18 December 2015

Advent at Eye Clinic Jakarta (Klinik Mata)

Advent at Eye Clinic Jakarta (Klinik Mata)

Here in smog-choked Jakarta, alone in the back underside of the world
I’m still waiting for the eye doctor.
Across from me
a blind baby on his back stares up
as white Christmas lights in sparkling globes
dance their patterns across his face.
To him these, darkest days,
are just as dark all the rest;
his round, coffee eyes rove his black world  
no giggle bubbles out
applauding the shimmering lights for
his unlit orbs in sockets
look only inward.
His mama’s head kept bent over
his unseeing face, and there she hovers--as if alone in the room, in the city--
caressing him with her eyes,
she anoints his face with her proud, proud love.
Her son’s her sole mission, and her dear-heart:
And because of that, he doesn’t need sight to see her.
Their love's so electric it sparks,
          and arcs in the span between us—
I shift to escape its reach
and fail, then it comes to me
                 It’s Advent:  the Time when the Father
                 of All brings forth His loving Expression
                 and His blind babies see Him.
I shift again working to close the gaping hole
of my well-woven cloak of theology
but I feel it’s no warmth—
pierced as its was  at that moment
  when I let all rays of my head and my heart conjoin, 
      and in their coming together
they formed one, pointed exclamation
which burns hotter than the tropical sun at noon,
and has followed me far, so far,
             to this land of heat & spices.
Distance makes no matter, and can’t stop movement of His fullness:
          Desolation precedes Consolation.
The rush of His love pours through my veins, filling me with meaningfulness--
then yet again this old, cold and blind babe’s fresh-captivated
in the warming draw of His Streaming Gaze. 

03 December 2015


Rust eats the bus
         an incurable illness.
Hanging street lights
         cocked broken heads in morbid kind of merriment
framed in the worn dusty dusk  
of this recycled winter night.
In the stalled line of cars
outlined figures of
         every one,
         and each waiting
for a ride to something:
And here, right next to me,
        is Someone--
        who is everyone--
and doesn't each someone
long to go back to,
        or to move on from,
this thing to the next thing right now--
if only just to get away,
to flee the unseen revolution backwards
      to right where we were
I wasn't going to say anything
seeing our
      self-made urban blight
yet it comes to me again--
sunsets are supposed
  to be stunning
  and I believe
       though we don't notice
even the land of Mars
hears our sighs.
~ A Charity Johnson 2015