Poetry: Because My Classroom Flooded Again

Poem by April Ojeda

Photo by Zoltan Tasi (Unsplash)

 

 


Jonah rises, 

Homeless again. 

Flooded and flushed 

From out my rain-drunk, sunken roof. 

Another blind, unbridled deluge

Chases me on like some 

Holy messenger.

 

Jonah rages 

At the storm-swept sky, 

Pushes, unnatural in panic, 

Far, far away from belligerent crowds

That don’t deserve you 

And don’t adore you 

Like I do.

 

Jonah rouses, 

Safe passage granted. 

Charity of stranger friends, 

Of humble allies devoid of agenda,

Signifying that all life bends 

To your design, 

Eventually.

 

Jonah reaches 

Nineveh, born again. 

Nothing about this is easy, 

But I’ve tasted death and run from life

And choose the God who 

Rescues lost hope 

Relentlessly.

 

 


About April Ojeda

Ojeda is a teacher and writer from the Oklahoma Panhandle. Her work has appeared in Lost Pen Magazine and Heart of Flesh Literary Journal. She lives and works in a fast-spinning world, so she writes poetry as a means of prayer and of untangling the threads of daily life. She lives with her family in West Texas and finds her greatest inspiration in the outdoors.


For more inspirational content, please visit our Lost Pen Blog page. To download Lost Pen Magazine, visit our Magazine Issues page.

Poetry: I Thirst

Poem by Olowo Hope

Image by Tony Mucci on Unsplash

The sun burned brightly in cold reception,

In its whisper, the wind speaks of beyond.

My eyes surveyed the vast world of my journey,

Out of the hot sand into another, I lifted my foot,

A sojourner; destination uncertain.

The wind came between me and my wineskin,

Consuming all, down to the last drop,

Sending dryness down my throat.

Frail bones wrapped in thin skin, I lay in the dust,

Haggard, who would give me a drink?

Wobbly, my feet began to find their way,

Walking into wholesome brokenness.

Heart at no ease, I bowed to hopeless thought,

To find an ocean in the desert,

To find One who’d offer me a drink.

“Let he who thirsts, come to the waters,”

The call came, calm and firm.

Wearily, I crawled through the gates of the wind to the fountain:

“I’m filthy, I’m broken, and I’ve got no money,”

But the gate flung wide open. “Drink, and be healed.”

About Olowo Hope

Hope is a 17-year old from Nigeria. Her first poem, “A New Me,” appears in Issue 3 of Lost Pen Magazine. Also, find another of her poems, “Peace,” here.

For more inspirational content, please visit our Spotlight Blog as well as our Magazine Issues page to download your free copy of Lost Pen Magazine.

Poetry: Cry to the Lord

Cry to the Lord

by Lynne Farmer

photo by  Diana Simumpande, Unsplash

I heard someone 

                crying the other night

                           as I lay safe in my bed

            to describe it seemed 

                    impossible but then 

               like a message sent in the night sounding out its call—

I could hear . . . the cry of a little boy 

                     as he lay on the filthy ground, 

                          rubbing the dirt from his face the other boys had thrown

                 trying his hardest not to cry 

                            while the other kids just stood and watched. . .

Oh, Lord, You see it all as You did once long ago

                hearing the boy’s plaintive cry

                          longing for him or anyone else 

            to cry out to the One who knows and understands.

            Then, the sounds of crying came again—

                         this time in a high school girl’s restroom

                   as a girl locked in a stall cries achingly, 

                        clutching the letter that made her doubt 

                                        everything, even herself,

            and some people saw her coming apart but only watched. . .

Oh, Lord, You see it all as You did once long ago

                hearing the girl’s plaintive cry

                          longing for her or anyone else 

            to cry out to the One who knows and understands.

Still again the picture changes to a hospital room 

                          where a grieving family awaits a miracle

                                      for their young son,

                          tears later flowing down as his body stills 

                                            yet his spirit soars on. . .

Oh, Lord, You see it all as You did once long ago

                hearing the family’s plaintive cry

                          longing for them or anyone else 

            to cry out to the One who knows and understands.

            One more time I heard crying in the night, 

                                              and then came

            the man hanging up on the cross in the middle of 

                                      two others crucified also, lamenting

                        “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me!?”

            Oh, Lord, You saw then your Son’s pain, 

                          felt His longing as Your own 

                          and could have touched his grief easily, 

            but You heard beyond the years. . .

To the cries of the little boy hurting on the hard ground

                    and Your Love helped him dust off the dirt, 

                            to stand and You walked with him 

                                 as he left the others behind.

And Lord, You could even hear the cries of the teenage 

                          girl as her whole being broke 

and Your heart grieved too, yet Your Love 

                         shone through to her later and she felt 

                   Your warm Hand in hers.

Yes, Lord, You heard and were there with the grieving 

                 family, also holding their hands, wiping each 

                              precious tear and filling their hearts with the peace 

                      of knowing they would see their son again someday.

Suddenly, I could hear where the cries were coming from

                   and found myself hurrying down the hallway.

            There, sitting up on the bed clutching his favorite

                               rabbit was my little boy. 

            Tears ran down his face and onto his heart 

                           that was about to break,

            For he had cried out in the darkness 

                            thinking he was all alone. 

Opening the door brought a shaft of light 

                     inside dispelling the darkness

            as I reached out to scoop him up into my arms. 

His bawling stilled after a few minutes 

                      as I sang to him a song about Jesus’s Love.

 He is too young to understand right now that 

            he is never alone.

We are all never alone in our joy or sorrow

                       because Jesus became the way to the Light 

                        when He died upon that cross for all of us. 

Believe in Him and thereafter will you feel 

                 the warmth from the light of God’s face 

                                                     shining upon yours. 

            For you see, He loves us with an 

                      unspeakable joy in an everlasting time,

            enfolding us into His ever-loving arms 

                              when we but cry out for Him,

                      our Savior and our Lord forevermore. . .

About Lynne Farmer

Farmer hails from Stillwater, Oklahoma. She is married, has three children, and works as a teacher in the Head Start program. Farmer has been writing since the age of thirteen and is hopes to see more of her work published.

For more inspirational content, please visit our Spotlight Blog and visit our Magazine Issues page to download your free copy of Lost Pen Magazine.

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