Faith 002: What if?

What is Faith if not the presence of doubt;
Hope without certainty,
and evidence without proof?

What if, though not in six days actual days,
the world was still created?
What if we really aren’t alone?

What if that feeling that pain is unnatural was right,
evil paid the price for the suffering it caused,
and things will definitely get better?

What if this is not all that there is;
that there was more to life than the search for money,
less to death than loss,
and we could actually live forever:
never saying goodbye?

 

 

IF YOU COULD ASK GOD 1 QUESTION, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

Stage 001: On the bridge!

ACT 1

Scene 1

ALFIERI:

What you have is an illusion, a whisper, nothing more. You’re clinging onto a dream old friend: Let it go.

EDDIE:

If a whisper, how loud: I hear nothing else, if a breath, how profound: I feel nothing else… You call it a dream but it haunts my waking steps. I can, but cannot and must; let it go

© Denis Adide 2011

 

ps: Might be worth having a look at Arthur Millers A View From The Bridge.

Poetry 004: Autumn

 

Autumn

His hands clung to his walking stick
As though to loosen his grip
Would loosen his fraying flesh’s
Clasp on life.
Wrung was his skin by the wind.
His clothes, more a burden than a help,
As sails swung from his trembling trunk.
Watching was his helpless wife
As with a yelp he gave up,
Was blown within a fingertip of the salvaging scaffold,
And tipping past the barriers fell
Into the ditch left by the tea-sipping road-workers.
Teary his spouse, wrestling her umbrella
Walked toward his grave.

Her hands too feeble to save.

In haste I came to stay the hearse
The bride to death, clung onto her purse.

Solemn I thrust my hand to the nabe
“Fuck off! … Fuck off you ape!” He said

© Denis Adide 2010

 

Color: The Falling Leaves

It had been a cold and windy day. I was on my way home from university. there was a gaping hole in the pavement bordered by the plastic barriers that the road-workers had left when they clocked out. I remember thinking, as I made my way past the hole, that with the wind as strong as it was blowing, it wouldn’t take much to blow someone into the whole. It was at this point that the idea for the poem crossed my mind.

The dominant thought while fleshing the concept of Autumn had to with the manner in which human tragedy is colorless: we, like the leaves, all lose color and fall. The hole provided the scene within which to show how futile as well as ignorant racism can be.