Failures of Verse

Fingerprints

2010-01-04T00:05:00.000-08:00

10 If they could see your fingerprints on me
8 you would be a convicted thief.
10 A trespassing vandal, delinquent and
8 reckless--my guiltiest relief;
10 A gallant in pious vestments, fable
8 of my very falsest belief.

(note, the I is a she....if you didn't already get that from "gallant" referring to her "choice thief")

I have been struck lately by the reality of disillusionment and self-deception in our every day life...this poem has a bit of both. It is written in the format of a confession, confrontation, or lamentation. Perhaps all three?

Why is she saying this? To whom is she speaking? Not sure yet. Though I picture her on a stage, like one of the Greek tragedians who lays herself bare to the audience--as Hamlet explains, "the players cannot keep counsel; they'll tell all."

Swift swift swift...

2009-10-29T00:39:00.000-07:00

...that is not the title of the two following stanzas but it is the title of this post.

Swiftly sweeps the stream,
and by it I am caught
in a host of assumptions
of what you are not.

Fair maiden's laugh--
Fair maiden's game.
What is fair? to mine
own eyes, thy shame.

I am pretty sure that I have not already posted these two little stanzas...if I have, simply ignore this post.

A Seraphic Sight...

2009-09-20T21:55:00.000-07:00

Do not be deceived. This is not a commitment.

I would love to return to consistent posting but I am not able to just yet.

While talking with my sister about Bonaventure I looked at the back of my copy, where I found, scribbled in my messy manner, a poem that I wrote while reading Bonaventure. It is a prayer and I thought I would share it. It goes:

Shine through dim pages were fiery words are writ,
And light a flame this mind with the Fire with which You inspired it.

Till all shall yield to the all consuming fire,
And hope, love, thoughts speed by the force of fully taught desire.

Love my loveless heart, O LORD, unto desire...
That I, by Thy love, may to heaven aspire.

Carve upon these lifeless leaves, till the
coarse skin gives way and bleeds.

"I See the Sky and Wait"

2009-01-06T17:19:00.000-08:00

This was born out a day of watching the sky and saying "I must write something!" This is also an old one (around a year ago). I actually showed it to Karyn once (around the time I met her) and then never touched it again. It was written in one sitting and has not been edited since. It took me about a half an hour of just looking at the sky. Surprisingly every line that I wrote was 10 syllables exactly except for the 3rd...well, that's not entirely true: though I did not edit the lines I did take out about 8 lines between the 3rd and 4th...that also explains why it seems so abrupt. I have given up on feet for now. I later found a poem from Diary of an Old Soul that sort of captured what I wanted to say better than I could:

“My halting words will some day turn to song—
Some far-off day, in holy other times!
The melody now prisoned in my rimes
Will one day break aloft, and from the throng
Of wrestling thoughts and words spring up the air;
As from the flower its color’s sweet despair
Issues in odor, and the sky’s low levels climb”
—George MacDonald, October 30th

10 Pastels that are pale at my pen are pearls—
10 So smooth a sea before me lays—precious
To me.
10 The horizon swallows the pearly sea
10 In Tragedy’s veil and Love’s canopy.
10 Skies seething form another scene—a scape,
10 My heart a bursting, barred with locks that none
10 So strong an emotion, howe’re it be,
10 Bold for beauty, cannot seem to escape
10 with caper Words, on ladder Melody,
10 And so held in I fear that I am done—
10 Who can hold in his heart passion’s fury
10 As sinks the golden, somber, setting sun?
10 See the sky in dying embers lighten
10 While yet growing dim in the waking west,
10 The day’s work is done, now to the East then
10 I turn to await the rising Sun. Best
10 Is the life I’ve chosen, come Lord Jesus
10 Come, and set free then the beauty in us.
10 The pastels are pale at my pen—wake pearls!
10 Skies are aging fast into stern aged grays,
10 So soon succeeded by death’s blacked depth
10 The Days wait earnest in their living grace
10 To be redeemed. And God shall set them free.

Fleeting pleasures when considered are pains...

2009-01-05T16:49:00.000-08:00

I wrote this a long time ago (a year? two years ago?). It started with a reflection on a life of hedonism and I thought that this self-indulgence is actually (paradoxically) pain when soberly considered in view of the end of such self-indulgence end (sort of consistent with the theme of my last post but a little different...I don't think they disagree but then I have not thought about it much).

