David W. Ballard: Professional Writer specializing in Web content writing, copywriting, feature writing, fiction writing, and poetry.

Fathomless

Feel fathomless pain knowing no depth,
Your feet filling shoes trodden in step
With bloody tracks imprinted in sorrow,
Leading to a day without tomorrow.

Fathomless pain beyond knowledge
Few care to even acknowledge:
Instead, turning to themselves for themselves,
Without knowing they cannot save themselves.

We crown (and damn) ourselves for eternity,
As we search for the latest modernity
And fear naiveté. Jesus’ wise irony:
“Rejoice in suffering, in My death, for glory.”

Incline yourself to what He offers now—
Meritless grace, despite us, somehow.
Only confess His name that you’ll abide in Him
Who died in fathomless pain for yours and my sins.

Breath of Life

Breath of life, granting peace,
All my hopes and fears release,
Draw me near in darkest nights.
Guide me sure in truest light.
Take away unrestive thoughts.
Forgive my sins; consider them not.
Teach me to love with all my might:
That you and all and I are right.

Untitled

Whenever I thirst Jesus arrives first.
With a steady hand, He wipes the sand
From my lips and dips
A ladle in a cup,
Brimming with water.
Moving the ladle over the surface,
He skims away my glassy image.

Now, I am no longer a hero:
My image breaking and rippling
With the surface of the water, turning
Into ever-expanding zeroes,
Reminding me of the nothing that I am
Without Him. Then, the Holy Spirit
Moves over me,
And I calm with the surface of the water.

Slowly, in the stillness of His creation,
The image of my Father appears.
In wonder: for the life of me, I can’t remember
An image of kindness and love: so tender.
I am struck dumb, drinking my fill
Of the living water and feel the chill
Inside me
Of eternity.

Ice Figures

The cold
Keeps that which is old
Young,
And our love is undone.
The flakes fall
Beneath the ball
Of his blade—
He is carving our figures in ice.
We are saved
Together
In this and all kinds of weather.

He has sharpened
A lovely form in your cheeks
And chin.
The wind
Parts for your face.
I trace
Your eyes with mine:
They are diamonds in a mine.
We will always be together
In this or fair weather.

You say, “The snow is dropping so fast!
Do you think it will last?”
I say, “I know.
Don’t shiver though.
The sun will soon appear
From behind the clouds, and our fear
Will melt to dew,
And then I’ll still be with you
Because we will always be together
In this, and all kinds of weather.”

Shelter

For years, we were alone,
My bachelor’s home:
Shelter from cold, rain, and snow—
A base when I was on the go.
You were a sometimes friend—
Good, when compared to some;
Poor, when the Joneses’ won.

But, alone,
We were incomplete, my home.

So, finally, two came to us,
And then another was.
Crammed inside your walls,
We felt slighted above all.
But, I know some have nothing:
Neither shelter from rain or frost
And are paying a high cost.

All alone,
They go without roof or home.

Warm inside my shelter,
I often don’t consider
Those who suffer in the cold,
Or just how bold
My requests can be,
Or even that I have the best,
Togetherness.

Hugs

The baby nuzzles into my shoulder—
Her warm, full cheeks against my neck—
Make me want to hold her closer.
But the too short moment passes: she leaves
To play, and we both grow older,
Time not lasting long enough.

And my older daughter?
She often reminds
Me when I’m wrong
And that I shouldn’t sing along
To her favorite songs.
Already, I see glimpses
Of a woman as she paints her lips.

But I comfort myself with the thought
That both my girls are with me now,
And we can still embrace,
Their warm faces
Buried in mine.
But as I lay the baby down for a nap,
The cold air on my face
Spells their absence.

So, I draw close to the warm memories
Of our snuggling.
The thoughts draw out something within,
Making me want to linger
Near the baby’s door
Savoring our moments together,
So I can remember
When they are gone.

True Living

Wandering the wilderness: wild,
She grew older into a child—
Scarred and bruised by abandoned will—
Running to stand still.
She was a weed, bowing in the wind,
To sordid men.

Beaten blue by them,
She got lost at the bend in the road
And set up abode
On the hardened lanes and city streets.
Pride gone, aimless, and lost,
She wandered with her burdens in the bitter cold.

She collapsed on the steps of a church,
Looking for refuge, a chance to catch
Her breath
And to stay the urges to do meth.
A kind lady found her there, lifted her up,
And gave her a cup
Filled with hope.
Relieved, the aching girl detoxed from the dope.

Her ache began to leave
As her mind conceived
Of the Man
Who paid the final cost
For all like her, the hurting and lost.

Her pain removed, the enemy sin,
Still rages within
Like a roaring lion,
But she says she’s done with the tricks and all her lying.
So she passes on what was freely given
And says that is truly living.

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Articles written by Community Link correspondent, David W. Ballard.

Murder Montage

Hector, may death course on you like vultures.
Your family will soon see the sun baked blood
dried on your face. I will hide your body
from all ‘til maggots have their fill. Your fate
is on the blade of my sword. You can cry
the names of your children to me, to the gods;

I won’t listen to ya and who needs Gawd!
None can save ya from the circlin’ vultures.
Choke on yer words ‘cause this noose strangles cries
the way a new-born bathed in its birth blood.
gags on the umbilical cord called fate
I’m gonna cinch the breath from yer body.

Achillus, since I left, evrabody
tells me that whites think they’s as strong as God
and that’s why I been runnin’. Lots of fate’s
in your words and you’d leave me for vultures
sounds like, but I just can’t run no more. Blood-
hounds o’ yours been trackin’, I hear ‘em cry:

Jew, all you will hear now is our war cry.
We are sick of all your talk. Nobody
will listen when you talk peace yet seek blood.
Gaza is ours according to Allah,
and we will not rest until you vultures
are off our land. Be prepared to meet your fate!

Hamas, your false cease-fires fool fate,
but Zion will not be tricked. May sirens cry
at your death as they did when my son died. Vultures
surrounded his armless, dead body
yesterday, and now I pray to my God
that I get the chance to avenge my own blood.

The Trojan horizon was setting blood
while two enemies prepared for fate.
Hector threw his spear but missed the half god.
When he found he had no second, he cried
and quickly died from a spear piercing his body.
Achilles picked at him like a vulture.

My blood cries when I see stone dead bodies
that have been slaughtered by people fighting
in the name of God(s). Are we vultures?