My Friend The Professor
Because he was my friend
I will not mention his name
But this brief story lends
So much mystery, just the same.
We all rented that apartment
In separate units of nine-
Near the school where we sent
Our children, to save time.
But life had its testings,
And my friend, the Professor
Found his health had been failing
Soon he needed a doctor.
But the biopsy was grim
Unfortunate and not hopeful,
His chances were quite slim
And the prospects were so awful.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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A Very Strange Tale
An unexpected and unknown pregnancy
That ushered a series of events
Brought Susan in a state of emergency
Confused in her predicament.
The doctor said she had miscarried
And the bleeding she had was not usual
Her fiance, they were to be married
But now they ended at the hospital.
So they brought her there for surgery
With only her boyfriend now in tow
She called up her mother and said briefly:
'Mom, they're operating on me, you must know.'
When the frantic mother had arrived
Poor Susan was covered in a white sheet.
The mother was told she did not survive
While on surgery, her Death she did meet.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Apolutrosis (Redemption)
In utter humility,
Yeshua came to be
Taking on humanity,
To ransom you and me.
From Genesis it was done
The apolutrosis of man-
The Godhead devised the plan,
And so the Son became Man.
Jesus Christ, One Redeemer
And His Blood, our Purifier,
The One and only Mediator
And there is no other Savior.
'Tetelestai! ' Jesus cried-
'It is finished! ' then He died,
Eternal debt was put aside,
And so in Him will Truth abide.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Mom
The years have not been really kind
Between us are the cruel miles,
I long to hold you and ease your mind,
And be with you even for a while.
The news about your health has numbed me-
Hazy thoughts prevent the tears.
I hope that from pain you are free
Though I'm tormented by these fears.
Five months ago we bid farewell
To your son, my loving brother,
And after that we could not tell
That Dad will follow just a month after.
The scores that Cancer had so taken
Leave us drained with no strength to call.
My heart is wrenched and I am broken,
Too pained to even cry at all.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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His Word Is Alive
Seeds of Life that germinate
In ready soils of hungered hearts,
Alive and active when sown, pulsate
With the newness of life that it imparts.
Not idle words but Words of Truth,
They cleanse the souls and sanctify.
Eventually they will grow roots
That will encourage and edify.
These Seeds do not return when sown,
Empty and void with sterile worth-
Life-changing power it makes known
It is from God it was sent forth.
In times of battle it is a Sword
Sharper than a double-edged one,
For Evil always flees God's Word
And his works are cut, his deeds undone.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Our Ziklag Times
Oh what pain consumes our hearts!
Gnawing fears and despondency,
With all jobs lost, income departs,
And the homeless dwell in famined economy.
Now where are the money crutches we had?
Weren't those our firm securities?
Our wealth, our homes, our little gods,
Our empty thrones of prosperity.
In our distress we cry out loud,
In anguish for the loss of all we own,
No more room for the haughty and proud,
For we come to reap what we have sown.
Only in distress will we seek Him,
When we have no more strength to weep,
Unless the suffering hems us in,
We won't give God our lives to keep.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Armless Chef
A tribal conflict opened doors
For unexpected tragedy
Fate so cruel ran Her course
And caught Her victims easily.
A lass of mere seventeen
Too young to lose her future
But blind is Violence unseen
And the times ahead unsure.
Intruders came, got her cornered
Her arms raised in defense
Then cries of pain were all they heard
Her arms were cut, it made no sense!
Her loss was partial as her spirit lived
She learned to gain her victory
Healed her life, in Faith believed
So she earned a degree in the Culinary.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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The Death of Rebellion (Narrative)
She was a sweet young girl
The apple of her father's eyes
Her long hair blessed with curls
She was adored by all the guys.
Her father tried to set rules
His attempts at discipline,
To guide her from home to school
And to watch where she had been.
But the young Miss felt quite fenced
And rebelled like all young people,
With repeated lies and offense
She made her father miserable.
Now the young woman had a boyfriend
A fellow classmate with whom she went,
The young man she'd always defend
When with rules her father was bent.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Creativity
When my son was five years old, we bought him a toy car that was battery operated and had 'bump-and-go' features. After a few hours of play, we discovered he had dismantled it and removed the tiny windshield, and when we asked him why, he said 'I wanted to see the tiny man driving it.' He grew up to be an artist and is now a Senior Creative Graphic Arts executive.
A rare gift that is spawned
By the challenge of Demand,
It is the seed when sown,
Becomes the mother of Invention.
New ideas and new design,
From the most unlikely sources-
Multiple births of fertile minds,
Producing things of many uses.
Creative minds are never idle
Ideas come from constant thinking.
Of wasted time there's very little,
As focus centers on problem-solving.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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He Said He Wants to Be a Woman
'Just let me go!
God made a mistake-
It's what I know
This love is fake! '
With utter despair
He cried to be free
From his prison there
Into his fantasy.
An abysmal confusion
A mixture of roles
Of hopeless depression
A search to be whole.
His desires for men
Growing deeper inside
Consumed him by then
He no longer could hide.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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