, beautiful morning, son of man.
I watched over you throughout the night.

If you take me by the way you feel,
then your faith in me isn't real.

I say this not, to cause you shame.
You're human, frail in faith,
I was once the same.

I have walked this path you crawl today.
I once carried a cross of shame along this way.

At a point, when Golgotha was near,
I almost gave in to my fear.

No one has jeered and mocked you, son,
like they did, to me, before my mum.

Yet, I scaled through
Yes you too, can walk right through.

Stefn, as for your plans, they didn't fail.
I've planned it all, time will tell.

Although the sea in tumult wail,
Don't fret, Stefn, your plans will sail.

Your God,
Ja.

#365DaysOfPoetry
#Pengician
#SSA

Comments

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale. "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies" "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat" After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?" "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...

RIP: Return If Possible (Ode to my High School crush)

She would wink at me from the corner of her eyes. She would dare to slap the tallest in my class if he dares bully me for penning his name in my list of noise makers. She would share her pen when mine is spent. She would help me take notes when sick I lay in bed. She played my advocate even when I least deserve it. Her height, though intimidating earned more of my admiration. Her fingers Her palms though long and bold compared to my petite own were my favourite to hold. She was loud and noisy not never made the list. She would speak Igbo and wink 'you dare not write my name' Her drawings, I did when others I snub. JSS 3 to SSS 1 I crushed on this pretty girl But I was too shy to ink that poem. I left without letting you know how much I care. Had no time to appreciate your kind gestures undeserved defense... You were my crush. Augusta, When I found first Facebook you were the first I searched to add... In vain I searched You were not found. I stalked the walls of our cl...

Featured Poem: What Happens When A Poet Falls In Love - by Martin Deep

Dusk brings the charms to my lips It would seem. The moon is here and My tongue is ripe with whispers. I can whisper now For my eyes are weary From telling poetry. How you were enchanted with the rhyme my sighs poured when I touched your fountain head! The candles have gone all out The muse has drunk up the oil of the lamp to the last droplet. The innocent wigs dies noiselessly. Is this what happens when a poet falls in love? That my trashcan becomes the graveyard for my pen That lay like thankless knights That have bled to please their mistress for quests unsent. Is this what happens when a poet falls in love? That the innocence of papers are stolen? How so many have cried in the merciless flames sentenced thus 'bearers of unworthy words' So pure our love is my love. So true. A cherub perhaps is ravished and he cries to God to have him be our ring bearer . What other fulfillment is greater than our spirits soaring in each other's eyes? Is this what happens when a poet fal...

Jaachi Writes

Search This Blog