The Graves:

Oh, what graves we’ve dug—what hollow stark graves, (10)
Digging onward, on and on, (7)
With heart under ground—we cannot be found, (10)
We dig on and on and on. (7)

The terror we find—cannot be denied (10)
As down we dig on and on. (7)
For it cannot be stopped—and with each plop, (10)
We dig on and on and on. (7)

We lay down our spade—with hope for an end, (10)
To find we continue on. (7)
For without the spade—we dig with our hands, (10)
Still onward on and on. (7)

Franticly pawing—steadily gnawing, (10)
Continuing on and on, (7)
We believe to stop—but keep on in plot (10)
To dig onward, on and on. (7)

With hands now feeble, and nail striped from finger, (10)
Painstakingly on and on. (7)
When will we stop?—and get out of the plot, (10)
Of the grave that we dig on? (7)

Alas our petty voices carry on
Forever through the weary song,
“Steady on--still on!”
With the melody too often sung
Urging, “onward on.”
Ending where we had begun
With spade in hand—still onward on.

(Amost so monotonous that it sickens isn't it? If it is, why do we live like this I wonder. Often man is not struck by the sheer folly and manotany, but when it is said plain and clear, that we go on and on and on, it annoys and appears odious. Opinions? It is one of my first attempts at a consistant structure.)

Phrases...

(one)
I wish I could take your praise,
And hold it as a fact
But my sins outweigh my virtues
And my idiocy outweighs my wit
And that alas is a fact--
That is the truth of it.

(two)
“You see now where your fault lies,
Now find you your shame.
You will find it resting closely by—
At the door from whence you came.”

(three)
And into government pour the life and beauty of heart.
The Morals, the Ethics, the Blood, that sets it apart.
“When America ceases to be Good, it will cease to be great.”
No truer words were ever spoke to a country filled with hate.
Pour into government the best of human heart
Even though bleeding is a tiring art.

The Flintlock:

The dependable clock, of flesh, of man,
Who lifts his hand to six o’clock.
When arm is out in full span,
The day begins with roar and shock.

“A dependable man, six on the dot,”
In minds of all, is what they thought
As through the hill rings out his blast—
Though of his life no one doth ask.

“Reliable” is all, and that will do
For of his mind they had no clue.
‘T is six o’clock and all’s not well,
For alas prey to sorrow’s spell.

“Let the fuse shine bright,
To the sparks delight,
Brought forth by powders’ might.
Till the hammer ‘s down,
And shakes the ground,
Of world on which I’m found.”

“Might it come to know my song?
Might it come to know my deed?
Might it come to sing along?
Might it also come to bleed?”

Their day begins, upon the hill of Stark,
On this hill, man attempts to leave his mark.
The shot is rung, and day begun,
‘T is six o’clock in New England.
‘T is six o’clock and all’s now well,
For alas t’ was broke, sorrow’s spell.

Upon the hill left to moan
From the lack of love thus shown,
And as the night sky grows solemn,
Hope is lost and thus forgotten.
It sheds the tears of God above,
Drown ‘d in the pools of gore and blood.
If one does not ask, one cannot tell,
For “Six o’clock and all’s not well.”

For rather then a roar and shock,
The day begins with rooster’s squawk.
Upon the hill was left his mark
As well as within each man’s heart.

And upon the gruesome find,
Laid a question to his mind,
“Had reason been behind this act?”
Unknown to them without this fact:
When left without love to find
They would have responded in kind.

Unnoticed till the morrow,
And alas too late—
Without a surcease to sorrow,
The strain no man mortal can take.
T’was left the mocking, jesting face of fate.


('Tis one that I wrote for class...one of the first "not-poems" i ever wrote.)

To That Woman:

In you are wasted the tears of men—
Waste my tears no more,
And count at last the moments fleeting,
Of when to you I go no more.
---
You pray that I hold my tongue,
But this I cannot do
For I am but a fool and a man
And you are but a man’s fool.

Wind Upon Beauty:

Wildly wisped the whirling wind,
Forwards, then backwards with no care,
Wildly whirled the defying wind,
Sweeping through her scarlet hair.