A 10 Fleeting pleasures when considered are pains
B 10 One must forgo if he would have his heart
A 10 Be glad, so that he may the greater gains
B 10 Receive--though fantastic he had--to part
C 10 And join to hope. That in eternal clad
D 10 Abounding in riches, we may put off
C 10 Gold--we cannot loose what we never had.
D 10 Let’s put on what can never be put off.

On a side note, Fred Sanders has brought to my attention in his blog post on Jim Elliot that Elliot said something similar, “He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose.” I agree Jim! Nothing could separate you from the love of God in Christ--O the glorious treasures that you have been called to in Christ Jesus our Lord! God Bless you saint.

Here is another one written around the same time (before the other one):

10 Let us then sing praise, and worship our God
10 For what we have and have not, indeed for
10 ‘Tis better thus for us to lack and laud
10 Because if He who can does not out pour
10 Wealth, our having would make us all the poor
10 Of health. Let us forever praise our God!
10 As the father withholds from his child
10 The ill, so you my Lord restrain our wills—
10 Moderate in Thy steadfast love mild
10 So that we may know the great love that fills
10 And be made too Thy very own child.

"What times we've had"

2009-01-04T15:52:00.000-08:00

I like the first two stanzas, chiefly because they are simple and say what I want to say, but after that I feel like I tried too hard to say more and don't say what I want to say, plus I am looking for one more stanza to end it with while getting rid of one or two or three of the stanzas I already have. I wanted to end it on more of a triumphant note. Something having to do with the redemption of time, see A Romance to Remember by John Mark Reynolds, or The Great Divorce, in which Lewis says it so well through the mouth of MacDonald:

'Son,' he said, 'ye cannot in your present state understand eternity: when Anodos looked through the door of the Timeless, he brought no message back. But ye can get some like-ness of it if ye say that both good and evil, when they are fully grown, are retrospective. Not only this valley but all this earthly past will have been Heaven to those who are saved. Not only the twilight in that town, but all their life on earth too, will then be seen by the damned to have been Hell. That is what mortals misunderstand. They say of some temporal suffering, "No future bliss can make up for it," not knowing that Heaven, once attained, will work backwards and turn even that agony into a glory. And of some sinful pleasure they say "Let me but have this and I'll" take the consequences"; little dreaming how damnation will spread back and back into their past and contaminate the pleasure of sin. both processes begin even before death. The good man's past begins to change so that his forgiven sins and remembered sorrows take on the quality of Heaven: the bad man's past already conforms to his badness and is filled only with dreariness. And that is why, at the end of all things, when the sun rises here and the twilight turns to blackness down there, the Blessed will say, "We have never lived anywhere except Heaven," and the Lost, "We were always in Hell." And both will speak truly.'

Sorry that it's so long, but the whole quote is necessary. The "was" IS in the end, or the end that IS classifies the "was"...or perhaps a better way to put it is, "the end characterizes your life here and now, since all that happens here has the end as the consequent." You cannot count the damned man really happy here when all that is here leads to Hell, away from ultimate happiness, you can only count his indulgence serious loss. There is a better way to put it and I think that both Boethius and Aquinas have a lot to contribute to this discussion...but I better post this or else I will think about it till I forget. All this to say: I had this idea in my head when writing the poem; I want to work this point into it; but I do not know how to accomplish this.

8 We have had such times that steal us,
6 that keep us till we're old,
6 and hold us in our youth,
6 and wait to be retold.

8 We have had such times that bleed us,
6 till life becomes a cry,
8 and hopeful longings go before us
6 all wanting us to die.

8 We have had such times that judge us,
6 that weigh our many sins,
8 and hold a witness against us—
6 our chains that we march in.

8 We have had such times that strip us
6 that lay bare our lamed souls
8 and make a show/sport of our despairs
8 and bade to the bellowing woes.

8 We have had such times that jade us
6 that take our tender thoughts
8 and make us shame sincerity
6 till twist’d in sinful knots

8 We have had such times that free us,
6 that break our fearful bonds,
8 and carry over witless crags,
6 our souls to seize the dawns.

Improv...

2008-12-29T01:44:00.000-08:00

I wrote this in about 20 minutes...It was inspired by Nicole. I walked into my room and said to her (with an unsettled tone) "something is a-foot my dear, something is a-foot my dear." I repeated this, never the same way twice. She then begged me to stop the madness and so I did. I think this little work is best when read with that voice...it is the voice with which I read T.S. Eliot. Enjoy...or don't.
---
Something is a-foot my dear, something is a-foot my dear...
the gamboling shades dote upon the shrub, while Luna
makes her way no further than above heaven's leaves,

O, Something is a-foot my dear, something is a-foot my dear...
see them romp and find a solemn tune, while heroes
fall and ladies over worn take to swoon in the muddy mire,
see them behave in a way most dire and daring to dare my dear.
drinking deep of the darkest fire.

