THE NEW BORN BABE
They cheer and dance. Their baby's come to life.
The parents and grandparents smile and laugh.
They've brought the drinks and food to have great time.
It's not a wont. For them a babe has come.

"What are you, babe?" the father deeply thought.
"You are a man like me with hope and fright.
You'll face this life which for me is great doubt.
You'll fear its darkness and enjoy its light.

My child, you'll live the crazy strife l live.
You'll have to toil so hard just to survive.
You'll try to find a creed to plan your way,
and lots of strain will tire your weak clay."  

His wife called out, "Come and look at his face.
It's just like yours, so full of cheerful bliss.
His fingers are like mine," she looked and smiled.
"God keep him to us both. He's our child."
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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WHAT MORE DO WE NEED?
Let me assure myself and have no care
as Christ wants all mankind to be aware
He gives us life and won't allow grim death
to end it with the end of life on earth.

He made mankind and then He took his form.
He loved him much and shared him his own home.
Then He assured him that He could revive
those who had died and bring them back alive.

No one save Him among the humankind
could restore sight to men who were born blind
and raise Himself from death on the third day
to make saint Thomas believe and obey.

What more do l need to feel or behold?
Can't all that prove He is the mighty Lord?
What l have mentioned was seen by the twelve
and written for mankind it to preserve.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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SEPTEMBER

Falling leaves, you were small buds.
Now, you fall to kiss the ground.
What kind Spring used as green studs
With no mercy Autumn browned.

BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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THE  REALITY  OF  MAN
Too weak is man, my Lord; he makes me at times cry.
He looks so well today and rebuffs my reply.
I get upset and think how haughty he can be.
Tomorrow, he is ill, and too weak him l see.

I get so sorry as l said what he opposed.
I'd love to meet again and see him well composed.
How much l'd love to hear his voice haughty again.
Then l know that he will to normal state return.

My Lord, You make poor man too frail and too fragile.
He tries to show himself so strong and so agile
to hide what he knows well that he is poor and weak
and all his shouts and shrieks are just to hide his wreck.

So poor is man when he can't prove his self respect
to those who live around and he should them protect.
He feels that his poor life is trifle in their eyes
and nothing can be done, but himself to despise.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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THE  PLANNED  DEEDS
I'd love to feel You more, my Brother in the sky.
You told Your mother that John is her son on earth.
You made all men Your kin, and as l'm one of them,
I'd love to feel You more, a brother and a friend.

My Lord, You are alive, and all the world is Yours.
It won't cost You a thing to give me just a touch.
This step will make me start my heaven from that point
and change my life from search to bliss of great delight.

I know how much You loved Your kin on this hard land.
You were the purest Man who dressed the vice of all
to make all men quite clean and live a happy life
while You, though pure and chaste, You died for dirt of men.

But all Your deeds are planned; perhaps You'd use my pen
to show the others how they can befriend their God.
You love all men so much. You would take them as friends,
and You use my dull pen to show the ways to ends.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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VOLPONE AND I
Volpone, l am surprised how man can be
so deceitful and can live his inner glee!
Man is always scared of life and what it hides,
finding shelter through his love and through good deeds.

I look up towards the Lord and pray for health.
Volpone looks for the foe and seeks his wealth.
Is his heart made of hard flint and mine of straw?
Just a little puff of wind can my heart blow.

He and all his friends can do what they would like,
hoarding money in all ways to pile a stock.
While l seek a conscience free from vicious blame,
they lead wildest life while mine is fully tame.

Hatred is the common thing that joins them all
and leads them to gather in the prison hall.
Slumber directs my head to a pillow clear
from remorse to sleep quiet nights free from all care.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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BETWEEN THE PAST AND NOW

A poem seems to trace all arts.
It loses power and gets small.
The shorter your curt poem gets,
the better for you and us all.

A poem gets too short and shy
Not longer than just four brief lines.
No one is ready to descry
the longer ones as patience whines.

It should be clear and quickly kenned,
or puzzles that amuse the mind.
If not, none would his time spend
since readers are in no time bored.

Where are you writers of past verse
that used to charm and give deep thoughts?
Or was verse then the learned's main choice
as none else were there but their notes?

BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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