The one after Monday

Tuesday gently wakes the man. Tuesday, who has entered, robed in clouds of silver. With a voice like rain, whispers, “Wake, child. I have come to welcome you. I am He, your New Day”. And such a thunder did run through the man, for he rose from his bed, and gave thanks to his New Day.

I can do all things 

When you are at the beginning of writing a journal again, what do you write about? How do you translate the many words, thoughts and feelings that are raging inside your head, to then put pen to paper? 

My Achilles’ Heel was the unprecedented fear of being judged. But that’s what a journal’s meant to be — private. I could not bring myself to see past that fear. Until now.

I surrendered myself to the might of the word. I said a prayer. And I began to write. Boy, did I write. I poured, I cried, I laughed. And when I read it all back, I saw my feelings in its entirety laid out before me, streaks of ink that finally coalesced into meaning.  

I know that one day I will look back on these words, and see the journey that I have made. And I will know that it was with help. I am on a journey home. To where I once was a long time ago.

“I stand upon the solid rock

Of faith in Christ

This steadfast hope shall not

Break apart within the trial

I am assured

His promises will never fail

As long as life remains

He is faithful”

Polynesians Can Eat As Well As Write Creatively — “Dawn”

“Dawn”

Sol, guardian of the skies. 

He who watches over our world as he walks the heavens.

Fiery eyes open, bidding warm light come, welcome, as he lifts his starry covers.

The soul sings at the touch of his awakening; clouds bow gracefully aside, way-making for his return.

Night retreats to her own slumber, dark veil trailing behind her.

Sol looks on, smiles, and with a voice of grandeur, booms, “Good morning”.

And the world erupts into song.

— written by J. M. Elaisa, from the carelessly titled, ‘Polynesians Can Eat As Well As Write Creatively’. Mahalo.

Polynesians Can Eat As Well As Write Creatively — “Tracks”

He stands on the platform, hears the mechanical rush of night buried deep beneath the city’s streets.

His frantic heart is resolute. It is the end.
Stale wind rushes past his face as he looks on. Lights on the track, beating down.

And with a deafening roar, silence. His eerie recollections of a life once was. Or still is? 

What love, hopes and dreams he has so carelessly dismissed. Perhaps he is wrong. Perhaps…

And then, gently, sound returns. Light softly caresses his vision. He is kneeling on the platform, breath deep and steady. In. Out. In. Out.

The world becomes colour and song once more. 

— written by J. M. Elaisa, from the carelessly titled, ‘Polynesians Can Eat As Well As Write Creatively’. Mahalo.

Polynesians Can Eat As Well As Write Creatively — “Winter”

Summer has forsaken me. The last of his light fades behind him in the distance.

I lay in Autumn’s lap as she sings her counsel for the dark nights ahead. 

A sharp snap. Her head shoots up, alert, amber eyes finding the dark hooded figure through the trees. Her body tenses. She pulls me in closer for the last time and whispers, “Ready yourself, child. Winter is coming.”

— written by J. M. Elaisa, from the carelessly titled, ‘Polynesians Can Eat As Well As Write Creatively’. Mahalo.