I am writing poetry again

4-25-11

I lost my faith and my believing
And to my surprise
The sun rose in the morning.

I screamed out into the cold empty hole
And learned
The echo only answers what it heard

I found my faith just as I had lost it
Angrily, dejectedly, miserably
But no trumpets sounded for me.

So I pouted. And a small quiet voice said
"Certainly I already know you are small
and wounded and sad but yet there is hope."

How mysterious is life, how deep and private
Is our faith, our faiths, our hopes
And our pains and our loves.

How all emcompassing is this, and
Deeper yet, mysterious yet-
The One who Holds me, the Keeper, the last thread.

So the vine withered. I don't care.
Constant cycle within my soul
Faith grows up and dies again

It rains, it thunders
Night falls like a cloak,
At least it hides me and my contempt.

Morning comes again, I don't care.
But yet, deeper yet, mysterious yet-
Faith awakens again, the sun still rises.

Say a small prayer.
Hide me, hold me
I hear trumpets sounding far off.....