With each maiming, shaking blast,
Over forsaken hills of earth,
From her head fell a flower crown
As danced the wind in wicked mirth

Sharply struck, the stinging wind,
Holding not for love’s lament.
Sharply stung, the apathetic wind,
Strikin’ the heart when love’s but spent.

Laid to lips, the spattering wind,
The dew brought forth from sea,
Knowing not, and caring not
For a man distraught as he.

Furiously flowed, the falling wind
Throughout the cliff’s each cleft and hole.
Furiously fell, the irreverent wind,
As through the cliff the tempests blow.

There came the death of beauty,
On that whirling, windy day.
Knowing not, and caring not
Of whom the mourners lay.

Advice:

Have you not offended?
This man you aimed to aid,
Sincerity and arrogance blended
A once good thought now ended.
And a smile left to fade.

Now take your own advice,
And take it now with you,
Your aiding helpful device,
That has yet to trial suffice,
Leaving I with problems new.


(What do you think?)

The Bird:

He is telling me a story, telling me once again.
Of something so stupendous his speech begins to blend.
Speak to me my friend, and tell me yet again.

He stumbles o’er his words, like a child at play,
Now I to listen intently to hear all he has to say,
“With care do but speak, and say what you have to say.”

He has been amongst the heavens, and seen a beauty splendid.
And out of love in heart to earth he has descended.
To stir our hope that’s ended, that no heart may be left un-mended.

If he could but slow his speech, perhaps then we could hear,
Of the beauty left to be spoke, to save us from our fears
Of a lie left too near, and the wicked left to leer.

Tell me my friend—tell me again, so that I might hope.
For I have fallen into despair and cannot climb the slope.
Make of me a hopeful man and instill in me a child’s hope.

You have lost me in your speech,
Leaving me with half a hope.


(I find song birds to be glorious messengers of God. Their every sound is necessarily a song...)

A Mother’s Passing:

I find it hard to cry,
For I have not lost,
One I’ve loved and held so dear
To sorrow’s merciless cost.

I cannot yet come to cry,
For I have not felt,
The tearing gnawing pain of loss
Of a love for whom I knelt.

I find it hard now not to cry,
For from my heart was torn,
A woman who had loved me dear,
And from whom I had been born.


(...my mother was rather disturbed that i killed her off in this rhyme, though nevertheless, flattered)

The Graveyard:

Where’s the shine of your freedom now,
Has it lost its splendor?
Its brilliant scarlet rays abused,
For want of something better.
In depravity, the foolishness,
Did but cripple and render
A once good thing worn, torn and used,
Deserving not to be thusly abused.
Be penitent—remorseful at present,
For time you lack,
And time you waste,
And a smile lost you’d go mad to replace.
Your farce of a life is at an end,
And as you dance around dead graves
You will fall into your end,
Without God to amend.
For want of something better!

The Barren Earth:

Upon seeing the barren earth,
Spoke he these words amongst the dearth,
___“Lord help this world,
_______Save it from itself,
___Save it while yet,
_______There is beauty left.”
Why must we scorch the land?
Ought we to burn it down?
We fools find not an inkling of
Nature’s splendor to be found.

Confession Of A Soul:

I did not stand, venture a guess why—
For goodness sake I sat!
And I yet to know why.

Compelling words, weighed on my heart—
______Perhaps weighed me down.
Convicting mine own troubled heart,
Of a vice to which I’m bound
I stayed my tongue—
And in shame yet,
Deserve my death—no less.

‘Twas not all loss, some
______Good did come.
Alas I know now what to do.
______Yet the truth remains:
I did not stand for truth.
But I know now what to do.

Look to the horizon,
______Can you see a day:
When truth prevails over common sway?

Look onward toward the setting sun,
______And remorse
It is not this day,
______Though I can surely say
I see it on its way.


(A day i didnt stand. God forgive me.)

The Cup:

Take this cup and drink
Sip and do not gulp
Take life in moderation
______So as not to choke.

