October 27, 2010
She's got mine!
Serenity sat with me this morning,
reached for my clipboard of notes and blank paper.
Awkwardly holding the mechanical pencil
in her left hand,
made stabs and swipes at the college rule:
the scribbles are getting bolder.
Fingering the letters of my name
printed and taped to the metal clip,
I explain she is of a select few
who call me Grandpa.
Gazing at the work of her hand
she wraps her arms around the stiff board
and hugs the page to her tiny chest.
Showing posts with label love poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love poem. Show all posts
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Love Poetry
September 14, 2010
1.
She lifted the words of my poem off the paper,
dry-flower pressed them between the pages
of her heart,
carried the meaning in her bosom
between her breasts
where a line of sweat traced her cleavage,
cleaving the sense of the words to and from our souls
like the drop of sweat rolling between my eyes
down the bridge of my nose to drop
upon the page, blurring any trace of meaning
between the careful symmetry
of the lines.
2.
Remember how we used to leave each other messages:
the first one out of the shower
would write with their finger
on the steamed mirror
I “heart” U or
U R SEXY;
words that remained after
the condensation evaporated.
1.
She lifted the words of my poem off the paper,
dry-flower pressed them between the pages
of her heart,
carried the meaning in her bosom
between her breasts
where a line of sweat traced her cleavage,
cleaving the sense of the words to and from our souls
like the drop of sweat rolling between my eyes
down the bridge of my nose to drop
upon the page, blurring any trace of meaning
between the careful symmetry
of the lines.
2.
Remember how we used to leave each other messages:
the first one out of the shower
would write with their finger
on the steamed mirror
I “heart” U or
U R SEXY;
words that remained after
the condensation evaporated.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Wholly You (A Confession)
August 31, 2010
This poem is deeply personal. It is a metaphor of amazing grace in my life. I dedicate this to my God and Saviour, Jesus Christ; and to my wife Lynn, whose love and forgiveness saved me.
It was completely you
responsible for reconciliation.
The fault is mine for crouching out the door,
walking away from the dwelling
we both built with our bare hands,
down the street and around the corner
for a tawdry, no wait,
sleazy is a better word,
affair with a strange woman;
make believe quote/unquote love, no wait,
sex with three x's is a better word,
in the dark fabric of the quilted streets of the city:
certainly castration is a certainty.
Nevertheless you nursed me back
to your milk-laden breasts
with words
of passionate urging, loving guidance, tender comfort.
I stained your back with tears of sludge.
Turning me over
you crossed my heart.
I hoped to die.
I must have been speaking in tongues
when I cried out “Merci! Merci!”
because my lips don't know how to formulate foreign language by themselves.
And now when we make love, no wait,
the better word is love,
your nails painted blood-rust dig my flesh;
Oh, God! I feel the pain you provide—pain not like yours,
in comparison a tingling, an internal cutis anserina.
The foreign tongue you mastered.
The reason we are becoming one
is wholly you.
This poem is deeply personal. It is a metaphor of amazing grace in my life. I dedicate this to my God and Saviour, Jesus Christ; and to my wife Lynn, whose love and forgiveness saved me.
It was completely you
responsible for reconciliation.
The fault is mine for crouching out the door,
walking away from the dwelling
we both built with our bare hands,
down the street and around the corner
for a tawdry, no wait,
sleazy is a better word,
affair with a strange woman;
make believe quote/unquote love, no wait,
sex with three x's is a better word,
in the dark fabric of the quilted streets of the city:
certainly castration is a certainty.
Nevertheless you nursed me back
to your milk-laden breasts
with words
of passionate urging, loving guidance, tender comfort.
I stained your back with tears of sludge.
Turning me over
you crossed my heart.
I hoped to die.
I must have been speaking in tongues
when I cried out “Merci! Merci!”
because my lips don't know how to formulate foreign language by themselves.
And now when we make love, no wait,
the better word is love,
your nails painted blood-rust dig my flesh;
Oh, God! I feel the pain you provide—pain not like yours,
in comparison a tingling, an internal cutis anserina.
The foreign tongue you mastered.
The reason we are becoming one
is wholly you.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Advice to J. Alfred Prufrock…
July 24, 2009
This was written while I was taking English Composition II. We had read T.S. Eliot's poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and the discussion centered mostly on the sexuality of the poem. I was intrigued by the second half of line 121:
"Do I dare to eat a peach?"
from God:
Taste and see
that the fruit is good.
