Music Review: Christmas in DeverseCity

by: amica paige

I wouldn't call myself a Christian; I'd rather wait for Truth in the end to reveal what's beyond this fragile life, which is nevertheless sprinkled with beauty, peace, and joyful things, if we only cared enough to see that the glass is indeed half-full and not always view it from the top as half-empty and lacking. I consider myself a hopeful skeptic, an occasional atheist, a nature worshipper, and a lover of art, music, and words. In other words, I'm a doubting Thomas and a crumb-licking dog searching for home. I'm both spiritual and worldly, if there is such a separation. I regard myself earthy, since I, like you, am grounded by gravity no matter how different our spiritual takes are, and recognize that our only exit is exactly the only exit from this life—to dust.


Why the long intro just to review an album? Well, my theatrics lead to this: my general fondness for music. I keep my ears open—yes, even to those labeled as "Christian" music, which are sometimes disregarded, mocked, just plain hated, or unnecessarily worshipped even more so than the God in their message. I believe that music, in all its forms, opens the mind, touches the spirit, and pierces the soul, if it bears any substance at all. Having said all that, here is my experience with TobyMac's Christmas in DiverseCity, a collaborative album.

Words that came to mind upon the first listen:
Breezy, Jingly, Snappy, Dancy.
Melodic. A soulful variety.
Tender...yet hard enough to rock to or, as I prefer, dance to.


And after the 2nd and umpteenth plays, here's what I think:
Christmas This Year rings in beautifully with a smooth blend of Toby's arresting ease and Leigh Nash's angelic vocals—there she goes again!—complemented by the entrancing background piano.


The First Noel is a strong follow with a rhythmically captivating arrangement, while Mary's Boy Child is definitely one of my favorite songs in the album, as even a bitter soul may render this soothing tune as ear candy—a delicious mix of intoxicating calm and head sway.


I seriously would dance or jog to O Come, All Ye Faithful—alright, I actually did dance to it and would have also done the latter if I didn't have a problem with sweaty earbuds slipping from my ears. However, singing along to this euphonic tune can make one feel like a real phony, especially if you like to question the Being being sung about. I couldn't help it though. When a song is brilliantly executed with just the right amount of funk, a listener can get carried away.


Little Drummer Boy is rich in beats, yet manages to hold its footing quite well, not losing grip of its context in all the fun, whereas This Christmas (Father of the Fatherless) is a tuneful chant of its title in parenthesis.


Carol of The Kings is a finely crafted symphonic song, making it a real treat on that point alone. As an aside and not to discount the artist's own merit, the rapper sounds like Kanye West, whose rapping style, per se, I like.


Birth of Love exudes energy. I'd play this as a backdrop for a Holiday fashion show if I moved in that arena.


What Child is This? penetrates the way a song should...even if you didn't bother with Christ. Its musical strength can mesmerize.


It Snowed is rock, pure and simple. If guitar riffs could jolt you into head bobbing, you'd dig this. But I dance to the beat of brit pop and funky or entrancing songs, and relish the slightly tamer side of some alternative and indie tunes.


Angels We Have Heard On High presents yet another angelic voice, wrapped in heavenly harmony and goosebumps-inducing chorus, warmly tied with an instrumental ribbon. There is a bit of narrated biblical message later in the song, as a sidenote to those who just can't be bothered with it or those whose ears are simply numb to it.


Santa's Coming Back Around is a jazzy R&B, a style that doesn't quite stir my spirit, like rock music, and the outburst in the intro can be grating. Still, it's just my queer taste and certainly not a pompous or foolish attempt to disregard the artist(s). Ditto for Christmas Time which is another flavorful R&B, at least for those who jive with those beats.


