Like a father, friend, buddy

I had an interesting discussion yesterday with a very good friend. She spoke of the father to whom we pray, like he was just there. It sounded crasy at first, like he spoke through her. For every word that she said and smile that she gave, was God breathed. It tool me a while to wrap around, the idea of leaning on his every whisper. For you can only lean on a shoulder you can see but crazy enough he wanted me to lean on a shoulder that i believed. Its funny sometimes when you think you have to make a chat schedule, or only talk to him with a mouthful of words and a spoonful of sincerity. But how he is looking for openess and brokeness, joy and sadness and above all a genuine conversation. So now i look at him as everyman, my jogging buddy, my friend in the kitchen whe i cook, the only voice i can hear on my lonely walk home. Someone i love and who loves me beyond compare

Thoughts on a bus

Famous poets come
From broken bridges I suppose
A dark past, broken heart
Or a restless soul
With their only sunshine
Being their relentless hope
Armed with passion
They take out a pad
And paint a picture of words

Some manuevre their brush of thoughts
On wasted dreams, fading streams
Some a picture perfect scene
The last remnants of what they could have been
Some leave the canvas white
As they believe
To make the most impact of all
Is to leave a blank dream

Famous poets are all the same
For without their stories
They would have been of no gain
For they learnt how to take
The brunt of hurt and shame
Only to inspire us to take on another day