Something is a-foot my dear, yes, something is a-foot my dear...
see the sights transpire till all confound the truest Fire
and make their homes within the ground and leave to lies
the midnight hour haunts and surprise suffuses like dread
in the sweetest sounding abuses, and muffle cries in mire,
drinking deep of the darkest fire.

Something is a-foot my dear, something is a-foot my dear!
They wake and wring desire till all turn to the darkest fire--
see how low the shades aspire when hope is/has but to suspire
in delusion's mirror and the fairest face they see is near and there--
when they drink deep of the darkest fire.

A last thought 'fore parting, my last Thought's to do:
They shut themselves in darkness,
in darkness, not the light.
He shuts them up in darkness,
in darkness in the light.
---
(If you would like me to read this too you sometime with the strange, disturbing voice it would be my pleasure.)

Exerts from my "Canterbury Tale," and Vision.

2007-07-31T23:38:00.000-07:00

"Hark now prim company, hearken to this tale

For not a word is spoke in vain but well

For you to take to heart what is spoke. Lo!

The tale begins!"

[...]

"At noon the poet sits in his parlor

Looking over the infested harbor,

Bustling with the lives of men so low,

That to converse one must honor forgo.

Fostering contempt—his paint and platter—

Contempt for the lowborn, layman ladder."

[...]

"Lone the poet calling Melpomene,

Teary eyed, besought by Nyx, and finding

To lust with pen easier than pining

With the times in truth and sobriety."

[...]

“'Play on! My heart does not afford me rest,

With luck your melodies shall sooth distress.'

But fore the harp was crooned or coyly pressed

There sank a shadow by pass of Erebus"

[...]

"Be gone thou my words, my silken-sheets,

Thou art sin stained garments of verse—a hearse

For my love past, a precession that speaks

Of past defeats and love ill-spent, accursed."

[...]

"Thou art an ardent declaration, fain

Of spite’s ill-gains and stains"

[...]

"My ivory tower of verse looming high

That beckoned the pagan hearts, 'Hither—nigh!'

Shall topple and tumble to ruin"

(For Chaucer's Canterbury Tales our class was given the option: write a six page tale or a reflection essay. Over break I attempted a Christian tale with pagan elements called "Thaetus." This was influenced by the Knights tale, who, being Christian and of the highest social rank, gives a tale that has many pagan characters. I had hoped to gain insight through this process into why he does this. The Story was as follows: Thaetus is a poet who is quite immoderate with his emotions and it is this unbridled passion that produces the conflict in the story. The tale was to show a few elements of emotions, (1) their potentially deceptive nature, (2) irrational nature, and then finally (3) the beautiful fruit and necessity of a heart focused on God in living a godly life. Now Thaetus, for the sake of art and pleasure, indulges in every emotional sensation that comes his way, being a man who habitually sulks in sorrow, and to gluts in laughter (however temporal), and so on and so forth. At the heart of the story I wanted to set Matthew 5:38-42 and Proverbs 4:23. The way in which I intended to achieve this, was to created conflict--namely anger: Thaetus is severely wronged and responds in anger, an anger that many would consider righteous, but as the wind carries the chaff, so is he carried by these passion. Most of the message in short is: Being right does not purify a wrong attitude or behavior. It is more dangerous for a Christian (or more universally, a man in general) when he is right in a conflict than when he is wrong, because he is more likely to become bitter, more reluctant to let go of an offense and forgive, and likely to be deeply hostel when someone has cheated him or taken advantage of him. A Christian is more likely to sin by his reactions than his actions--perhaps this is one reason why we are to to turn the other cheek--for what the devil can do with our anger. To add more elements to the story I added a character named Tactus, a daemon who steals/collects faces. At Thaetus' severely uncouth behavior Tactus is given permission--nay, orders (which he joyfully exploits) to seize the poet's face (that is, literally rip it off...I thought it appropriate to the image in my head to have him perform such a task for his master). So when Tactus, the face stealing daemon, comes to Thaetus (who is in the very act of his lewd, unsightly poetry, fostering contempt) he is terrified, disoriented, and sick as he has his crime and punishment reported to him. Due to certain rules that Tactus must work by, Thaetus is given time to consider his ways. During this time of deliberation he must offer a heartfelt repentance, but he finds that he is unable to change his own heart. He must "safeguard his heart," but how? Such is his dilemma. He then engages in conversation with various past poets--that is, the faces of past poets that Tactus has in his sack, but he finds them to be of little to no help, seeing that they all failed to find the answer to their pressing dilemma. Although, they do offer their attempts as examples and demonstrate the ways in which one cannot succeed in change his heart. In the end all is well and quelled. I am sure I am leaving more out, but if you are at all curious or have any advice or questions, I would love to hear them. God Bless.)

