Poetry: Church

CHURCH

Even when I’m writing this poem,

I’m unsure whether I’ll present to them,

Who? You know, the people in that service,

It’s going to be for the rest of my Sundays,

Breaking this comfy habit,

Which, addicts me like eating dirt,

That despite the consequences,

I’m convinced of escaping with adequate taking fluids,

It is my custom routine,

Rising at noon,

Imagining a plan,

Probably from young rich,

Far, the thought, far… from the church.

Born and raised in the church,

Like everyone claims as such,

I had this intriguing concern,

In this church, is everyone poverty stricken?

Pray, pray, pray, POOR!

Everyone? Even pastor?

 Why not sing, sing, sing RICH?

Why not thank for eating good fish?

Other than feeling better with omena and animal intestines,

Which, to many in the slums and street homes that’s pure riches.

The dynamics of life,

One is always in strife,

Could we be following the wrong god blindly?

Its in the documentary,

Jesus was black,

We are that black,

The great Israelites,

Suffering from Gods curses,

Enslaved, mistreated, and walked in yokes.

Because, we disobeyed his commands.

But then again, my hubby,

C’mon baby,

Is Beyonce, Jlo, Obama, Steve Harvey, Kanye and others not cursed?

No! There must be a card.

We need to play that card.

I looked at my daughter and confirmed there was God,

But still, church, was a challenge to commit,

You know, you can’t sing, so choir forget,

And besides, there is the Alshaabab,

There was family and job,

And the desire to make it big,

Mercy came along,

Convinced me to join her church,

Gave me her bible to read in the church,

And some two small books I call November,

But still, church? Let’s pray at home together.

The pastor called and this is serious!

God is waiting for my response.

Today I’m thinking of my talent,

It’s what God gave me as a free gift.

But somewhere along the way my confidence vanished,

The church could be my stand,

I nod, and write.

And prepare to come to church for a change.