To end, if music is chocolate, this is definitely a box worth grabbing this season. The only difference is, it would never run out on you. If likened to coffee, DiverseCity is a nicely brewed holiday album, infused with  melodic ease, funk, and musical depth - elements that arguably prevent an album from turning into just another overprocessed junk in a music industry often stricken with a toxic tick that saps the sublime out of its pop music, leaving them as substanceless as soda pop, regardless of its spiritual angle, or lack of. I give this Christmas album a 9 3/4 out of ten stars, only because I'm still stuck at King's Cross and could never quite get to a perfection such as that of closure...wishing that the Great Hall had never closed its doors...
Perhaps, I should give DiverseCity a few more hundred listen to give it a perfect ten.

It was my fault

by amica paige



*2011 Writer's Digest November Pad Chapbook Challenge - Day 10
Prompt was to write something from a totally different angle.
This examines the thoughts that might assail a person victimized as a child by sexual abuse.

How did I get there?
I just went for a ride.
Mother okayed it,
she worked late on most nights.
Coach was always so kind,
Dad was nowhere in sight.


How did I get there?
I just went for a ride.
He was being so nice
for nearly no price.
Except for the dark times
when he did me much harm.


But I just could not say things
that would ruin him, dear.
I've had to consider
the more critical things.
Should be easy to do that,
if I swallow my pride.


Tried to push them away
from the back of my mind.
Yet the nightmares resurfaced,
as my dreams dissipated.
I've grown from a mere boy,
fed with guilt, shame, and pride.


I've tried to move on with
the rest of my life.
Yet the nightmares continue,
as my dreams disappear.
I try to forget it,
but mother sinks in her grief.


How did I get there?—
I still ask myself this.
Why should anyone fault him?—
no one fed me those fears.
It must have been me,
I must have been sick.

Tempest In A Cup (poeTry)

by amica paige



***My entry for Writer's Digest 2011 November Pad Chapbook Challenge - Day 2; unfortunately, due to a glitch in the system, I resubmitted it on Day 3's page

“I can resist anything but temptation,” says Wilde—
that’s Oscar.

I start again today, I say,
tight grip on my resolve.
But what’s another cup—it hisses
Just another sip—it whispers.

Too much caffeine
is bad for me;
it lulls me like a harp,
you see.

It taints my teeth,
and my insides burn
from excessive
stomach acid.

But water just won’t do it.
And tea just doesn’t cut it.
You know your thirst could only be quenched
by nothing but dear, old me.

Alright! Okay! I’m in for now.
Just this, just once. A grande cup.
Make it iced, Splenda and cream on the side.
And then I’m sure, I’d be done with him.

Whatever. If you say so. Absolutely!—
my dear, for I’ll always be here for you, you see.
You will realize soon enough, I’m sure,
you can’t possibly live without me.

Timeless Fashion Sense (poeTry)

by: amica paige



***My entry for 2011 Writer's Digest November Pad Chapbook Challenge - Day 4

I just found out this morning
that my striped, green scarf goes well with
my black and red old flower dress
of three years and still counting.

With striped, long socks and calf high boots
for the colder air—I'm good to go!
Black cardigan, green handmade bag,
and drops of sparkly earrings—these ones I made
Red Fendi glasses—they're so well made!
Cell phone, car keys—I'm out the door.
Please crank up, my Hershey brown,
my sweet, ol' friend, my Sidekick pal.
We chug along every single day—
smooth or rough—doesn't matter much
when we go through it
with a wondrous spirit.

So to Oscar Wilde who said, or says instead,
for his spirit lives on indeed,
that “fashion is an ugliness so intolerable” in need
of endless alteration,
I say, “Humbug!—you good, ol' bag.
You failed to scratch the surface.
If you only looked beyond the trend
and its tiresome, fleeting artifice,
you would have found much wonder there,
stunning, classic beauties.
And your everyday would cease to be
a life of gray mundanity
and transform instead into a life
of timeless quality.

Though a plain white Tee, a good, ol' Tee—
a classic Tee—occasionally,
with jeans and sneaks,
do work, you know, in a creative life, you see.

Rain, rain—come what may! (poeTry)

by amica paige



Rain, rain come what may
My dry spell—do moisten away
Let it pour—thy waterfall
And spring forth—thy cleansing rain
That, on them, the sun will glisten
Morning dew for my well.

