Just so that I remember

Just so that I remember

The past three days are peculiar. I am hearing the Lord speak to my heart and mind in a very detailed way; more detailed than most times.

I have to write His thoughts down by faith.
I am to write a book; go back to my love for story-writing. The short novel I wrote will not be hidden in plastic forever.

I am to study fiction writing, even as I practice poetry writing. The two will meld together in the future somehow. (LORD Jesus, teach me please! Thank You for helping me find the book again after so many years! Help me to fix my schedule and be disciplined enough to complete this work! ❤ )

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I am to talk about Christ’s return in that book. He will use it for His purposes.

I am to keep looking up; His return draws near; the message (for His Bride to stay vigilant and awake) is therefore urgent.

The Holy Spirit will write it. I pray that I become sensitive enough to His daily leading so that I can capture in words what He wants to say to my generation. Keep me inspired, Lord God–until You come to establish Your kingdom on the earth.

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Thank You, Lord God, for the gift of prophetic prayer. Bless all Your other Ezekiel watchmen stationed in Manila and in various parts of the world.

This will be a more peaceful Christmas for me. I receive that promise with thanksgiving in Jesus’ priceless name.

I am loved; I always will be.

Hallelujah, amen.

 

Quiet

Quiet

by Kamila More Cabisada
There are notes here and
there
On the table
On the sink
In the trash bin
On the pillow
In the fridge
On the tip
of her hair

She rushes about
Trying to catch
who it is
Who stalks her?
Who follows
her every move?
Plots evil against her?

The door hinges creak
Someone is leaving
The scent of him wafts
through the room

Petrified.
She thinks he knows
Every inch of her
The darkness hides him
but she knows.

She cannot trust what
cannot be seen
by the naked eye.

The little girl…
In her crib she yawns
a tiny sigh sets her off
sailing to dreamland

The sound of the wind caressing
tired leaves, tired limbs

She had been alone all her life.

Father died
Daddy left
What else was there to do?

The milk ran out
The bills past due
The cat moved in
next door

There was no one there.

And then there it was
again.

The kitchen door haunts
with the slowness of time
and the shortness of her
breathing
She follows in the shadows
gripped by a thousand
what-ifs

And in a split second

he was gone.

The crashing sound of an engine
suddenly coming to life
Makes her jump out of her skin
Screeching tires siren their way
out of the ‘hood

A safety net
falls like
cotton
on her thoughts.

She finally peeks.
Dreading some residue
of fear
Waiting to grab her
in the wings

But no!
There was none!

He was warm.
Splendidly gentle.
Non-threatening.

Eight egg cartons
Three milk bottles
Five packs laundry soap
Two new laundry baskets
A loaf of whole wheat bread

Peanut butter!
Coffee. Black. The way she always
loved it.

All that racket in her head
all night long
was this all along

He was watching her
A little amused
Enjoying her dazed look
Not for a minute doubting

She would weep.

At the irony

The things that terrified her
Brought her the purest joy.

*******************
#kamilawriting
November 2, 2018

I am My Own Target Market

I am My Own Target Market

by Kamila More Cabisada
(January 8, 2018)

This cafe is like
Papemelroti in a cup
I am free to just breathe.
Just feel
Just be
I am reminded
I do not have to run
and run all the time
Wearing myself out
for things that are
running away too
Just as I am.

No slave to time
My quaint spot calls me
To sit, sip
quietly
My Papemelroti
in a cup

And think
and dream
of what it would
be like
To have sons
running to your tummy
To squeeze you good night
and daughters
reaching for your photograph
To hug you (sleep tight…)

The cafe started
as a kiosk, the woman said
I now dream of
kiosks and cafes
little stalls and hawkers
orange sellers and waiters
bustling about

And children running in the breeze
To mommies endlessly
Waiting.
Clock-free.
Love-bound.

I am my own target market.

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This is My Altar

This is My Altar

by Kamila More Cabisada

Greenness of the forest in my head
Transports me to another time,
Another place
Neatly cut grass drenched with dew
Under my feet it tickles and calms
At the same time

Like the mountains of my childhood.

Baguio was incomparable, a mistress
Towering in beauty, holy stillness
Powerful in its subtle healing
Of ravaged souls, unquiet minds

The woods were a chapel of pristine
Delight–they still are
They surprise me with gifts wrapped in
Green and red
And ask me how I am

I say I am fine most of the time
I am at my best when He is around
He changes me.

Fire becomes rain
Black becomes white
Orange becomes blue
Rust becomes inox
Dust becomes flesh
Tears become joy.

This is my altar
My daily resting place.

******

(October 27, 2017)

 

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Random Thoughts

Random Thoughts

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RANDOM THOUGHTS
by Kamila More Cabisada

Kamila is trying to write her column while thinking about…

how different the world was when you were younger
how different your world is now that you are older
how greatly things change on the outside while
remaining pretty much the same on the inside

how lovely it is to be loved by Jesus
how precious it is to know that you can be still;
motionless
and He will be Lord and God just the same

how terrible it is to realize you are doing too many things
all at the same time
how wonderful it is to realize you can drop things
that seem urgent but are actually not

how priceless it is
to just be.

Kamila is going back to writing her column now;
her mind sufficiently stimulated, she thinks

she knows what book to write
and for whom

Thanks be to God
Amen.