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DEATH AND THE PROCESS OF BEING
by Donald Standeford You're in the process of becoming Forget all that "be nice, don't be bad, Keep a little sadness in you;" Just hold my hand cousin and let God Break you; ride this stream; I hope now You can get serious before you die There was a woman with an issue You may say, "What's that got to do with me?" She had tried all the remedies Her own body turned against her Like your cancer of blood When the flesh clamps down on you With its strangling hug; think of this lady With the issue of blood All the way sick She was all the way healed. Makes me think of the chittum We once peeled For medicine in those woods They weren't our trees; they belonged To a man that weighed five hundred pounds We stole in the innocence of our youth Still it's in my mind, a scene that we shared We peeled the chittum trees To the cold skin, and that howl in the forest Some big dog or beast Haunted us like the spawn of Satan, But Don't worry, though you may be Awake in the cold tonight Death's bark is worse than its bite. II That deep deep forest It had a stand of white trees, we claimed Our youth in its whispering breeze Would you scold the pale woman With the issue of blood? Or like Peter wish For the hem you once followed in love? At the edge of the forest, white trees Bared; tick-tock, tick-tock It's time for me to talk: Cousin; where are your legal pals now Frozen pews who think law is still king? Those whitewashed tombs now ignore you Whitewashed in layers They could never be porous; so What great Things have they done? Remember 59? 40? Even 1? Peel your cure in the cold and don't fear Death's bark is worse than its bite. III Tai-i-thacu-mi, I just felt His spirit move right through me Only Jesus can un-sick death, so rise From your sickbed my cousin And go go go; don't take two coats, no! Just walk and pray and walk and pray Till your clothes are rent and this sickness has gone breathe breathe, my heart's Brother, my friend; ignore those in tombs; But be careful in who you believe, for If it were John the Baptist who rose from his grave How many would that have saved? As for death Know how its bark is much worse than its bite. IV The woods of our youth were sinful and harsh But we felt His touch, soft pliable hands Dry rough bark close to our soul We had no idea that he was the God/Man We worshipped in Sunday school, As we sang to Jesus songs so sweet In retrospect, those songs ring true in my mind Like Hawthorne's scarlet-ed woman, alone I gazed At the tumbling creek and hoped in the bark That seemed to go deep in the woods and the dark To arise in the winters and fall into springs The springs of our youth; you were always persistent, My cousin, my cousin; be that again. V Remember the fairgrounds and rotting wood benches? You introduced me To all worldly things, for that I forgive you, as our past was a growing place; We trusted each other and thrived in the summer Country times only half of me accepted your world The other half wanted to leave berries and bees Chittum and fern, and creeks and dry beds For the city Why would He care for us wretched poor beings? Still -- He starts the sky yellow, changes it to blue We're killed every winter; then He brings back the dew This sweetest of life is ours once again VI Remember, my cousin, life can be yours Again, I tell you, so many mornings I spent On my knees for my own health, For yours too now, As that small yellow sun felt cold My faith hardened, but my gait grew old Imagine, you cheating your cold dead fate As your old gray head bows to pray And your skin gets peeled away you'll see That death's bark is worse than its bite And you are no longer young Each breath you take will feel Like it's a stolen one. Don V Standeford http://www.donstandeford.com Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com |