I won't submerge, but immerse instead
in thy deep, dark, cold waters
I'll not drown, but swim up instead
upward bound onto the surface
The water sparkles at the surface
Precious jewels for my well.

In Good Company (poeTry)

by amica paige



Funny, this business of reputation is,
what tireless mental exertion it consists!
Endless weighing, forever peeping
adding, removing, and calculating
to ensure the company of the best societies
exhibiting just the finest qualities, or so it seems
on the surface at least.
In trying your best to avoid the basest--
those blatant banalities--such vulgar entities
you keep some at arms length,
less they tweet and mention your name,
thus making you vulnerable
to risky associations and immaterial organizations.
No, you don't want to be seen
by those similarly obsessed with,
or whose passions are devoted rather,
to this massive social scene.
But as followers, they're quite safe,
those mere entities attempting to connect,
Just don't reciprocate.
Or others will see
the associations you make.

What If (poeTry)

by amica paige



If we all held hands, could we conquer death?
Young ones and grown ones, all locked up in arms
Holding me holding you holding him holding her
Would the heat then all around us light up the ground?
And would our voices reach the heavens when we chorus,
God can you hear us, do you hear our sound?
But would the earth shake its grounds when it hears our sound?
Or would the oceans dump its waters while we stand our ground.
But just imagine what would happen if we all held hands.
Just don't put me in the middle of some bloodied hands.

Delightful Child (poeTry)

by amica paige
***My entry for Writer's Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompts



What a joyful girl you were
Such a cheerful spirit you had back then
Dancing and singing until you dropped
Drawing and counting your bit of change
You'd skip towards the ice cream man
down the street in his red cart
the second you heard its bell ringing.
We used to play the Barbie blonde,
Remember the only one you had?
Such pretty skin she had!--that grown-up doll
was as perfect as your cousins.
"Why can't you be like them?
Or even like the girls in school?
Not only are they smart, you see
but such charming personalities
are made for TV too, you know."
Remember when you failed your test
and hid it from your mom?
She wouldn't understand, I know
it would have made her flip, god knows
Remember when your aunt got mad
that you failed your spelling too?--
"Those English words have meanings
Don't be stupid and start memorizing."
Pardon your aunt for her pinches,
the ones she laid on your sweaty skin.
She needed a place to stay,
while she studied for her B.A.
Your mom was so kind--that's her sister
Remember she took you out that time?
She just didn't like your chubby face
and couldn't read what's in your chest,
like you didn't even know it then
when something shrunk inside of you.
So don't cry anymore
you've washed them away--the marks
countless times before
And look at you now.
Do you see how I've grown?
Yes there's much work to be done.
But don't you worry, we'll be just fine.
So we'll part for now,
cause you're stronger now.
But since you've not been told,
let me say this now
what a delightful child you really are,
like the happy girl you were back then
before everything else happened
that only made you stronger.

On writing (poeTry)

by amica paige



sometimes it comes
enraptured in love, I
bear it--a child
so rich and free flowing

too often it pains
all efforts attempted
a monster to bore
ideas so meager

Hollowed Night (poeTry)

by amica paige
***My entry for Writer's Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompts on Halloween



A turn too late
you should have heard
the news announced
of the fearsome death
which claimed the lives
of two, we're told--
an innocent one,
the other, old.
In cheery chants
both called, in trance
the witch of yore
and the candy man
on Halloween
near hallowed grounds
just a stretch away
from fiery sounds.
A shriek!--not far beyond.
Their tires went screech
when they heard the sound.
They were bound for home
in a nearby town
to trick-or-treat
when they heard the sound.
The young one whimpered,
Please let's go.
Just a second, child,
you are safe inside.
Just making sure
that no one's hurt,
Great-grandpa said
near the hallowed grounds.
As soon as he
swung out his door,
a thing swooped in
with an eerie sound.
Next a sudden Thug!--with a sweeping noise
then--Graanndpaaaaaa! screamed the child.
And just like that, he was taken. And the old man, gone just the same.
And an evil shrill pierced the hallowed night,
a fearsome evening called Halloween.
Some steps beyond
the hallowed grounds
is a little hut in a clearing.
Unusual things are strewn about
and scraps of cloth beside a cauldron.
And in that road
is an abandoned car
with bags of candy in it.
If you catch this now
but had made that turn,
don't stop for those
infernal sounds.
Don't check outside
if someone's hurt
but quicky pass the hallowed grounds.

