Pure Church

I don't know who first penned this, but a brother at church shared it with me in something he has written. Thought it might be helpful and challenging for some in this over-connected, over-imaged world we live in:



The TV is my shepherd,
I shall want more.
It makes me lie down on the sofa.
It leads me away from the faith;
It destroys my soul.
It leads me in the path of sex and violence
for the sponsor's sake.
Yeah, though I walk in the shadow of Christian responsibility,
there will be no interruption, for the TV is with me.
It's cables and remote control, they comfort me.
It prepares a commercial for me in the presence of my worldliness;
It anoints my head with humanism and consumerism;
My coveting runneth over.
Surely, laziness and ignorance shall follow me all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house watching TV for ever.

I like these lines from Poem 561 (HT: Mockingbird)

The Grieved – are many – I am told –
There is the various Cause –
Death – is but one – and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –
There's Grief of Want – and grief of Cold – A sort they call "Despair" –
There's Banishment from native Eyes –In Sight of Native Air –
And though I may not guess the kind –
Correctly – yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary – To note the fashions – of the Cross –
And how they're mostly worn – Still fascinated to presume
That Some – are like My Own –

They keep writing lymricks. Like these (which together tell the story of my life):

A pastor, a dad is Thabiti
Each Tuesday he goes to a meeti
Preaching two times a week
May sound rather bleak
But with God there is no defeati


He goes by the name Pastor T
He winds down at night with the wii
He loses in boxing
But for a little detoxing
Eats ice cream and plays with Small T


Daddy loves Afiya and Eden
Next year he may take them to Sweden
It ain’t for sure yet
But you better bet
The girls keep askin’ each evenin’


A preacher, a pastor, a dad
The best jobs he’s ever had
Takes a lot of work
So he eats lots of jerk
And that makes him even more glad


Afiya and Daddy for fun
Like reading and writing and gum
They play some Civ IV
Then read even more
But they don’t like to sit in the sun


Dad and Eden like to compete
So each night on the wii they shall meet
Eden knocks him out twice
That ain’t even nice
‘Cause you know after that Dad’s dead meat!

I'm not really a big reader of poetry. It's okay; I just don't spend a lot of time reading and reflecting on it.

But my daughters have been writing some poetry lately, and I am a big fan of my daughters and their poetry. Two samples.

First a limerick from my youngest daughter, Eden (age 9), who manages to rebuke her dad in rhyme:

Fat Man

There is a man that carries a bat;
He eats too much so he is very fat.
His beard is really long,
And sings his jolly long.
He will never lose weight acting like that.

Then there is the poem from my oldest daughter (soon to be 11) who manages to put in poetry a love we share, reading.

The Magic of Reading

I open my book to my favorite page.
I look down and see everything has changed.
The old excitement is replaced with something brighter!
The white on the pages are now even whiter!
And as I am filled with excitement and glee,
It all fades away, then I read with less speed.
I must say, it is magic to read.

All of the stories come to life on the page;
And just like the characters I feel happiness and rage.
All of the words have new meaning to me;
And slowly I read with greater speed.
And that's why I say: "It is magic to read."

I travel with Don Quixote and his horse,
And with Nat Bowditch I proof-read morse.
I play the piccolo with Dominic,
And like Olivia "Miss O" will stick.
Running and singing and hiding from De Vil.
I'm magicly caught in the reading spell.
Only a closed book can get me out of it,
And if the character does, I'm bound to pout a bit.
So I'll say it again:
"It is magic to read."

Woke up this morning
and the leader of the free world
was a black man.

Woke up this morning,
got myself dressed,
and marveled at what's happened in this land.

Brushed my teeth in the mirror,
smiled at a face made silly with tooth paste.

No more black face comedy,
there's a black man in the White House,
and so much of the world is subject to his tastes.

What will it mean,
to now be a black man in the free world?

Will anything change,
will everything change,
a million ideas in my mind all in a swirl.

I don't even write poetry.
But I woke up this morning
and a black man was the leader of the free world.

Prose won't do it for me,
describe this ended longing.
Can you believe an African-American leads the free world,
with a beautiful brown wife and two little girls?

My country tis of thee,
sweet land of liberty,
land where my fathers died,
land where black mothers cried,
land where we were so long denied,
on every mountainside,
freedom rings.

Barack Hussein Obama,
son of a black man and a white mama,
now leads the free world.

Heaven knows the plot twists of this drama.
God help us, please help us.
Protect every unborn boy and girl.

Can't wink at some things,
even as the joy is irrepressible.
The confluence of emotions are inexpressible.

Gil Scott Heron had it wrong:
The revolution has been televised, has been televised, has been televised.
And a black man is the leader of the free world!

I never believed my mama,
when she said I could be anything, even president.
But now the White House has a new resident,
Barack Hussein Obama.

Goes to show what I know.
On a cold January day, my mama was proved a prophet.
In God's economy, nothing could stop it.
And this morning, a black man is the leader of the free world.