Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Before my sin caused my suffering -
You built me a church;
Surrounded me with praying sisters
and gave me Your Word.
El Roi - mercy beyond mercy;
The goodness of my God.

Before madness engulfed me
You called me back to Your arms,
taught my heart a new rhythm
and my soul a new song.
El Shaddai - love beyond measure;
the goodness of my God.

Before I walked a step onto a ward,
You recycled my past;
Built with it understanding and hope,
turned darkness to light.
Jehovah Jireh - nothing is wasted with You;
the unfathomable goodness of my God.

For every pain - a comfort O Father.
For every joy - all thanks to Adonai.
I will follow You praising every day Jehovah Raah.
My every breath is for you Yahweh.
I part my lips to speak to find my mouth a desert place.
My parched palette, rough upon my tongue;
numb - struck dumb
by a depth and breadth beyond words.

But You, O Lord
You know my every thought.
You hear the hurt beat out at my heart.
You feel all I feel, but deeper still.

My God, who holds a jar of my tears;
a myriad of moments,
yet You can match dop for drop,
whilst keeping the whole world turning in the palm of your hand.

On my knees I come;
willing myself to be still.
I need only be still.
Still You hear my soul speak.
Ellen Joyce Oct 2014
October falls like blood pressure
on scalding dead sea afternoons
making driftwood of bodies
and all struggle futile.
This is the amber blaze;
the penetrating hues of oranges and yellows
blurring to bright white noise against
the barking of trees stripped bare
to the cacophonous scent of feathers and fire.
The autumn sky hauls tight its purse strings,
drawing night in, wrapped tight like winter coats
cumbersome and confining – in decline.
The equilibrium tipped by a bandit callous and howling -
piercing pitch shattering prism till colours fall away like raindrops
and life turns back to black.
Ellen Joyce Apr 2014
This poem casts a line from insomnia to morning
On the wind of a prayer that whatever bites, holds on.

See I have counted eleven score and ten,
with rainbow like curves of my neck -
contemptuous beasts leaping in formation
each bleating out a preach of vague platitudes;
A narrative for the night sky.

My hands clamour at keys for escape
until I tumble headfirst into a web so vast
it has ensnared the whole world wide -
millennials are living in-ter-net over in-the-world;
a new ultraviolence against humanity.

I beat my words into the screen until it breaks;
shattering scarlet emoticons like confetti
pouring over language as if it were a compliment.
My mind massages shapeless polypous thoughts
like tight constricted muscles aching for release.

3am casts these philosophies into horses,
whipping them into shape and speed
before the eyes of this statuesque ******.
This anxious wakefulness begs my manic self to dance;
suggestively ******* tickets to ride like cleavage.

Sleep is fast becoming a neglected former engagement;
as my mind trips over fallen heroes
wades through my favourite mistakes
in a wonderland unfolding faster than I can fall
while the world beyond my window remains dark.
This poem was written in response to prompts by a friend of mine who is throwing a competition offering a signed first edition copy of her poetry book as a prize.  Visit her facebook page for details of the twenty word prompts and details on how to submit.
https://www.facebook.com/Siajanewords?fref=ts
Ellen Joyce Mar 2014
The sinking has returned too fast.
I knew sanity wouldn't last -
but madness is here much too soon.

Electric amnesia returns to me.
Cacophonous thoughts breaking free
tear my feet from trembling ground.

My contradictory conscience
******* utter nonsense
across the face of my clean slate.

Peel back my shimmering rib cage,
see insomnia's grip of rage
still my dark heart into hurting.

Plunge me into freezing waters
where caught apathetic breath blurs
treading to sinking to drowning.

And I'm caught in the crawl spaces
between the in between places -
wretch to my opprobrious mind.

Not if but when sayeth the doc
to the tune of the ticking clock
willing me to wave the white flag

Madness is a graceless game.
Ellen Joyce Mar 2014
write this silence a symphony
a song to sing what words do not tell -
seventeen year old arms cradling her stomach
pregnant with a truth who's name she dare not speak
shhhh

paint this darkness a rainbow
a myriad of colours exploding from camouflage -
seventy two years young a drip in his arm
flushed with a pain and a shame held mute

shhhh
draw this prison cell an exit
a crudely carved hole radiating light
ageless frame electrified, like lighting
flashing white in a brightly lit room
shhhh

name this shame like a first born
unapologetic, lung screaming introductions -
mask dropped to a mess of shattering self on the floor
arms outstretched for a help in hand
speak

Vouloir, c'est pouvoir.
Next page