Your only other option (poeTry)

by amica paige



life. why?
Why life?
Why, life?
be. Cause death is. your only other option.
So here. I am. Life.
Take my hand and thrive.

coffee, spaces, ellipsis. now what--lowercase?

blah. nothing. ellipsis...lots of it...to fill up space...instead of uhs. now what? what now? still nothing. more ellipsis...tons of it...to fill up space...instead of uhs. what now? now what? still nothing. this could go on and on. ellipsis...more of it...or is it them?--more of them...to fill up space...instead of uhs. and blanks. but you know, uhs might actually be better than blanks, or spaces. blanks or spaces...what to call the void... blanks, spaces, void... empty. nothing. what now? now what? coffee. good idea! why didn't i think of it first? you did. but you wanted to do this stream of consciousness writing thing. you've even forsaken the bathroom. okay. i cannot hurt my kidneys anymore than i might already have. so, i am now going to get up and step away from this, first to use the bathroom, next to get coffee. shouldn't it be the other way around?--coffee, then bathroom. everyone knows it's a diuretic. oh for cyring out loud!--bathroom, coffee, coffee, bathroom. what now, now what. really? tell you what--ellipsis. bathroom, coffee...coffee, bathroom, and so on and so forth... it will go on and on and on... happy now? good. it's all good. blahs, spaces, and ellipsis...bathroom and coffee...to fill the void. and lowercase. yes, and lowercase. it's all good.

Reflection. (poeTry)

by amica paige



I don't know what happened,
but I know how you feel.
Like looking in a mirror...
you're human.
And I am man.

Cliche. (poeTry)

by amica paige



I know it's such a cliche,
but if you knew tonight would be your last
just what would you do today?

Paint that picture.
Write that story.
Sing that song now.
You may just see the world singing along.

Dance!--to your heart's delight.
Love. Even if you think it insane.
Love anyway.
If not, it will all be over just the same.
You and I know it.
It'll all be over before we know it.
Yet we all know it,
though we choose to forget it.

So tell your story.
You may just see that the world has been listening all along.

Carpe Diem!

Thrive (song lyrics)

by amica paige

Words and art have a habit of dying in silence. They must be seen and heard.
They must be freed and shared.
I wrote these lyrics a few years ago and have tinkered with basic chords for it, as I love music.
But I'm still not a musician. Hopefully someday, I'd encounter a great musician who'd turn this into a song.

You've been stuck in your cocoon
Only stepping out in the moon
Watching and seeing you slide
But I'm still alive

Voices calling out in your head
Sanity's gone early to bed
Watching and waiting to fly
But you're still alive

Nothing to hide from
I'm out the door
while you slip...away

Nothing to live for
You're stuck to the floor
as i ride...away

When all's been said
and everything's been done
what else is left?
When all's been seen
taken with a grin
what is left behind?

To death, in red
A heart is bled, unsaid.
To dive, to thrive
A choice is made, unheard.

We are what's left behind - 2x
unread.
We are stories,
forever we're stories,
untold.

Click. Clack. QUERTY.

This was my entry for Writer's Digest Prose Poetry contest.