Just don't eat the fruit
from that tree.
from the serpent:
Has God said
thou shalt not
eat a peach?
from a Puritan:
Thou shalt not eat of the peachtree,
nor the fruit thereof;
lest thou become as one
of the fruiteaters
who bare not fruit.
from a nutritionist:
0g fat
cholesterol, 0mg
0mg sodium
dietary fiber, 3g
go ahead
from Hamlet:
To eat or not to eat: that is the question:
Whether 'tis favorable for the tongue to satisfy
With the savory juices of this sweetest of fruit,
Or to ingest the fibrous flesh and
To suffer in the end? To eat: to squat;
More and more; and by squat to say no end.
from Freud:
You are titillated and fixated
upon your mother's breasts.
from a poetry critic:
To Prufrock,
the peach
is merely a metaphor
symbolizing a sweet life
that is unattainable,
since you rouse to reality when
“human voices wake us” (line 131).
Therefore,
whether you dare
or no, you will not.
This was written while I was taking English Composition II. We had read T.S. Eliot's poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and the discussion centered mostly on the sexuality of the poem. I was intrigued by the second half of line 121:
"Do I dare to eat a peach?"
from God:
Taste and see
that the fruit is good.
Just don't eat the fruit
from that tree.
from the serpent:
Has God said
thou shalt not
eat a peach?
from a Puritan:
Thou shalt not eat of the peachtree,
nor the fruit thereof;
lest thou become as one
of the fruiteaters
who bare not fruit.
from a nutritionist:
0g fat
cholesterol, 0mg
0mg sodium
dietary fiber, 3g
go ahead
from Hamlet:
To eat or not to eat: that is the question:
Whether 'tis favorable for the tongue to satisfy
With the savory juices of this sweetest of fruit,
Or to ingest the fibrous flesh and
To suffer in the end? To eat: to squat;
More and more; and by squat to say no end.
from Freud:
You are titillated and fixated
upon your mother's breasts.
from a poetry critic:
To Prufrock,
the peach
is merely a metaphor
symbolizing a sweet life
that is unattainable,
since you rouse to reality when
“human voices wake us” (line 131).
Therefore,
whether you dare
or no, you will not.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Watching My Husband Dress
(to me from my wife)
July 1, 2009
I wrote this from Lynn's point of view. She said I nailed it.
I like to watch my husband
dress for work;
everything is always done
the same.
It starts when he's shaving.
I don't know why
but that just fascinates me.
Pulling the razor
over the curve of
his neck
with self assured movement
to the line of his beard
under his chin
scraping away the day-
old stubble.
When he tucks in his shirt
zips his fly
notches his belt
I hate him—
the notch has moved in.
I don't want him to lose
his Buddha belly. It's just big enough.
As he looks in the mirror,
adjusts his tie and
arranges himself,
he is so focused.
I feel that if I interfered
at any time
during this entire process
he would push me aside.
July 1, 2009
I wrote this from Lynn's point of view. She said I nailed it.
I like to watch my husband
dress for work;
everything is always done
the same.
It starts when he's shaving.
I don't know why
but that just fascinates me.
Pulling the razor
over the curve of
his neck
with self assured movement
to the line of his beard
under his chin
scraping away the day-
old stubble.
When he tucks in his shirt
zips his fly
notches his belt
I hate him—
the notch has moved in.
I don't want him to lose
his Buddha belly. It's just big enough.
As he looks in the mirror,
adjusts his tie and
arranges himself,
he is so focused.
I feel that if I interfered
at any time
during this entire process
he would push me aside.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Angel
April 30, 2009
Catherine, should you ever read this blog, I want you to know that this poem is as much for you as it is for the baby. Love you, Sweetie. Dad
Angel
(for my Little Angel and her Mom)
Fear not,
my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
There is peace,
my little angel.
Bring peace.
Fear not,
my little angel.
Do not be scared.
Be strong,
my little angel.
Have strength.
And though you are unexpected
(as all angels are)
God has found a place for you,
my little angel,
here within my heart.
So, fear not,
my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
You are loved.
Catherine, should you ever read this blog, I want you to know that this poem is as much for you as it is for the baby. Love you, Sweetie. Dad
Angel
(for my Little Angel and her Mom)
Fear not,
my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
There is peace,
my little angel.
