I was rummagging through my lap-top today, and was amazed to find a stash of writings I had written before - poems. 

I always used to love writing poems.  I remember in Melbourne, I would sit on the park bench, and do nothing all afternoon but trying to craft one. Of course, that's ancient history.  Work, plus a heart that is more often than not hard instead of soft, has seemingly strangled that passion I had.

Which is as sad as it reads, because when I was re-reading some of them, I was moved. Imagine that, almost being brought to tears by your own writing. I guess out of all the people it should speak to, I am on top of the list.

Here's one that made me particularly sentimental..

Graffiti on the Walls of Heaven

How my package of prayer must seem like
A misplaced air-mail of effort
Trying, striving, oh so frustrating
I wonder if it will just be smashed
Crashed, returned to sender

If I looked at the walls of heaven
What would I expect to find?
Calligraphic beauty, adorned in a perfect pattern?
Water-coloured rainbows, multi-layered from every view?
Arts of Picasso’s style of aplomb and shapely strokes?
Or photos of the sunrise captured along the horizon of Ocean Road?

Maybe I’ll walk through heaven’s hall of prayer
And I’ll glance at all of there
But I’ll come across my own
And furrow in puzzled understanding
Stretching for miles on the wall
Is graffiti
Raw and uncouth
A child-like mess of extraordinary proportions

And the Guide standing next to it will beckon me over
Inviting me to gaze upon the beauty
Though in curiosity, I’ll ask what it all means
Gently taking me by His hand, He’ll walk me through gates of splendour
Whispering in a still small voice
Son, your prayers were heard, even if they were nothing more
Than graffiti on the walls of heaven

I wonder what that nudge in my heart is.  Could it be, as I am taking this long and lonely journey back to God, I should start to let my pen talk in ways my mouth cannot? Maybe.

If only I can find a darn park in KL.

j.