Am I Poor, am I Rich?

I see the rugged hill

Where my saviour was

Once crucified

Blessed are the poor in spirit, Jesus said

On the Mount of Olives.

Now we live in poverty.

And now we are spiritually poor.

Our redeemer, rescuer has gone,

And he would be Messiah.

We are now poor

For Jesus has gone.

But we are rich

Yes we are rich

For having walked with him and talked

With Jesus.

Yes we are rich.

And although I do not understand this crucifixion

Of an innocent man, I will understand this crucifixion.

And I saw the man next to Jesus at the Skull call

Jesus, asking forgiveness. Today you will be with me in

Paradise, Jesus replied. The other man insulted him.

And yes, a rich young man amidst the riches…

Of a slum? Amidst the riches of disease? Amidst the

Riches of not knowing God?

He rose again on the third day! Yes

And is coming back to take me to Paradise.

Jesus’ agony. Am I poor, am I rich? Do I know this God?

Do I know that he cares for me?

–Written in 1992

Alternative rock

IT’S THE alternative rock, suitable for kids so they say, they says it is a play on the word absurd to anyone in the know, infectious for those who do not Musically a blast and produced for effect the “alternative rock” is not easy-on-the-ear and neither indie some say it is not Christian with references to reincarnation and copulation without a marriage context but tongue in cheek playfully uses the word to effect that scratches where it itches for they might be giants after they pass through

Soul

I listened to this bubbly Canadian upbeat about folksy pop with more than enough highs her simple compositions of conversation bubbled over with one or two lapses in continuity her self-titled album she gave me for free I would have liked to have liked more, but I could not hear her soul like the time when we talked, which made me feel very sad

Fan

Another interesting conjunction of prose into poetry?

The rebel reviewer petrified by rock’s raw beat and easy listening whips out dreamy pop, the sounds of cotton wool and sheepskin a cushy pillow to lay his head on. He drifts into soft-pop dreaming, as the disturbing subtleties of quiet angst pass through idealized and romanticized in pleasing lyrical covers, he thinks he is not a fan.

Drive

This is supposed to be a poem. I do not think it is. It does not look like a poem to me. More like an interesting conjunction of prose turned into poetry. From a review which sort of captures how I felt about a product.

Sad, melancholy, nothing that distinguishes itself, imagine listening to this driving, makes me feel dreamy and laid-back, but do lyrics ever resonant?