When the Soul Cried Out for Meaning
The scales tipped before the start,
Metal on wrists, the slowing of a heart.
Truth stood silent, bleeding bare,
While power ruled without a care.
Yet wrong, however strong it seems,
Cannot forever bury dreams.
For justice walks a slower way,
But dawn will follow this dark day.
Under the sun in the big blue sky.
I earn a quid as the rays blaze by.
Sweat on me fod – dirt on my hands.
Working outside as the sun cracks the land.
Beating hard but still I stay.
For my family – all bastad day.
Some names fade like footprints in the rain.
once dear to the heart, now hard to explain.
Faces grow distant, voices grow thin,
lost to the silence where memories dim.
Such is the way, a tear drop to the sea.
Drifting - even from memory.
But you, you not.
Never I guess, to be forgot.
They gave me breath - then poisoned the air.
Life confusing - mind a blur.
Shadows breathing in a cold dark house.
My life - in flames I wish to douse.
All alone with their choices.
In my head - I hear their voices.
Before the icons’ candle glow,
A father stands in silent woe.
His wife and children sleep above
While islam chokes the land he love.
He does not long for war or blood,
Only peace, and a promised bud.
Yet still he keeps the rifle near,
For darker days are drawing here.
He prays with tears, “Lord, keep me right.
If I must stand, then let me fight
Without hatred in my soul —
Let your mercy remain unstole.”
And though he trembles at what may come,
He knows his boys to men become.
So he kneels beneath the saints and flame,
Wanting his sons to remember his name —
Not as a man who loved the fight,
But one who stood for Christ and light.
If you could see what grace descends during the liturgy in church, you would gather the dust and wash your face with it.
Saint Gabriel of Georgia
Three crosses woven, bold and bright,
St George in red, St Andrew white,
St Patrick’s saltire laid between,
Upon the flag where kings have been.
A banner born of storm and sea,
Of island hearts and history,
Three patron saints in cloth entwined,
Three ancient peoples, fate combined.
It flew through cannon smoke and rain,
Through years of glory, loss, and pain,
Yet still it dances in the sky,
Beneath the same old northern cry.
Glory – to God’s might! Who gave us such a sight!
I asked you about the weather,
You asked if I was sleeping.
Neither of us touched the truth
Pressed hard against the glass.
Time was called, our red eyes met
But our skin was not permitted.
I hope you know I miss you — and all your ways.
Their little hands pulling me towards responsibility,
not with force,
but with trust.
A tug at the sleeve,
a voice in the night,
small shoes waiting by the door.
And suddenly a man understands
that love is not a feeling that visits —
it is weight carried willingly.
The world still calls him elsewhere:
towards freedom without anchors,
towards silence, towards self.
But those small hands
keep leading him back
to what matters.
Not chains.Roots.
And without roots you die.
I look towards the heavens
And with grattitude I cry.
A love declared for days to come,
is as good as none.
It's fog upon the mountain top.
Soft warm skin you can not touch.
'tomorrow' 'tomorrow' -
like time an endless field.
like hearts don't tire.
like the grass will not be cut.
But love is here -
it breathes in the moment its given,
or dilutes like a tear into the sea.
Like promises undelivered - worse than
nothing at all.
Smith Shine Poetry