Carpenter – Christ a poet

When I was a child
I knew Jesus
From the book of Bible stories
The Son of a carpenter
Yet, I never saw the furniture his father made
“Jehovah’s Witness” was the only witness who told me about his realness
The Holy Spirit was a Figure
No one could really figure
No matter the figure of speech you use.

I thought the blood of Jesus was Coca-Cola
Because it tasted like the drink they shared during communion
I wish they gave us one full loaf of bread and 5 litres of wine
But those Reverend fathers are always stingy with the blood and body of Christ
Something that He gave us for free

Then
I gave my life to Christ
My mind blew like volcano eruptions
I heard about Trinity in one personality
The Holy Spirit that had no figure
Is a being to me
We could speak to each other
He could lead and show me things to come
The revelations were so much that I passed out
Only to realise I fell under the anointing

Now
I’ve grown to realise that
I never really knew Jesus as a child
But now I know him
As He is, so am I in this World
Truly,
Maturity is not based on the number of years you’ve got
But the depth of understanding
You have about God

King Uwe
©2026

Behold all things have become new
and the old lie in a forgotten heap
childish memories of me digging
underneath my bed on a Sunday morning
for where I’d tossed in my old pair of shoes
nowadays the changed me keep them up neatly
on a rung of wooden stiles the carpenter calls a shoe rack

Bible sleeps on a bedside stool
for a constant bath in Holy words I reach
across to it as often as I go
drink in words that lead, that guides
same letters in the book, a new meaning on the morrow

I remember mom’s narration on Joseph
please tell Dolly Parton
I share same story with her Coat Of Many Colours
only I took mine to many tailors
at the price of my chopped sandal soles
shoes on worn out feet
grazing gravelled road as they bleed
thank God, praise God I sing
because no longer do I handpick rags
all I see are tailor-made suits
my wardrobe is a rainbow of clothes
none having no holes

Nonetheless what I have outgrown is
the filthy old man inside of me
that cheated at elementary school
and purloined mum’s ten kobo
when she was busy at the hearth
One day aunt Betty suffocated my wrists inside mum’s purse
and gave me her two kobo
number eight of the decalogue says, ”Thou shalt not steal”
I hear you ma, my heart thumps with complete remorse
Tell that to the birds, coo that to baby lions
Whisper that in the ears of insensitive politicians
and the starved masses reaping where they did not sow
maybe they’ll pause then retrace their steps
and make way for the new experience.