Bring peace.
Fear not,
my little angel.
Do not be scared.
Be strong,
my little angel.
Have strength.
And though you are unexpected
(as all angels are)
God has found a place for you,
my little angel,
here within my heart.
So, fear not,
my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
You are loved.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Love Is Butter Pecan Ice Cream
(May 15, 2007)
OK. So I was talking to this elderly couple at the restaraunt one day, and they were telling me how they met and how she "reeled" him in with butter pecan ice cream. Somehow, we got discussing poetry, when she asked me to write her a poem. I asked her what she wanted me to write and she said, "Write me a poem about...love."
Sitting on the front porch
watching the sun set
behind the Spanish moss covered live oaks;
watching butter pecan ice cream
melt in bowls that have been filled
with chicken noodle soup,
Spaghetti-O's, and oatmeal;
watching the dusk settle in
and snuggle up to the horizon,
like you and me
and butter pecan ice cream
on the front porch.
OK. So I was talking to this elderly couple at the restaraunt one day, and they were telling me how they met and how she "reeled" him in with butter pecan ice cream. Somehow, we got discussing poetry, when she asked me to write her a poem. I asked her what she wanted me to write and she said, "Write me a poem about...love."
Sitting on the front porch
watching the sun set
behind the Spanish moss covered live oaks;
watching butter pecan ice cream
melt in bowls that have been filled
with chicken noodle soup,
Spaghetti-O's, and oatmeal;
watching the dusk settle in
and snuggle up to the horizon,
like you and me
and butter pecan ice cream
on the front porch.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Still Life
(1992-1993)
Act I: Still
An oil portrait
hung in my mind—
Romantic Renaissance—
painted for my pleasure:
But the model
moved and marred the image,
and the mood
that was infused
by its hues
has become pale.
The canvas is scrapped
and a debate ensues—
Is the pain of painting
begun anew;
or do I take up photography?
Act II: Animated
Glistening globs of oil pulled
from a pleasant palette splash
upon the empty flaxen cloth creating
puddles of powerful emotion.
Horsehair bristles tickle
the canvas
with graceful gestures arousing
the imagination—
the vision—
the real.
A moving landscape emerges
more marvelous, more meaningful, more alive
than the fruits and flowers picked
from life and left
on a table to rot;
captured only in a moment of study.
The frame is finally embraced.
(You can’t get that with the click of a button.)
Act III: Death
Painting landscapes in the rain
makes for muddied palettes
‘cause oil and water don’t mix.
The canvas abandoned
(no one said this was paint by number)
to flee the storm
is damaged and torn
by the onslaught of hail and wind.
Fuchsia blends with blue—
black and white it ain’t—
the chroma is now mono.
(Are there more than two hundred, fifty-six shades of gray?)
And as the bloody pigment puddles drip
the frame is stained
and the landscape dyed.
Has anyone seen my camera?
Act I: Still
An oil portrait
hung in my mind—
Romantic Renaissance—
painted for my pleasure:
But the model
moved and marred the image,
and the mood
that was infused
by its hues
has become pale.
The canvas is scrapped
and a debate ensues—
Is the pain of painting
begun anew;
or do I take up photography?
Act II: Animated
Glistening globs of oil pulled
from a pleasant palette splash
upon the empty flaxen cloth creating
puddles of powerful emotion.
Horsehair bristles tickle
the canvas
with graceful gestures arousing
the imagination—
the vision—
the real.
A moving landscape emerges
more marvelous, more meaningful, more alive
than the fruits and flowers picked
from life and left
on a table to rot;
captured only in a moment of study.
The frame is finally embraced.
(You can’t get that with the click of a button.)
Act III: Death
Painting landscapes in the rain
makes for muddied palettes
‘cause oil and water don’t mix.
The canvas abandoned
(no one said this was paint by number)
to flee the storm
is damaged and torn
by the onslaught of hail and wind.
Fuchsia blends with blue—
black and white it ain’t—
the chroma is now mono.
(Are there more than two hundred, fifty-six shades of gray?)
And as the bloody pigment puddles drip
the frame is stained
and the landscape dyed.
