Another poem I wrote for class. It's about Christmas.

Fully Man

Did he know who he was when he was born?

Did he know how much he would change the world?

Did he know that wars would be fought and stopped because of his birth?

Did he breathe his first breath knowing that men and women would get the week off from work?

Did he know that his birth would make mattresses and bed sets go for “half-off the retail price with little or no payments for two years?”

Did he know his birth would cause the mass slaughter of children by offending one person?

Did he think he’d disturb the masses by one saying “Merry Christmas” and offending some?

Did he know he would die for many?

Did he know his death would make millions at the box office?

Did he know he would rise again?

Did he know people would believe he never existed?

Did he know calendars would be based upon his time on earth?

Did he know his name would become a swear word?

Did he know anything?

Or,

Did he know nothing, and was just a little child, sleeping in his mothers arms? Fully God, but Fully Man.

Sam Lopez - 2007

I wrote a poem a while ago. Here it is!

The Unfinished Artist

By Sam Lopez

He walks into his room,

his studio,

his escape from life,

to find incomplete paintings on the floor.

A single tree stands in an empty field,

where an enormous forest has yet to arrive.

Where a young couple would be shown dancing together,

a single female silently stands with arms grasping the air.

A giant canvas will one day hold a masterpiece of the final battle between heaven and hell,

but only shows a monstrous flame and a single demon.

He looks up on the wall to admire his only finished painting: an image of two men painted from behind, walking along a single path while conversing with each other. The man on the left in jeans and a t-shirt talks while the other, an old man in a white robe, simply listens.

A self-portrait, his current work, sits on a stand.

An outline of the head is drawn,

with only one ear

and half a nose.

The brown eyes stare back at the Artist,

asking, will I ever be complete,

or forever be a work in progress?

Always

incomplete,

and

never

finished.

That’s it!

The Artist places the canvas on the wall,

realizing that what keeps it unfinished,

finishes it

Random Haiku

I'm gonna start posting Haiku's every now and then. I think they're fun.



There's cheese on the walls
Ground stinks of spam and croutons
God bless our poor souls

Just A Thought

Jesus came into the store today. He was dressed in old, thrift store clothes that didn’t fit is tall, overweight body. He smelt like urine and cigarettes, and had obviously not taken a shower or shaved in a very long time. He asked for a small cup so he could feel it with some cold water on this hot summer day, but I didn’t listen. Instead, I gave him a large cup, felt with water, and ice as well. And even though he didn’t buy anything, I said what I would say to any paying customer, “Have a good day.”

Later that week, I saw Jesus again at the department store. This time, he was a shorter, and wearing cleaner clothes that fit his smaller, healthier body. You could smell the cucumber melon shampoo that was used to clean his long blonde hair, that was pulled back into a pony tell, stretching down to his lower back. He needed help with a camping tent. It was in a big bag, and he couldn’t get it onto his shopping cart. I didn’t work there, but I still gave him a hand by picking it up, and putting it in his shopping cart. “Thank you,” he said to me with a smile. I probably will never see him again, at least not like this.

Two weeks later, I ran into Jesus again. This time he was at the coffee shop. Being much older, with his gray, curly hair, he made his way up to the door, taking every shaky step, with a cane in his left hand. He was coming as I was leaving, so I held the door open as he walked by. “Thank you young man,” he said to me in his shaky, older voice with that older, grand motherly smile. “You’re welcome ma’am,” I replied.

Jesus came by my house today. He just wanted to talk. So I let him in, and we conversed. He had done some things he regretted, and just wanted someone to listen to him. So I gave him an ear and a hug, because that seemed like something he needed right then. I took him out to eat later on, and we talked some more. He’s feeling better now, all I really did was talk and listen, mostly listen. It wasn’t much I gave him, just some of my time.

“I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.” Matthew 25:40

Sam Lopez 2004. Updated 2007.

Waiting for Godot

I think I finally understand what Samuel Beckett was thinking when he wrote "Waiting for Godot." After waiting in line for what feels like hours (but ends up really just being a minute or two), I end up thinking about the dumbest things, and start to question my existence. Time becomes relative, and my thoughts start to consume me. I start to wonder why I'm waiting in line in the first place, and wonder if I really need to be here. I wonder if there is anything else I could be doing, instead of standing in order with a bunch of other human beings (hopefully), lined up like a bunch of cows to the slaughter. Why am I here? What am I doing here? Where is here? Is there even a "here"?

Eventually, the person in front of my orders their frappa-thingy, and I can purchase my iced tea.

Ever wonder why we're always in such a hurry to go nowhere? We speed down the street, passing up cars so we can be the first person at the stop sign? We spend so much time looking for the shortest check out lane at the grocery store, but we always end up at the same place anyway.

"Be still, and know that I am God;..." -Psalms 46:10