FEAR THE DARK
By Shoshana
Kurzweil
When I was young I
feared the dark, And shunned its creeping
shapes. The shadows on my wall became A
hundred terrors without name, Ghosts that
flowed through window frames, And hid behind
the drapes.
My way to fight the darkness
then, Was calling Mommy's name. She'd come
to me in darkest night And, turning on the
bedroom light, She'd calm away my nameless
fright, Till not one ghost remained.
But, now I've grown and, when it's dark, My
mommy cannot come. I have to face the dark
alone, Those childhood shadows fully grown,
The terrors made of flesh and bone, That
can't be killed by guns.
So, how can
grownups fight the dark When nighttime
shadows fall? When, still, we're fearful on
our beds, As tailored terrors fill our heads
And open up a vault of dread-- Whose Name can
we call?
Well...Who can be there
all the time, In dark hours of the night
Hear our fear, our silent screams, Even enter
in our dreams... Remove the terror of those
scenes? It's GOD Who brings the Light!
I KNOW WHERE I’LL
GO
by Shoshana
Kurzweil
To me, death is not
a big unknown, And not a fearsome thing. I
know where I’ll go when I leave this world,
And I know Who I’ll see when I get there.
He’ll welcome me with outstretched arms,
As if I were His only child. I’ll see His
Face and know Him As I’ve never known before.
The colors I’ve imagined, The songs I
could not hear before, The forms that I've
only dreamed of, feelings never felt on
Earth---
All this I will know ,someday,
Just as I am known. No, death is not a big
“unknown”; I know where I will go.
I
cannot call this ‘loss of life’; It’s
certainly not death. My life has been most
precious, But it is just a seed of what will
be.
One day, I will cast away This
body that is mortal And put on an immortal
form That’s meant to feel a thousand suns,
And never be consumed. No, death is not a
big “unknown”; I know where I will go.
RIVER OF DESTINY
by Shoshana
Kurzweil
There’s a river that
runs through time and space,
And through the days
of our lives.
The river runs to the
one place
Where your destiny
lies.
You can turn from the
river and walk away,
To go down a path of
your choosing.
You can stand by the
river
And watch it go by,
Or sit by its banks,
unmoving.
But, if you would go
where the river goes,
To the place where
your dreams will come true,
You must go to the
river and flow through the river,
And the river must
flow through you.
Oh, River of Destiny,
flowing from God,
River that holds all
our dreams,
Through your clear
waters
God’s people must
flow:
Pilgrims and prophets
and Kings.
SLUMBERING SPIRITS
We live... our
slumbering spirits dwelling in a world of
deep dreams; shuttered eyes keeping out
reality.
We wake... for brief hopeful
moments, our eyes and ears straining
against the darkness that permeates both day
and night.
We listen... for a voice
to call us to Light, to end the seemingly
endless sleep.
But, we do not hear that
Sound, for our ears are not tuned to the
right frequency, and the noise of the world
filters out any sound that would otherwise
pierce our deafness.
Until... we
reach the deepest place in our valley of
sleep, and silently call out with all the
heart, mind, soul, to the only One who can
wake us and make us whole;
And He
does... if we will. Till then sleeper,
sleep on.
DARKNESS
Darkness, thick and deep, slowly
seeps into the soul... growing, taking
hold. Reaching outward, and around;
takes on form, takes on sound.
Fearsome shapes appear, stirring dread
behind closed eyes. Silky voices whisper
in the mind... Telling lies.
Darkness always hides and disguises
what is true, what is right, Loudly
shouts: '"You are trapped! There's no
hope... no way out!"
Darkness
Filthy Liar! Just one spark catching fire,
quenches darkness, pierces night, gives
perspective, Truth and Sight.
And
then a still small Voice whispers gently,
"There is choice", And the Light shows the
way out of darkness, out of night.
BURNING
Speaking from experience,
perspective of the years, having lived and
loved and hated, laughed, and wept, and
feared;
Having known both joy and sorrow,
suffered triumph and despair.... sometimes
daring and courageous, sometimes reticent and
scared,
Having shared some notoriety,
some victory, some shame, been both lauded
and applauded, both credited and blamed,
Having known the joy of true love that
withstood the test of years, bearing babies
whose mortality touched my greatest fears...