Has anyone seen my camera?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
To Burn
(1991)
Pent up passion
pressing to be poured out
from a heart so full
it is empty;
Praying for an outlet
of expression to accept
offerings from within
to without;
Pleading for release
from the ravages
of unrequited desire.
Left in silence.
Hoping for hatred
instead of apathy.
For in this hate
there is hope:
an acknowledgment of existence.
Pent up passion
pressing to be poured out
from a heart so full
it is empty;
Praying for an outlet
of expression to accept
offerings from within
to without;
Pleading for release
from the ravages
of unrequited desire.
Left in silence.
Hoping for hatred
instead of apathy.
For in this hate
there is hope:
an acknowledgment of existence.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Thoughts and Intents
"It's not the beginning of the race that's difficult, nor is it the last stretch; it's the miles in between that make it easy to want to quit."
"For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart."
The following collection was written in the mid to late 80's. I had pieced it together and printed several copies for family and friends within the ministry that I was a part of at that time (see the poem "If I Never See You Again"). The ministry was very outgoing where community involvement was concerned (a bookstore, a coffee house, concerts, feeding the needy, a pregnancy center) and very outspoken about the doctrines and teachings of Christ, with an emphasis on exhorting the church to good works. A lot of the poetry comes from that prophetic background, with a good bit of soul searching and emotional wanderings and wonderings.
Looking through this collection, I find selections that I now find "cheesy" or amateurish. And others I read and think, "Not bad. Nice line. Very insightful. Quite profound." But it was all part of the journey. All of it was written to put a piece of my heart, my soul, my mind on paper; for me to be able to see what was going on inside of me.
From my heart, soul & mind,
Jongleur the Cupbearer
SONGS OF REPROOF
Against Flesh and Blood?
Sign here
On the dotted line
Don't fear
It's during peacetime
It's clear
It's us who keep the peace
Thanks dear
For the life you've leased
I've got
to propect my freedom,
freedom to worship,
worship where I like;
freedom
freedom to speak out
about Jesus' love
so that they won't die.
Not yet
But soon they'll rape your wives
Get set
What are you, men or mice?
Those reds
They really aren't so nice
Be a vet
Kill a commie for Christ!
Onward Christian soldiers…
A Song for Billy Sunday
(chorus)
Tell me, Billy,
where have the preachers gone?
Have they all run away?
Where's the fire and the brimstone?
Where's the preaching of the cross today?
Tell me, Billy,
where have the preachers gone?
Let's look at the men of God
who have come down through the years;
Humble men who've sown the Word
in bitterness and tears.
In the days before the flood
hearts were hard with wickedness.
Yet Noah was a perfect man,
a preacher of righteousness.
Joshua, Samuel, Elijah
exhorted the people to hear.
Will you follow pagan gods?
Or serve the Lord with fear?
(chorus)
In the book of Acts we read
of Stephen whom they martyred.
He spoke the truth of Jesus
and cut the hearts they'd hardened.
Finney and Wesley and Sunday,
and other old-time godly men;
Preaching; living holiness—
sinner forsake your sin.
Now they speak of “liberty”
and living “free” from law.
Forget about repentance
and giving Jesus all.
(chorus)
In the last days shall come a famine
of hearing the word of God…
be doers of the word and not hearers only…
Him who has ears to hear,
let him hear,
oh, let him hear…
Tell me, Billy,
where have the preachers gone?
Play Acting
Yes, the world is a stage,
Has been from age to age.
All are players on it
Can't get away from it.
Give me a cue on time
And I'll read you a line.
No, it's not from the heart,
But I still play the part.
Play acting—
Tell me who is who.
Play acting—
Won't know 'til you read the review.
When the make-up is off
and we look in the mirror;
When we become doers
And not just hearers;
No longer—play acting.
I played so many parts,
I had so many hearts.
Can't tell which one is real;
Why do I play on still?
But when the curtain is down
And the house Light is on;
That is when I can see
Which one is really me.
Play acting—
Tell me who is who.
Play acting—
Won't know 'til you read the review.
When the make-up is off
and we look in the mirror;
When we become doers
And not just hearers;
Not acting.
When we put our script
Upon the shelf;
When we look at Jesus
And not ourself;
No longer—play acting.
SEVERE THOUGHTS
Valley Revisited
(Ezekiel 36:16-38)
Dry bones,
dry bones
were all Ezekiel saw.