Click, click, click. Clickety click. Fingers fast slipping across the keys. Click, clack. Clack, click. Back and forth, forward and backward. Up, down, and all around. This is actually fun--Ding! Onomatopoeia, she whispers, smiling. Left to right, and right to left. Fingers pushing and pulling. QUERTY, her mind utters. Why that now? whispers she again. Like you should still be sighing. This happens all the time--Ding! Fact is, she and her mind are forever talking. Talk about being engaged! Click, clack. Deep in her subconscious too, no doubt. Even when heavily submerged in her REM. Click, clack. Call it constant communication on auto-pilot, while still getting some zzz's--Ding! This endless conversation, this often mindless, mental stream, she's used to it by now. She should be. Clack, clack. Unlike those days when she'd pound herself for what she thought was a self-imposed ADD. Self-diagnosed it was really and entirely not her fault. Click, clack. You wouldn't blame a mind that simply goes on overdrive, would you? Clack, clack. Actually, she deserves a pat on the shoulder. And coffee. Starbucks would be nice. Or chocolate, or both. Sweet caffeine for a hyperactive mind. Or a new book. Even a finely bound classic. Would a tap do?--I'm kidding, her mind teases, more often now, it seems. How in the world did she manage college? I helped you, her mind...clacks, for lack of a better word. But even then, she knew better. She started over--Ding! An AA this time. Click. It was a tough decision, but she took it anyway and did not back out. Even with a BBA--heck, after a BBA!--for crying out loud. Back and forth, forward and backward. Clack. How scary was that, to feel so left behind, as spates of new grads flood the gates, all hoping to till the ground, year after year after year. Clack, clack. To have gone back is to have seriously lagged behind those who stayed, those who were now way ahead. But to have continued in a new direction presented great uncertainties and intimidation. Could one expect anything less than fierce competition? In a creative arena, you've got to be kidding. I warned you, chides her mind. I told you to stay in the path, keep your emotions in check, and watch that passion. Your heart would get you in trouble. Clack. I'm just saying...clack, clack.

But she has long since passed that crossroad and traveled a new road. Click. Her consciousness switches. Click, click. Where did you store that information anyway? Her mind shifts. Typical mental random access mode. Speaking of RAM, as in computer-speak, it's such a common term nowadays. Kind of like Jobs. No, not the workplace stuff. Steve's surname. The apple guy. Besides, workplace jobs are fast becoming extinct these days. But poor Steve... He isn't poor, what are you on? Clack. He's recently rested in peace--honestly, don't you read? Oh...sorry. RIP Steve. Still, such a shame, with all the apple stuff now orphaned...QUERTY. What now? Clack. Wait, she's remembering--Ding!--the convention salesmen used to efficiently type the word, "typewriter", of course! The keys were all conveniently located on the same line. Click. Hence, the potential buyers were impressed--Ding! Thank goodness for Google and Wikipedia for their ever-growing presence to ensure that our source materials are just clicks away. Clack. And to Steve. But I helped too--her mind chimes in--Ding! In fact, I've always helped you. Clack, clack. See, you've written this much already. Wow, sure glad that Writer's Digest has posted this challenge. Or was it Robert Lee Brewer? Remind me to give him a shout-out later on Twitter. Oh, now you need my help?--her mind chatters, as she shifts in her chair. She doesn't mean to ignore it, this integral part of her life. Click, clack. Yet, every now and then, she yearns to call the shots. It must learn to live with her. Her art. Her passion. Her heart. She'd do the same. She's been. I'm really liking this, she says with a grin. Click, click. Same here, if it is indeed prose poetry, her mind yaks. Clack, clack. But there isn't any typewriter in sight. Tap, tap. What's that tapping noise now? What happened to the clicks and the clacks? The ding's gone too. Onomatopoeia. Must have all just been inside her head, and none of it real, she reckons. Of course it is happening inside your head...but why on earth should that mean it is not real?--recalls her mind. Apparently, it's what the greatest wizard who ever lived told the boy who lived at King's Crossing, according to J.K. Rowling. By the way, Rowling initially wrote her stories by hand. With a pen. Burning your eyebrows writing stories with ink on your hands makes you a real deal. Just saying, while tapping on the iPAD.

