The Street-Side Speaker

I saw an angry man today
standing atop a wooden platform
waging spiritual war on the sinners,
paying Him no mind.

His hands were raised high in the air,
one holding his book, his weapon,
the other clenched in a fist as he
reached out to no one.

From his mouth he breathed fire
and sulfer steamed, staining his speech;
the accuser preached of sin and death -
judging, condemning, destroying.

It saddened me to see that love
was as much a stranger to this man
as he to Christ; and so on he spoke,
yet no one was saved.

Writer's Block

There is nothing worse than
a blank sheet of paper,
to many a Fertile Crescent, a valley of
rich soil in which life is conceived and nurtured,
but to me a desert, a desolate
wilderness where I gnaw in agony
at my dry and shriveled tongue
as I claw the scorched earth
desperate for water - no
pillar of fire to guide me, no
manna on the ground, no
water from a rock to quench my thirst
and give birth to a nation
of ink and words.
Pestilence plagues my pages,
locusts swarm and my ink
turns to blood as I stare at this
blank sheet of paper.