They had no flesh;
they had no life;
shackled by the law.
This was Israel long ago;
dead men's bones
without the tomb
needing the Breath of God.
Dead meat,
dead meat
is all you have today.
There's no framework;
there's no structure;
you've left the narrow way.
This the church we have today.
“Weightier” things
left not undone
without the Mind of God.
Who will hear me, says the Lord,
who will do my word?
Him with whom my Spirit dwells
and him whose heart's not hard.
Look To Your House! (originally untitled, March 1985)
Feeble man,
theorizing theology;
cubbyhole doctrine
to fit your plan.
Gaining knowledge
you lost the truth
to faithless philosophy
and science falsely called.
Oh, man of sand
(shifting sand)
Look!
For it is the faithful doer
doing by faith
on the firm Foundation
who stands.
Burn
the fences that divide!
Break
down the fancy facades!
Build up strong walls
within the fortified city
founded upon the solid Rock.
Against the Truth (March 20, 1985)
Twisted and torn
perverted
polluted
Lies! Lies! Lies!
Why do men want to take
the simple truth
of God,
of Christ
our Lord
and change it into something
ugly,
damnable.
Seducing spirits
killing men's souls
for the sake of
killing men's souls.
Vengeance is mine;
I will repay,
saith
the Lord.
Statue of “Liberty”? (August 15, 1986)
There she stood in the distance,
Amidst the muck and mire;
Shrouded by the fog and smog—
I was not awe inspired.
Yet they lift her up and paint her face
To give her a “holy” glow.
What are her true desires
Her lips and feet do show.
You pledge allegiance to her,
Declaring her your god;
But soon she will be broken
By a heavy iron rod.
Return your face toward Jesus;
Restore your trust in God;
Remove your sin stained garments;
In His righteousness be garbed.
Inside Babylon
O mighty towered city,
your high walls
hide the open sky;
With cold indifference
you look down
on the common passerby.
O rich and noble city,
gold paved streets
leading to death's end;
The poor continue
in your sight,
yet you won't even lend.
O wise and knowing city,
brain of software,
heart as hard as steel;
You say there is no God,
deep within
you know that He is real.
O pious, holy city,
what will
your end be?
Submit (originally untitled, august 27, 1987)
What is this?
She that has been delivered
should now be the deliverer?
Was not she made the weaker vessel?
Desire for independence
has kept you distant from me;
stubbornness has secluded you.
And I am angry.
Why must you constantly persist
in being the one to wear the pants?!
Can't you see that submission to my love
is such sweet passion!
Oh, come to me and do not resist
I am your husband; you are my help.
You were made for my pleasure.
Oh, how I would protect you with my laws;
I would comfort you by the strength
of my authority! my power! my love!
SUCH AS IS COMMON TO MAN
Contemplating Sin (originally untitled, January 1986)
There is a place to
just stand
where thoughts are most
uncomfortable:
A motionless vacuum
in which many pretty
and desirable
things
swirl around your head,
catching your eye,
snatching at your heart.
All that need be done
to escape
this dizzying death
is to move into
the engulfing light.
Ah, here is the matter—
to decide to step off
the platform of this
pleasurable sickness
into the knowledge
of a death
where the only life
can be found.
In Bondage (January 1986)
In bondage to love—
a need to love
and receive love in return.
A bondage that separates
from true Love itself.
In bondage to feelings
so long held
and so very long formed.
In need of a Saviour
to free me from self.
In bondage! In bondage!
how to let go?
how to totally spurn
This thing that does bind me
from denying self?
I must be in bondage
to One who is true—
for His love I yearn.
I need only to trust Him
and forsake myself.
Proverbs 18:24 (July 6, 1986)
Distant.
All alone on a Sunday night;
Trying to surrender to this inner fight;
I feel so…
Changes occurring on every side;
Separation seems to grow ever so wide.
Is it something I've said?
Is it something I've done?
Is it some sin,
Have I left my first love?
The Lord has been faithful again and again;
I need to remember that He's still the same.
Jesus is merciful,
loving,
righteous,
and true.
Draw nigh to Him, He'll draw nigh to you.
Lot's Lot (July 22, 1986)
Just like Lot
I'm daily vexed;
My righteous soul
becomes perplexed
By blatant rebellion,
Pride and lustful sin.