Oh, Cheri! (poeTry)

by amica paige

***I stopped at the park a couple days ago and was awed by the instant spray of pink that was not there a few days before, but now colored the park and nicely complemented its greens. Unfortunately, I did not have a proper camera to capture the wispy vista. The following copyrighted image is what I produced with my cell phone. Knowing how fast the Cherry Blossoms would disappear, I wrote a poem to keep a vivid memory of that unexpected meeting.***

©2011 Amica Paige;

"Cherry and my sidekick"

How fast you appeared!
Without any kind of warning
Save for the dewy Spring
Your blossoms fast ripening
Yet how awfully long the year!—
Since you last visited here.

How fast do we fall in love!—
At your enchanting pink delight
Yet, in the midst of April showers
Again you’ll swiftly escape
And amiss of your lure we’ll be
Surely the rest o’ the year—oh, Cheri!

The problem with "You're problem" isn't my grammar, Dr. Katz explains it

New Year: Social Blunder: Full Denial: Clean Slate

Thank God for the New Year, because you can wipe your slate clean, or at least pretend to by denying yourself the default mode of guilt and shame and diving into full denial instead.

My last social blunder for 2010 was “You're problem”. Turned out, it had nothing to do with my grammar, but everything to do with Dr. Katz.

Dr. Katz and the "Other" Head

Dr. Katz explained it better, or the patient who went for his therapy session rather. The patient talked of this “other” head inside of his that always told him to do something else, even when he was right in the middle of what he had already intended. For instance, rather than telling his guests to “Take Care", he blurted out “Take…luck" instead. In his desperation to save face, he endlessly rambled, thus making the already awkward situation even worse. And all because this “other” head told him to say “Good luck” at the last second, which his mouth immediately obeyed right after already having uttered “Take”.

Chocolates + Thankful Stranger = No problem + You're welcome

My family had given out chocolates at this event as Holiday treats. At he end of the night as we said our goodbyes, a man suddenly appeared out of nowhere and stood right in front of me. He was way closer than arms length and well within my bubble, grinning from ear to ear as he thanked me. My mind went blank that instant, but automatically replied, “You’re welcome”, while the rest of me tried to figure out just what exactly he was thanking me for during that split second that seemed to stretch forever. When I finally figured out the subject of his gratitude, from the mention of “chocolates”, I knew just what to say: “No problem!”—except that there was a problem: I had forgotten that my mind was still on default with the arguably more proper response, “You’re welcome!”

You're Problem!

The man stood silent for a moment, looking confused after hearing me say “You're problem!” Then he chuckled in amusement at my unusual response, perhaps to make light of the situation. I managed to pull myself together and quickly explain “You're problem!” away with a more logical reasoning, that my mind had been on overdrive due to the holiday fuss and that my mouth was desperately trying to play catch up; the last thing I wanted was to bring up my "other" head. He seemed to understand, or tried to, at least. After all, the New Year was about to ring in.

Lighten up

Luckily, I was able to laugh along before my denial wore off and shame returned to pound on me for that year-end faux pas. It did end my 2010 in good spirits, if only momentarily.

So for you to get all worked up from being told “You're Problem!” after expressing your gratitude to someone, please remember that person’s “other” head. Get it or lighten up. Seriously.

"Soul Aloft" - (poeTry)

by amica paige



"The principal thing in this world is to keep one's soul aloft." - Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880)

The ground shook and awakened
Neptune charged swiftly at them
Their houses taken along—uprooted and afloat…
They used to call this home
This silent, scattered place
Of sudden devastation.

What do you do when you hear their cries?
What do you do as you see them die?
Do you turn your head the other way—
As you switch the channel for lovely things?
Are your arms too short for reaching out—
Or just plain exhausted from working out?

What can you give when you’ve got bills to pay?
And those things you’ve longed and been saving up for…
They had some stuff too, before…
Which now have all been washed ashore…
Would you care to consider sending them, at least—
some body bags for their dead bodies?

I saw it too like you, you know
Just like I saw the two towers fall
On ashen heads in the money pit
Just like I heard when Katrina came
And Neptune charged in Asia too
And the fiery ground shook Haiti’s feet

Flaubert said to keep your soul aloft…
I do that when I see my home afloat…
You see, it can happen here too…
I felt their pains when disaster came…
My heart cried out as my hands reached out,
Though we are miles and miles apart.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

The Strokes on SNL

How in the world have I forgotten about The Strokes--what terrible memory lapse I must have suffered.
Thanks to Hulu, I was able to catch what I missed, and thanks to SNL for a sweet reminder...