Yes, speaking from experience, having
lived and loved and yearned, now that half my
life is over, I can tell what I have learned:
It is better to burn brightly, giving
warmth and giving light, than to be a tiny
candle that can barely pierce the night.
Yes, it's better to burn hotly, even
though I be consumed, than to slowly coldly
flicker, through unending useless gloom.
I would rather blaze in glory, (though
not out of control), than to live that extra
moment for which some would sell their souls.
I have burned and raged and smoldered;
cooled till just an ember, almost
gone...rekindled when the glory was
remembered.
Now I want to burn more
brightly the remainder of my days, then go
out as I want to live: a shining, burning
blaze.
DESTINY
by Shoshana Kurzweil
You're born a clean slate, on which
Fate writes with seemingly heavy hand. You
grow into your dreams, and keep on growing
right out of them.
Until one day, the
page is full. But you might be empty and
poor, unsure of everything you've done
And been.
God..." you cry, not knowing
for sure if He's there, or if He cares.
But He does... (Hear and care), and He
speaks in a still small voice to your
heart.
So you answer and cry "Here
am I!" Then God takes His pen and writes a
new page. Dead dreams are born again,
and hope is renewed, through faith.
It is then that you see... your
destiny is not written by Fate, or by
Luck, or even by you yourself. Your
destiny is ordained by God.
But
He needs you to make it come true.
I'M A DREAMER By
Shoshana Kurzweil
I
admit it. I'm a dreamer, a visionary;
cynical, yet idealistic, suffering the worst,
yet believing the best. Always expecting
the miracle.
Of course, it hurts to
expect, and not settle for less; not be
resigned to second best. But no matter
how many times disappointment comes, His
appointment will be met.
In every
generation there are dreamers. Yesterdays
dreamers are today's heroes, leaders,
inventors.
Today's dreamers are
tomorrow's revolutionaries.
But,
you've got to believe! In the dream,
in yourself, and (most important to me)
in God... Who gives it all!
So,
are you dreamer too?
MY GIFT
Lord, here it is...my gift to you:
My dreams. That is all I can give. I give
it painfully and still somewhat fearfully.
However, I do so, knowing You love me more
than I love myself; knowing You desire my
peace, my health, my prosperity. Of
course, my mind chimes in to say "Yes, but
what if he loves others more, and your well
being conflicts with theirs?" What then?"
But, my spirit takes over and reminds me,
that, if I love you, (And I know I do),
And if I'm called according to your purpose,
(And I know I am), then all things work
together for my good, Therefore I will
delight myself in You, and You will give me
the desires of my heart. I know this,
so...here goes, Lord, Take my dreams.
THE CUP
He lifted up his mortal cup to
catch a brew of living, but didn't know who'd
fill it up; which giver would be giving.
Would the cup be filled with wine of life
and love and gladness? Or would the cup be
filled with blood of death and hate and
madness?
His fate did not depend on
chance; he had the final say to take the
cup and drink it up or cast the cup away.
If he drinks the cup of evil, filled with
death and hate, he'll surely find his
destiny, but know the truth too late;
the truth that evil does not stand, nor
quench the burning thirst, but drains the
soul and fills the heart with living that is
cursed.
But if he drinks the cup of life
filled with love and good, then he will drink
the wine of truth and know the grace of God.
Take the cup and lift it up. Drink until
it's dry. But when it's done accept your fate
And do not question "why".
Drink, drink,
mortal man. Take your fill of living, but
fully know and understand which giver will be
giving.
DOWN MISTY HALLS OF
DESTINY
Down misty
halls of Destiny, filled with forms and vivid
colors seen only in my Art and Dreams, I
followed the Vision that is now becoming
real.
There is no more waiting for
the future. I have found God's Purpose,
His Plan for my life. I have uncovered my
Destiny.
Not that I have arrived. No,
but finally, I have begun. What I saw as
being far away, saw as my Tomorrow, is
becoming my Today.
