On being like Job, and on the return

If I were lead to hell,
Not of my accord,
Would you be with me?

Would you hold my hand,
And sing sweet lullabies,
Of comfort to me.

Thou knowest the end,
And the beginning,
and what must I learn,

Being driven to Hell,
Like Job, or Virgil.
Thou standest by me,
As a true friend.

Of free will then comes the choice,
But not the consequences.
Never alone, am I,
Or far from thee,
And thy thoughts.

(Inspired from reading of "The Sparrow", Maria Doria Russell,1996)
the best I can document this poem i 06-26-2016 When I included it in a draft of a sacrement meeting talk I prepared.

the scares that remain

There are scares on my arms,
self-imposed scares,
these kinds of scares,
maybe the most difficult to carry.

They are from a time of darkness,
when I felt no joy, just sorrow,
and no light.

Now there is light, they remain,
as a memory, and a reminder,
to find joy amidst darkness,
and despair.

On the memories of a mac se\30

There it sits, in the room
in front of me, and the tv.

Of what use is it to me,
now.

It sat for so many years,
in the closet, full of my memories.

It was old when first, I used it.
to transcribe the memories,
the first memories.

Now 25 years later, it still holds,
the memories.

I see it, I fear it.
the memories it holds, still.
This then, now it's losing its ability,
to share.

What do we do with the memories?

Having not used it for a decade,
its memories return to haunt me.

Contained within the shell, a truth,
but no warmth then it shares.

The truth then remains, why
it has remained unused,
for a decade after its memories,
were transferred to another one. still.

Now it remains a hollow shell.
Advanced for its age, now lifeless and still.

Do I keep it for its memories or my memories?

On the other side of the room remains the radio.
It too was in advance of its age, once.
This long before my birth.

It had been really old at my birth.
It always seemed to be present in our home.
It was never used though long remembered.

For what use does one keep a  Phillips AM radio,
circa 1935?

It is of little use now,
years ago, having lost the ability
to temper its sound.

Its sits now on my desk,
it too full of memories now.

A few years ago I removed its power cord.
I feared that if used, its aged cord,
would burn the house down.

Now I keep it too, for the memories.
My sister never understood why,
it played modern music.

This in the day when am radio was still rock music,
and not political satire.

Now it remains silent,
not only because of the power source,
but also for lack of content, in the air.

Will the day come, when I too, will be only,
a memory too them?

Like the two white plates that remain, today.
The last memories of my grandparents trip, to Mexico.
Will my children understand the memories, still?

Then on to create, their own, memories.

Still to dream, and then to share, will come,
their memories.