mus·ing /ˈmyo͞oziNG/

Year after year it comes Month on month we anticipate Day after day we wait The seasons declare it here As the weather does Its joy pervades And the gleeful fanfare deny it not With grandeur we celebrate Unaware, its essence slips Though its purpose eternally sealed Matt 1:18-24, Luke 1:26-2:20, Isaiah 9:6

[Dedicated to the memories of kids that did not live to their fifth birthday and to the many care-givers that did all they could to care for them.] For days she’d been here Incarcerated to a reformatory not bargained By the cold hands of an infirmity That wouldn’t let go. In agony I watched her Drowning in her own waters. Life was stealthily taking a leave As it could no longer be contained. She clenches to the thread of strength Holding her frail and feeble body. My libations to appease rebuffed, Incapably I stared. To a plea I resorted; “It’s only a while you’ve been here. Remember the sweetly voices of angels in damsels skin. And, the thundering beats of strong men Heralding your arrival.” I struggled so hard not to, But to no avail, A warm laden tear trickled; Contradicting the believe that we don't cry. Rhetorically, I asked why? And to the realms of comprehension I peered. But, more questions I got Than I sought to know. circa 2003

Fresh, local champs, simple and pristine kids were we when we boarded. It was in the year of our Lord, and it was the fourteenth day of the fourth month. Then, our ship did set sail after a much protracted delay and many months behind its scheduled departure date. “It's a sea fever”, someone said. “No! It’s the heat on board”, replied another. Whatever it was, many didn’t make it past the first 365 nautical miles - a year gone and we were yet at sea. We did spend many months at the “Municipal bay”. Thereafter, we headed for the battle for survival of the fittest. At that time, all else made no meaning. All we thought of was surviving. Life was triangular and predictable. Sleep, wake, and gaze at the endless pages of books were the order of the day. Then came the battle at the canal of Meghan-Bolt (MBI) - between the Red sea and the Mediterranean, an extension of the Atlantic. Not too many survivors made it through. After that, we lost count of time. It was better facing life as...

11      You crown the year with Your goodness,      And Your paths drip with abundance. 12      They drop on the pastures of the wilderness,      And the little hills rejoice on every side. 13      The pastures are clothed with flocks;      The valleys also are covered with grain;      They shout for joy, they also sing. -Psalm 65:11-13