ALL MY YESTERDAYS
Does whether I make it or
not today, Depend on the sum of my
yesterdays? Or does today stand on its own,
depending on present actions alone? I think
it can go either way. Consider "now" as a
piece of clay. I can make it unique;one of a
kind, sculpting it into a special design,
or push it inside of a mold from the past, a
copy of previous molds that were cast. Now,
if yesterday's molds were solid and strong,
proven and perfect,I cannot go wrong by
building the present on things that have been;
by using old patterns again and again. But,
if yesterday's molds were brittle and worn,
filled with mistakes and easily torn, then
I'd be a fool to mold my 'today', into the
sorrows I knew yesterday.
MANAGED MURDER By Shoshana
Kurzweil
Madmen, sadists, heartless
killers, History records their names;
their vicious acts of cruelty, this hellish
human hall of fame.
Decent people like
ourselves wonder how it could have been,
that civilized societies yielded to these
evil men.
Men (and sometimes women too)
killed without a second thought. Some for
power, some for greed, seemingly unstopped;
unfought.
Yet wisemen understand the fear
that caused good men to stand aside, while
innocents were put to death, and others had
to close their eyes.
But now we've
learned and we're aware. We shudder that such
things were true. And now the homicidal
madmen, are only in the Daily News.
And yet I wonder, if we search, and
everything we found were told, are there
those in normal lives, Who've somehow sadly
sold their souls?
Good and decent
ordinary, fathers, brothers, sons?
Mothers, sisters, daughters, friends, yet
heartless killers every one!
Not with
standard weaponry, explosives, poisons, guns,
and knives, but with a simple word or plan,
that callously destroys men's lives.
A
policy, decision, vote, a cut that seems to
save a dollar, and thus impress a CEO, who
might then give them future power.
They
run with packs of suited wolves, and dare not
stand their ground alone. They give up their
humanity, Or simply leave it safe at home.
Home with children, spouse or parents
(resting snugly in their beds) while under
guise of "business sense," they visit death
on others' heads.
Then babies sicken,
children fall, older parents hurt and die
in hopelessness, with no redress, as "managed
care" just breathes a sigh,
while
throwing out as useless trash the helpless
victims unprotected, knowing they were left
to die, By corporate soldiers, so directed:
"Question, stall, confuse, refuse. We'll
save -- though some might die. But we have
laws that keep us safe, So we're not liable,
you and I."
"We're able by a single word,
to 'with regret' deny a claim; If asked just
say we've never heard, And hide behind our
corporate name."
"Make the healers beg
and plead, And if perchance their patient
dies, Our secretaries pull their files And
we just simply close our eyes."
"But we
are only business people, Good and decent,
normal folk, not like those who made the
news; those evil killers lost to hope."
"Yes, we are a society enlightened by our
violent past. Appalled by inhumanity,
we've conquered all such things at last.
Or, Could it be -- with all our pride, and
all our Managed caring views. that we
ourselves have come to be, the madmen in the
Daily News?
MY DREAMWORLD
As I lie here sleeping,
there are stirrings in the night, I feel it
through my dreaming, upon the edge of sight.
I drift into my dreamworld and circling
around me, are times and places...people,
rushing to surround me.
Images,
remembrances, resurrected scenes, that
dance upon my sleeping soul and haunt me in
my dreams:
A scene that looks familiar,
then, a place I've never been, a home where I
do not belong, and yet, I wander in;
A
moment from my childhood days; I walk into a
room, and touch a piece of memory that
vanishes too soon.
A scene from
adolescence I'd prefer to just forget,
where the folly of my youthful act will cause
me deep regret.
Then, I'm sitting in a
building where I know I've been before,
watching players long forgotten reenact their
roles once more.
Next, I walk with silent
strangers, and we share a common scene
with long lost loves, new found friends;
ghosts that walk through dreams.
I turn
and I'm engaged in battle, fighting for a
cause. I blink, and I'm on stage alone,
'midst thundering applause.
Again I turn,
but now it's dark. My dream has dipped in
hell, and I am lost...alone, distraught;
weak and sick as well.