'Sonnet'

2007-03-23T17:07:00.000-07:00

Sonnet 2:
Alas, thou crass insatiable woman!
O, know thee not the love that hast ensued
Of sorrowful delight? Thou wrong’st this man—
Imbuing his heart with passion a-new.

This gamboling stag of a spirit stands
On the threshold of thine heart’s glowing hearth,
Feeding the flame with lyrical laudation strands—
A flower chain composed of words and mirth.

Wherefore love? And from whence thy nectar sweet?
That leaves thy name alive in mine own heart,
And to my tongue still bares solemn repeat
Joy—but nay, thou leave-est my heart a-thwart

But when the light from thine eyes falls on me
My heart is met with hope and revelry.

(My second attempt at a sonnet. Sadly, "Feeding the flame with lyrical laudation strands" is 12 syllables. I also need help with my feet(stressed and unstressed syllables) )

More Phrases...

2007-02-05T23:07:00.001-08:00

(one)
God be praised for His prayerful people,
For bent and bending hearts of stone,
For those who gather beneath His steeple--
May their hearts be not skewed and strown.
Though their souls be weak and feeble
And the shadow of a darker evil
Casts itself across their home,
God hold their hands and make them fearless,
Grant them ears that they hear this:
They shall rest before Thy throne.

(two)
Hark! Screams the raging blunder
Rolling in on rattling thunder
No homage nor woos can appease or calm her
There is in you pride to sunder
Marked in your raging blunder.

(three)
O, I know Beauty, I’ve seen her oft
Standing upon her pedestal aloft
Singing on her blissful chorus,
That the world may echo back
And our hearts too sing from us.

(More premature thoughts that stand alone, but ought they? The Lord is merciful, that I have hit such a creative slump, in which I am faced with my own ends. I am poor in my words. Lord be praised, for I see my ends.)

Cure the Mind and Tongue:

2007-02-05T23:07:00.000-08:00

Devil be off my tongue
Or I shall cut it out,
For I would rather bleed a mute,
Than allow falsehood to spout!

I’ll banish you to the silent grave,
And in my mind to silence you,
I will pull the trigger and be brave.
Muffled beneath confining sod
There you shall be forgot.

(It existed as an idea so I wrote it. It was then manifest in the form of a file, so I posted it. It is rather base and premature, but is it worth pursuit?)

Sloth:

2006-11-08T18:53:00.000-08:00

I know not what it is to rush
I lollygag, and fritter away.
I am a man of dreadful sloth
Ending where I began each day.

Time does not weigh on me,
Or convict me to quicken my pace.
I stroll through the sweet of life,
And become bored along my ways.

A step or two at a time,
I would not dare a single more—
For I am a man of dreadful sloth,
And very little of anything more.

(...the mental deterioration due to the prolonged absence of collaborated efforts towards truth--the fellowship of minds in humility, seeking after one goal.)

Thought:

2006-10-04T14:35:00.000-07:00

Ere my error the air was mine,
To dwell in beauty and divine,
But whence fault came, so my defeat,
Reluctant am I to render life sweet.
My thoughts do flee to realm of sky,
And leaving me unknowing why.
For in my net, my mind, a hole is found,
Allowing thought to soar, while I on ground.
I alone with others' words can catch not my own,
And in my search for my thoughts, fail to strike a truer tone.
Restrict me no more thy foul rules!
Of depredation! Of hindrance! The Devil's tools!
Let him hold me no more to thy ground—
Lift me up high where true thought is found.

(The first...)

The Graves:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.015-07:00

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...

2006-09-28T14:13:00.014-07:00

(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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.013-07:00

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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.012-07:00

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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.011-07:00

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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.010-07:00

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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.009-07:00

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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.008-07:00

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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.007-07:00

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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.006-07:00

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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.005-07:00

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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.004-07:00

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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.003-07:00

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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.002-07:00

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:

2006-09-28T14:13:00.001-07:00

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

2006-09-28T14:13:00.000-07:00

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?)