Yet like Lot
I daily toil,
My holy garment
becomes soiled
With ungodly spots,
Faithless fear and doubts.
I must conform
to Christ's image
And throw off
this worldly visage.
Flee from Sodom's lack!
Flee, not looking back!
Darkened Glass (originally untitled)
Titus 2:11-15
Looking in a mirror
at an empty room
reflecting on the condition of my soul.
(Sounds kinda poetic, huh?)
I know that I'm a
lonely stranger here
sojourning to some place that I've never seen.
(So how'd I get here in the first place?)
Moving on, moving on
prodded and comforted
by the immenseness of The Living God.
(It certainty isn't U-Haul!)
Don't look in the mirror at the empty room;
but look through darkened glass
to the One who's coming soon.
unstable man in midst of temptation (August 16, 1988)
precariously balanced
on the precipice of decision
blinded
(partially willingly)
with eyes wide open
teetering toward
the expansive chasm of catastrophe
almost wanting to
DIVE
on the deadly desires
below
but fearing the fate
that would follow the fall
simultaneously
(though not as strong as
should be in such situations)
hanging on and groping for and hoping that
The Handrail will hold
And It will.
For It is firmly fixed and stable,
and holds on tighter
than It is held;
but binds only with bonds
forged by the bonded himself.
Cold Flame (March 1989)
I would that my heartstrings were cut
so as not to be blown by the slightest
breeze of Romance's breath of folly.
It seems unfair
for one to have the natural desire
burning in one's bosom
blistering the soul in solitude;
left vulnerable to the variant elements
of chance and circumstance.
Let it be swept into flames
or smothered to ashes!
The flames
dance with life;
consuming,
energetic.
Light.
Warmth.
The ashes
lay out dead;
no pain,
still.
Gray.
Cold.
This glowing ember
only smoulders;
a dull,
throbbing
ache,
on the verge of either extreme.
This lonely coal needs
the fuel of a lover's heart
and the steady wind of the Spirit of God
to ignite it into flames.
Not the illusory inferno
of Lusty Romance
(which subsides in a moment),
But the abiding Torch
of Lasting Love.
The ashes have no hope.
Alone In A Dream (March 14, 1990)
It is past midnight;
darkness has long
taken hold.
It has gripped me;
squeezed me;
twisted my bones up tight.
I look past the darkness
to a distant shore
(it is far away
(or is it?))
To a vision of loveliness; of light.
Can I see it?
Can I hold it
in my heart?
Do I dare?
How pleasant it is
in this vision—
The day is smiling; it's bright.
(Oh, will it smile for me?)
The shoreline is simple and pure.
Dancing is in the air.
See!
The birds don't care
for the impossibility
of flight.
Oh! Could it be?
I dream...
I am awake in the darkness.
Someone pull me from this sleep.
"THE SPIRIT OF MAN IS THE CANDLE OF THE LORD..."
Fragments (originally untitled)
Fragments
of broken lives
scattered
across the floor
only to be swept
away
into endless gutters.
Who
will pick up
the pieces?
Who
can make sense
of the confusion
we allow
ourselves
in?
Only He
who
has walked
these roads
can gather
the remnants,
unraveling
the confusion;
forming
new lives
when
we allow
Him
to.
Paradox (August 15, 1986)
The sun was shining
in the rain;
Reflecting joy
within the pain.
Take up your cross
and die to "me";
And you shall live
eternally.
Humble yourself
God will exalt;
Stand still and wait
with Christ you'll walk.
To God's law you must
be bound;
And you will find
where freedom's found.
Journey To An Oasis
Passing through a barren land
O'er wavy dunes of salty sand
Parch'd by the blazing sun
Weary and worn, no where to turn.
I thirst.
'Cross the steaming plain I see
A vision of an isle; of trees.
Tis this true that I see there?
It helps me none to just stare.
I search.
A well of water find I here
A river flowing crystal clear
Wondrous trees of fruit abound
A place of rest; my soul resounds!
Rebirth.
He Is Giving
He's given me friends and a family,
His grace, His comfort, His rest;
All this and more He's given to me,
You see I've truly been blessed.
What more could He possibly give me,
He's given all that there is;
His life, His love and His mercy,
The knowledge of knowing I'm His.
So why should I ask for anything more,
What more could He possibly give?
I pray that He will open more doors
So that others, like me, might live.