Desolate,
despairing, I am certain there's no hope.
I'm drowning there when, suddenly, I'm thrown
the saving rope.
And up I'm pulled by
unseen hands that set me on the waves,
where waits a ship to take me up, a vessel
sent to save.
It carries me to distant
places; lands I've never seen, where I
will meet with presidents, princes, kings and
queens.
Then on and up to future worlds
that end at heavens door, beyond the pain,
the doubts, the fears, the hatred and the
wars.
I try my best to reach that door
that I might enter in, but as I do, the
dreamscape fades and I begin to spin...
spin, spin, and slip away, till back
within my room; the other worlds beyond my
reach. My eyes will open soon.
I feel
the bed beneath me now, and, touching still
my dreams, I see them slowly fade away,
these vivid nighttime scenes.
I wake in
reverent wonder thinking what have I just
seen? Glimpses of another world? Or just
another dream?
I
USED TO BE A FISH
I used to be a fish,
swimming in the blue-green sea. The sky was
clear above me, with its white clouds making
subtle shapes as if on blue canvas. The
palm trees stood tall, gentle breezes blowing
through their branches, shading the soft
white sands. Rocks, seaweed and scattered
shells lined the edge of the ocean, where
I would sit for hours (or was it minutes?)
making castles in the sand.
I remember
the shirtless man with the deep burnished
tan, who sat all day under the shade of
the palm. He made such magic with his hands,
weaving the green and yellow fronds he'd
plucked from the trees into useful shapes
like hats and mats and things, while I sat
mesmerized by his clever fingers moving.
I remember the people; families from
far-away places, come to spend their one
vacation, on the sunny sands of my beach,
bringing little ones like me, just so we
could meet and play. Of course, they'd stay
only a few days, leaving behind wistful
memories And promises to write.
I
remember, at the end of the day, When I or
any other child Was told it's time to go',
how loudly we cried and whined, begging for
just a little more time. But, no matter how
much time we were granted, it was never
enough. So, parents got tough, and dragged
us off to home and dinner.
The sun would
be setting, covering the sidewalks with
red-gold rays. Tired and sandy, I'd walk home
with my nana, jabbering happily and looking
forward to what tomorrow would bring.
I'd go to sleep, scrubbed and clean,
thoroughly exhausted and happy, and dream
sweet simple dreams Of sky and sand and
ocean. And, in those dreams, I swam and
swam unencumbered, unmolested.
I
used to be a fish.
By Shoshana Kurzweil
UNICORNS AND BROTHERHOOD
In a world called
"Cutthroat", a nation called "Despair",
where Inner City rage and hatred fill the air,
the streets become the battlefields with
neighborhoods at war; armies locked in
conflict, never knowing what it's for.
People don't believe in Unicorns or
brotherhood. Both seem myth and fantasy,
as far from them as prayer. Their faith is in
their weapons and dying is Reality. They
share a Dark Communion: bread and wine of
deep despair.
Then Uptown in the Condos
and Downtown in the Marketplace, the
battlefield is Power; the motivation--Greed.
The weapons-Rank and Money used by soldiers
going nowhere, while knowingly withholding
their help from those in need.
And people
don't believe in Unicorns or Brotherhood,
distinct in their extinction; to believe is
just insane. They put their faith in Power,
Possessions, Money, Influence, and give when
there's advantage or a profit to be gained.
Their charity's precluded if excluded from a
claim; a sizeable deduction on their
income tax returns, A boost in reputation, a
philanthropic name... at the very least a
favor to be earned.
No, people don't
believe in Unicorns or Brotherhood. Their
faith is in their power, their influence, or
guns. Money, coke, and alcohol are things
they understand; Fuel that fills them up
so they can run.
In a world called
"Cutthroat", a nation called "Despair",
where life is but a battlefield and violence
fills the air, if people could believe in
Unicorns and Brotherhood, they might again
believe in Miracles and Prayer.
OLD CANVAS
Old canvases, tucked away and
hidden in dry and darkened places,
gathering dust and wasted...