Take this blessing given—
Dispose to your delight.
In a way that is whole and fitting—
______Waste not a drop of life.

Come and seize the day.

(It came to mind while listening to Mr. Anderson give a devotion at Emmaus--the day after we watched The Dead Poet's Society.)

The Stillness Before a Storm:

Amongst the oceans of clear blue skies,
A cloud does make its stand.
Failing to make known its defiance to our minds—
Setting into motion a plan.

“A single cloud…’tis harmless enough,”
What can it do alone?
But started it has, sure enough,
Ere a single wind is blown.

A stalking silence, sets to mind
An illusion of a doldrum day
And with the absence of a tempest gusting
A stillness falls to the lips and lays,

An assumedly sweet taste
Made bitter by its end.
Now bird and beast with haste
Fly home to nest and den.

A taste sensation re-woken
And to the senses play,
By a breeze in the stillness broken
Upon this doldrum day.

The clattering of an old oak’s leaves—
The gentle wisp of a cloud,
And yonder over line of trees
A raging tempest left in shroud.

The towns’ eyes gaze intently
As the gusts begin to whirl and wail.
As if those gusts were lamenting
For a beauty’s ill-lucked spell.

And over the ridge is rising,
The tempest’s spiteful throng
As thus begins the wrathful screaming
Over the doldrum song.

‘Twas the Start of Rain:

The skies engulfed in the darkness lay—
Overpowered is the blaze of sun—
Leaving the remnants of a day
Cold, dark, dead, and done.

Then falls to earth darkness,
Striking the land with arrows.
No light can pierce the darkness,
No hope can quench their woes.

Then a blaze—and trumpets sound!—
The darkness turns to tears.
Then to earth falls not death confound,
But light through all man's fears.
No longer in shroud to be bound,
Sing the trumpets to our ears.

‘Twas the start of rain.

(If you may spare a thought or two)

The Resistance:

A blistering, battering gale of wind,
Pressing against my living will.
Stinging, striking drops of rain
Bashing thoughts from my brain.

My hand hard pressed against my side,
As I find it harder with each stride.
Clutching the wound, my blood to gush,
Ounce after ounce is lost, ‘tis a fading will with which I rush

Now panting hard my breath is lost
And voice as well to the biting frost.
A frantic “help” cannot come out
As through my mouth my blood I spout.

My mind is racing to and fro,
For what had happened I do not know
A blur is left in my memory
Where a vile act was meant to be.

Tripping over taunting death,
For life in me: there is little left.
Was I meant to end like this?
Meant for death from first mother’s kiss.

A shout from behind, a woman aghast,
At the sight of my gore as I stumbled past.
I fell on my knees before my door
With but faint strength—very little more.

With what strength left I began to knock,
Over and over, with each pound a painfully sharp shock.
She came to the door with face so grim.
As collapsing in her arms, her tears filled to the brim.

My brothers came over, but intently I stared
Intending my last sight to be of her.
They began to dress my wounds,
and from the blood my mother swoons.

I bade them away and
Pressed my lips to hers
Then taking her hand in my hand,
My vision is consumed with blurs.

I saw her eyes no more,
Spilling there over the floor
And then rushed back the roaring dread
Soon I am to be dead.

Was I meant, from first mother’s kiss
To die sprawled on the floor like this?
To die fleeing as a criminal might
To the comfort of home for one final night.

Mouthing words, but with no voice
Desperately trying to make a noise
Barely mumbling, almost humming,
I spoke the words, “…They are coming.”

(now pray what may you think?)

For You and Your Utopia

The day, I pray draws near,
When thoughtful words are spoke,
Where beauty is unbroke,
And I am there to hear.

I anticipate the day—
Oh it will be so grand!
When in the fields we’ll lay
With a Bible clasped in hand,

When wisdom of divine,
Ennobling our very being,
Will lead us to the right,
Will bring us into being.

Till we come to this my friend,
A time of sheer delight,
Of wrong taking to flight
The triumph of the right,
And wicked to their end,
I wait earnestly my friend.


(Now if you would be so kind, may you tell me what you think of it?)