Cloudly Skies (poeTry)

by amica paige



Sob.
Pitter-patter.
Prattle, prattle
Teeth chatter.

Gray.
Pitter-patter.
Gloomy skies
Cloudy gray.

Talk,
Nonsense talk.
Rattle, tattle
Mindless chatter.

Choke.
Throttle, choke.
Prickling tears
Dribbling drivel.

Sob.
Poppycock.
Rant, chant
And a racing heart.

Anger, leaves. (poeTry)

by amica paige



Sitting here
In the dead silence
Of frustration
Conversations flow
In the background where
Books are read and coffees—on red,
Round tables occupied
By stagnant bodies.

Outside
The leaves sway
Both purple and green,
Harmonious with
The gentle breeze,
Oh—how they dance with it!
I see them through the glass wall
That separates them from me.

On Bended Knees (poeTry)

by amica paige



Fleeting images in my head
As the water hits my back
Relentless memories—how they stick!—
Yet they melt before the holy One—
Down the drain they slip away
While on bended knees I pray.

Happy is he...

***Written in June 2010
by amica paige







Somebody once said that the happiest man is the saddest man; just take away what he is happy about.
And that the saddest man is the happiest man, if you give him just the thing he asks for.
But from the angry man, stay away. He’d either kill you or die trying.
Don’t ask me who said them.

Time (poeTry)

by amica paige



Who are you?
What are you?
You merciless beast
Who only but take us to
The reaper — so grim
You truly are in cohorts with him
Ushering us away
From our fleeting innocence
And passionate longings of our youth
Only to wither and decay
And be delivered to the hands of death.

Who do you think you are?
What do you think we are?
Just fishes in the sea
That you hook and reel in?—
To be baked or fried
Or eaten alive?
Yet, the good ones are spared
And the rotten thrown out
You merciless beast
You truly are
In cohorts with him!

Coherence (poeTry)

***Written in 08.09.07
by amica paige



I fish them out
Of my head, you see
Still words elude me
They swim away
In the bottomless waters
Of the abyss
Where thoughts abound

I fish for words
Inside my head, you know
And what you read now
Is all that I’ve caught
From the bottomless waters
Of the abyss
Where thoughts abound

Wise One (poeTry)

by amica paige



Oh, wise one
Oh, truth
Oh, master of time
Oh, lord of air
Who has treaded upon the waters
and laid out the veins of earth
with fiery words?

Oh, source of light
Oh, giver of life
Oh, father of eve
Oh savior of mankind
Who has suffered the darkest depths
of the human heart,
and yet did not utter hate as his blood was shed?

In absurd gentleness
In total surrender
Who merely cried out, “Why—
Father has though, me, forsaken?”
To make way for redemption
Through unthinkable love and forgiveness
Despite the scorn of a thousand thorns and lashes?

Oh, king of kings
Oh, lord of all
Oh, wise one
Who seeks wisdom anymore
in humility and meekness
that truth might be granted to light up our lamps
when you suddenly come?

Piercing the dark with your light
to unveil the truth
and reveal all the mysteries ever hidden from man
Your word is a sword
You are the word
And the word was with God
And the word was God, through whom all things were made.

Jesus. Yeshua. Jesus.
The way, the truth, and the life.
Regardless of what man believes,
You will come again in all your glory
after the good news is preached
to the ends of the earth
Oh, God of the heavens.

Snob (poeTry)

by amica paige



***While intending to make new goals for this year, i ended up uncovering instead some unmet goals in the years past, including this poetry, which I had written a year or two ago and later forgot about. Well, it's about time...for posting.

What a snob Time is!
It never stops for you and me.
It passes as I write,
and my thoughts and ink flow.
I stop. Time goes.
It runs on and on—
its destination unknown
to make it back perhaps
to its master…
on time.