One of these so easily could be
me. I've thrown away some that
looked better than I did then (so
torn and stained and scarred). But
the Artist refused to discard me.
He took me out of hiding, and
went to work restoring. He thoroughly
dusted and cleaned me up, mended the
tears, sanded the scars, until His
good design showed through, and the
colors glowed clear and true.
He didn't stop there. With
great care, He took His brush in
Hand, and dipped it in a palette
###### with Grace and Favor.
He painted, then painted more,
until I wasn't merely restored, but
made anew, washed in heavenly hues,
and now of great use adorning His
House.
He isn't finished though. No.
He goes on painting, never ceaasing,
until the final Showing, because...
Though it's the Artist Who paints,
it's the canvas that's seen.
Old canvas, in the Hands of the
Master, becomes a Masterpiece.
Shoshana Kurzweil
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BROKEN THINGS
by Shoshana Kurzweil,
2/2000
In this world,
the broken things are mostly thrown away
like trash.
But, not by God. He takes
note of broken things, regards the
shattered forms; in pity stretches forth
His Arm.
Carefully He gathers pieces,
lays them down in private places, touches
them with Healing Grace and sees the
pieces mend, move together, blend,
merge, change, then unite into a whole
and perfect image.
Strong and now
unbroken, they lean on the Master's Hand,
redeemed, fit, and useful, they stand.
MEMORIAL
by Shoshana Kurzweil
Look up to
the heavens, listen to the cries; echoes of
the mourners reaching to the skies... "Where
was God that morning? Did he go and hide?
when the smoke ascended and little children
died."
Hear the common question in
every language "Why?" This is our
memorial to never be denied.
Where was
God when the little children died? Where was
God when the terror came inside? Where was
God when the murder was denied? Where was
God? Did He turn His Face and hide?
Look up to the heavens, listen to the cries;
older voices mourning. Each one asking
"Why?" "Where was God that morning, when
the helpless babies died?" Jewish boys in
Egypt, slain by Pharaoh's pride.
Once
a year we question in every language
"Why?" This is our memorial to never be
denied.
Look up to the heavens, listen to
the cries; another tragic slaughter. You
can hear the mother's cries. "Where was God
that morning, when those little children
died?" Baby boys of Israel, slain by
Herod's pride. But why are there no
questions? In not one language "Why?"
Where is our memorial that cannot be
denied?
Where was God when the little
children died? Where was God when the terror
came inside? Where was God when the murder
was denied? God was right there weeping
and His arms were open wide.
He was
there to welcome all the children, He was
there to wipe away their tears, He was there
to lead them into heaven, He's been there
through all the many years.
But, In every
generation that sees the hope arise, There
has been a holocaust, where multitudes
have died. Before the births of Moses
and Jesus, babies died. Before the birth
of Israel, we heard the awful cries.
So we've built a great memorial, raised it
to the skies. It cannot give us answers,
cannot tell us why. But it keeps alive a
memory of loved ones who have died.
Each year we tell the story, tears within
our eyes; This is our memorial, to never
be denied.
OUT OF THE ASHES
Out of the ashes of the
fire, the remnant of my people did arise.
But in the souls of our survivors were echoes
of our loved ones' final cries. Here, a
mother mourns a daughter, there, a father
mourns a son; a sister mourns a brother
and a child mourns everyone. Yes, in our
hearts their spirits live, their memories
survive. But we must live and we must build
for those who are alive.
Out of the ashes
of the fire, The scattered ones of Israel
returned to build a home for our survivors.
At last the bitter lesson has been learned;
that there will never be another refuge on the
earth. If we will live, then let us live
for Israel's new birth; We'll build the walls
of Zion as a mighty citadel; a shelter
for our little ones, where they may safely
dwell.
Out of the ashes of the fire
the nation of my people was reborn. Out of
the ashes of the fire, the gathered sons of
Jacob have returned to till the soil and
plant the seed and build up Israel ... to
make the desert bloom again and guard our
people well.
Oh, we who live will not
forget the precious ones who died, but we
must live and we must work for those who have
survived ... out of the ashes of the fire.
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