Feb 13

Feb 13

The wound still trickles
a sorrowing stream,
immune to time’s
anesthetizing trance.

Into his void
I summon the memories;
my cerebral escape,
if just for a moment.

My heart is perpetually sore;
it aches for just a little longer,
just a little more.

We forever want more;
in forever, there will be more.

All will be well — soon.

I miss you.

Copyright © 2021 Chris De Man. All rights reserved.


Photo by Bruno van der Kraan on Unsplash


Rest is elusive
and peace cannot dwell
when we’re talking
and tweeting
and posting
and bleating
a querulous scream.

We harvest ideas
from virtual fields
to build
a babel-ing tower
of sentiments
that affirm
our resentments
and longing
to simply be right

as if rightness
should be our only aim.

In our machinations
and divinations
and proclamations
we castigate
and assassinate
the image of Him
presented in skin
from dark to light

while lighting a path
for the wayward
with truths that adhere us
to myths of our making
and barter
Truth’s freedom
for power

the power
of Love.

Copyright © 2020 Chris De Man. All rights reserved.

Our Cry

Photo by Road Trip with Raj on Unsplash

Our Cry
A reflection on Palm Sunday

in the Garden
was our cardinal sorrow;
lament ever since
has looped on repeat.

East of Eden,
baleful seductions
divert our longings
toward culverts
rife with deceit.

We cannot make
our way back.

This day
our “Hosanna!”
from the ache
of pandemic.

our true
and befitting

“Blessed is He!”

Copyright © 2020 Chris De Man. All rights reserved.