The Worth of a Bird (May 18, 1986)
I saw a sparrow
fall today
with not
my eyes alone.
I felt the pain
my Father feels
when one of these
has fallen.
He tells us that
He loves us more
and carefully
watches us.
This is love
unfeigned and real
and not
poetic lust.
Habitation of God (originally untitled, June 1987)
God is not pleased to dwell
in buildings of brick and stone
which are made from the sands
of the earth.
For He has created finer and grander
sanctuaries in the forests
and mountains and seas,
which are carved from nothing.
Though these are more suitable
(and the heavens far more so)
the Lord longs to dwell
in the stillness of the soul of man.
It is there that He desires to build
a beautiful and holy habitation
designed for His pleasure
that His name be known.
Mouths of Babes
Daddy?
are there still angels
and do they
still help people
and do what God says?
And Daddy
does God still
talk to people?
Sometimes
I talk to Jesus.
Sometimes…I don't.
When I grow up,
I want to be
just
like
Jesus.
…And There Was Light
Narrow bands of amber
stretching forth
from behind puffy silhouettes of clouds,
pushing back
the night blue skies.
Beneath,
a shattered reflection of the same
spread across
the broken blackness of the sea.
The Choice (November 1987)
You cannot choose to choose,
the choice has been chosen as yours:
to choose not to choose
in itself is a choice.
So choose you this day
the choice you will choose—
to be chosen or
chosen to lose.
DEDICATED TO:
You—Why Me
To Roger Armstrong: A good friend and brother in the Navy
You lift me up
when I'm feeling down.
You give me a smile
when I'm wearing a frown.
You let me know
that Love's still around.
You always remind me
that I'm not all that smart.
When I want to stop
you make me start.
You write the songs
that go deep in my heart.
The Love that you give
I can't understand;
For someone like me
I can't comprehend.
We're always together
forever—Amen.
If I Never See You Again
(memories toward the future)
for Kingdom Ministries
"Iron sharpens iron"
Grandma's love is everywhere
restless nights; sleeping days
another knock on the door
in the middle of the night
don't forget the chess game craze
broccoli
I cannot live with that person
first or second shift
through the strife and gossip and discontent
I see Jesus in you
why did some turn and go?
the years have come and went
Chuck
"Crap or get off the pot!"
"I LOVE YOU, JESUS!!!"
broken strings and prophesying
"The devil is a bone-breath."
One, Two or Three
broken hearts and poetry writing
The Purge of '85
it Never Gets Cold
with the Razor Strap Waltz
Mylon, David, Danny, Lenny
depression, submission
rebellion, commitment
Bro. Stair, Bro. Den, Bro. Bruce, Bro. Ely
Love Lines
Best hamburger in town
sidewalks are cold
more work, more pain
how many radio shows?
need to pack groceries
more tears, more gain
the garage
hymns for a hangover
button, button, who's got the buttons
dead horses at family meetings
Friday night to Tuesday night
Givhan's State Park
Alex's is where the gates are meeting
The Time Machine
is picking your nose a sin?
Last Days in America
CO does not stand for commanding officer
speaking in tongues
I Timothy 3:16; I John 5:7; Colossians 2:9; etc.
Just one last verse.
"That's right, bubba. That's right."
Honeysuckle Morning
A poem for Grandma Gatrelle
The morning mist
rests upon the treetops,
its tender dew
left clinging to each blade of grass.
Already the sparrows and field mice
are gathered about the lawn
seeking an early meal.
And the honeysuckle
that blankets the background
shares its fragrance
with them that love the new day;
the day the Lord has given.
The Canary (July 17, 1988)
A poem for Vinnie Pascalino
I feel alone
and confused...
going from one massive head-trip
to another.
Where is the love? Oh, where is the love?
Once upon a noonday dreary,
while I wondered weak and weary,
What to my wondering eyes should appear…
But a canary!
He certainly wasn't much to look at.
His dull feathers reflected
my melancholy mood.
But when he burst into song
the Light shone in his eyes…
and we laughed.
So I took him
and put him
in a cage.
(But canaries should be free;
they don't belong in a cage
(or a box for that matter).)
Then one night when the moon was bright,
the canary
flew away.
I'm glad the canary was here.
I'll miss the canary.
I hope the Light
stays in his eyes…
and maybe the song
will burst elsewhere.
