Life Preserved in Word

I’m old enough that I sometimes don’t remember being young. I’m old enough that my skin and aura-faces wrinkle and succumb. A once swift flowing stream has been reduced to tinkle and hum. I can spent all day tinkering around and tinkling but when I go to bed I’m given some reprieve in dreams of glorious streams a twinkle that implore me to waken, arise and… tinkle. I’m old enough that I sometimes don’t remember being old enough that I sometimes couldn’t   remember being young. I’m old enough to be grateful for my family and friends and hope to never be old enough to pass a broken fence to mend. Should we rendezvous and I shan’t remember you don’t dismay as I’ll likely be happy to meet the same new people every day. Tinkle and hum… © David Girard 19/11/19

H2 t                       c                       w h                        r                       h e                       e                       i                                           ...

In all honesty it’s the dishonest that suck the life out of you. Rend yourself open and search with untarnished scrutiny for deceit lurks deep within. © David Girard 08/11/19

  My Jesus, My Lord.  Am I destined for hell? Your taste extremely bitter, Intoxicating fragrance can’t smell.  You're without sin, but I wallow in it. I’m the black sheep of the flock in more ways than one.  A man that loves men, that’s what I am  And this was always a part of your plan.  I must be myself the best that I can.    When amongst others, idly, we talk.  Not the gospel of song but gossip of rot. I ponder, O Lord, what's to be my Lot?  Enter a fiery furnace that eradicates me?  Like Judas Iscariot, disgraced and hung in a tree. Or the “woman at the well," whom you set free?    Will I become a violent Hitler or a peaceful Gandhi? I must be myself the best that I can.   © David Girard 25/03/15

From where does hope spring? I know hope can diminish to almost nothing like a kettle’s last lingering vapors. Can it be completely lost or abandoned like an unwanted gift? Losing hope is tragic, numbing and exhausting. Can it, will it be fully rediscovered? Is hope reborn of our cerebral canals as a reflection of the innocence and joy of a cherubic child or a memory of euphoric sanguineness? Perhaps hope is an enigmatic specter of one’s desire for eternal future good that is unattainable resulting in intermittent bouts of hopelessness. Hope can be given or lost and cannot be taken but it can be found of one’s desire for future good. Desire fuels hope’s fire. © David Girard 01/11/19