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 Feb 2015 JoriElizabeth
ryn
.
•they'd               
come at night•               
these footsteps are               
never light• always                    
heavy and running ar-                      
ound•...they are annoy-                        
ingly creepy..., these aw-                       
ful sounds•every night,                          
after eleven without                        
fail•into rooms,                        

us they would                        
tail• making a                        
din overhead                        
•when all                        
                         should
                        be quiet inste-
                         ad•like barefooted
                          children i would ***-
                          ume...•wandering and
                          exploring into every ro-
                           om•...could they come
                            wilfully•from the cou-
                                ple who live above
                            me•i very much

                             doubt so•bec-
                             ause this much
                             i know...•that
                             the neigh-

bour up-                    
stairs, they're                        
old•frail and meek;                            
never bold•they'd re-                            
tire early•after late, ne-                            
ver a party•now... there                            
the feet go again•drivi-                            
ng me almost insane•                            
on my ceiling now,                            
they're pacing•                        

they know i kn-                        
ow and they are                        
playing•these                        
invisible                        
                        feet•ne-
                        ver would we
                            meet•one thing for
                           sure•this is not a friv-
                            olous tour•determined
                            to tell•that they exist
                              as well•nothing i'm
                               certain but it is clear
                               •i think they really
                              like it here...•

                              •i don't think
                               they're leavi-
                              ng•they're
                 ­              bent on


staying...
.
I live in an apartment on the 2nd storey. My family and I would hear these footsteps every night.

Initially we would dismiss it to be the neighbour living upstairs but that became very improbable simply because the couple who lives above us are far too old to be jumping and skipping in the wee hours...

We have tried ignoring the sounds but they would intensify. We'd hear intentional heavy footsteps, running, jumping between rooms but most of the time they would follow us to whichever room we're in.

Lately these sounds had progressed to rapping on the concrete walls in my bedroom. I could hear them as I lay in bed knocking and tapping on the wall by me.

The thing is... I live in a corner apartment and beyond that wall is the exterior of the building... There is no way anyone could be on the opposite side of that wall...

Creepy much?
.
Life is a sermon
But we don't often preach
As well as we should
So we fail to reach
The hearts of those
Who sit down in the pews
Expecting a sermon
But left thoroughly confused

Because our lives don't always
Preach the same message
We had in our hearts
When we stepped up to the pulpit

So are we just wasting time
Of those who would listen
Preaching vacant words
Void of passion and mission?

Or does our sermon deliver
A powerful punch
A life-changing message of wisdom
Such that people are inspired
And leave their pews moved
To know God a little deeper
Anxious to choose
To invest their lives wisely
In people not things
Pouring love generously
Like a gift from the King

May your life be a sermon
That points others to God
Shedding light on the dark roads
We all have to trod

Because there's nothing more wasted
Than a life without purpose
A sermon preached aimlessly
Uninteresting and worthless

Friends, I beg you
Preach your life with such zeal
Make the evidence unshakable
That God's love is real
Met you in the red room.
Met you in the place
where we shattered our youth.
   I came as soon as I could
in the car, beer on my teeth
and my heart thumping mad.
You had called me up.
Dropped my phone in shock,
maybe laughed in surprise.
   Sixty miles - sixty minutes.
***** the traffic lights,
***** the state of my face,
my bloodshot eyes
yawning open with each blink.
   Inside, into our crimson heaven,
curtains drawn,
glass of milk in your hand.
The room of our eighteens
where we killed crushes,
lost bets and went home
no nearer to being adults.
   You’d put on that black shirt
I’d left one time before.
I’d forgotten all about it.
Yours now. Always yours.
   It was raining.
You gave me a towel,
I breathed in your smell.
No need for words,
I knew what you were saying.
   Took a step closer.
Both of us ready to shatter
whatever this was now.
Written: January 2015.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, inspired partially by certain shots in the music video to 'Trojans' by the band Atlas Genius, as well as a photo taken during the filming of the song.
I wanted to keep the piece simple, and yet visual. The repetition of certain words is deliberate.
bodies under a light
  nothing on our feet
green tea past midnight

lips spell catastrophe
  I reek of calamity
speech drops out slow

fogged-up glasses
  crackle of a packet
of chocolate biscuits

soft fingertips
  seconds swallowed
stuck in traffic

pathetic
  catch her eyes
self-induced electric shock

burnt tongue
  there sing the clocks
she lets me in
Written: January 2015.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, and the first new poem to be posted onto my Facebook writing 'update' page (link is on my home page).
I have said to many people I do not know how to flirt, and thinking about it, I ended up with this piece.
 Feb 2015 JoriElizabeth
KAT COLE
I hesitate to let the bottom of my foot hit this dusty ground.
Every step is blind with no map or direction.
But it's grace that is undeniable and love that is unstoppable.
Onward you whisper, go.
No matter if I'm empty, sinking, or half dead, your hand remains so gentle on the small of my back.

— The End —