Looking through this collection, I find selections that I now find "cheesy" or amateurish. And others I read and think, "Not bad. Nice line. Very insightful. Quite profound." But it was all part of the journey. All of it was written to put a piece of my heart, my soul, my mind on paper; for me to be able to see what was going on inside of me.
From my heart, soul & mind,
Jongleur the Cupbearer
SONGS OF REPROOF
Against Flesh and Blood?
Sign here
On the dotted line
Don't fear
It's during peacetime
It's clear
It's us who keep the peace
Thanks dear
For the life you've leased
I've got
to propect my freedom,
freedom to worship,
worship where I like;
freedom
freedom to speak out
about Jesus' love
so that they won't die.
Not yet
But soon they'll rape your wives
Get set
What are you, men or mice?
Those reds
They really aren't so nice
Be a vet
Kill a commie for Christ!
Onward Christian soldiers…
A Song for Billy Sunday
(chorus)
Tell me, Billy,
where have the preachers gone?
Have they all run away?
Where's the fire and the brimstone?
Where's the preaching of the cross today?
Tell me, Billy,
where have the preachers gone?
Let's look at the men of God
who have come down through the years;
Humble men who've sown the Word
in bitterness and tears.
In the days before the flood
hearts were hard with wickedness.
Yet Noah was a perfect man,
a preacher of righteousness.
Joshua, Samuel, Elijah
exhorted the people to hear.
Will you follow pagan gods?
Or serve the Lord with fear?
(chorus)
In the book of Acts we read
of Stephen whom they martyred.
He spoke the truth of Jesus
and cut the hearts they'd hardened.
Finney and Wesley and Sunday,
and other old-time godly men;
Preaching; living holiness—
sinner forsake your sin.
Now they speak of “liberty”
and living “free” from law.
Forget about repentance
and giving Jesus all.
(chorus)
In the last days shall come a famine
of hearing the word of God…
be doers of the word and not hearers only…
Him who has ears to hear,
let him hear,
oh, let him hear…
Tell me, Billy,
where have the preachers gone?
Play Acting
Yes, the world is a stage,
Has been from age to age.
All are players on it
Can't get away from it.
Give me a cue on time
And I'll read you a line.
No, it's not from the heart,
But I still play the part.
Play acting—
Tell me who is who.
Play acting—
Won't know 'til you read the review.
When the make-up is off
and we look in the mirror;
When we become doers
And not just hearers;
No longer—play acting.
I played so many parts,
I had so many hearts.
Can't tell which one is real;
Why do I play on still?
But when the curtain is down
And the house Light is on;
That is when I can see
Which one is really me.
Play acting—
Tell me who is who.
Play acting—
Won't know 'til you read the review.
When the make-up is off
and we look in the mirror;
When we become doers
And not just hearers;
Not acting.
When we put our script
Upon the shelf;
When we look at Jesus
And not ourself;
No longer—play acting.
SEVERE THOUGHTS
Valley Revisited
(Ezekiel 36:16-38)
Dry bones,
dry bones
were all Ezekiel saw.
They had no flesh;
they had no life;
shackled by the law.
This was Israel long ago;
dead men's bones
without the tomb
needing the Breath of God.
Dead meat,
dead meat
is all you have today.
There's no framework;
there's no structure;
you've left the narrow way.
This the church we have today.
“Weightier” things
left not undone
without the Mind of God.
Who will hear me, says the Lord,
who will do my word?
Him with whom my Spirit dwells
and him whose heart's not hard.
Look To Your House! (originally untitled, March 1985)
Feeble man,
theorizing theology;
cubbyhole doctrine
to fit your plan.
Gaining knowledge
you lost the truth
to faithless philosophy
and science falsely called.
Oh, man of sand
(shifting sand)
Look!
For it is the faithful doer
doing by faith
on the firm Foundation
who stands.
Burn
the fences that divide!
Break
down the fancy facades!
Build up strong walls
within the fortified city
founded upon the solid Rock.
Against the Truth (March 20, 1985)
Twisted and torn
perverted
polluted
Lies! Lies! Lies!
Why do men want to take
the simple truth
of God,
of Christ
our Lord
and change it into something
ugly,
damnable.
Seducing spirits
killing men's souls
for the sake of
killing men's souls.
Vengeance is mine;
I will repay,
saith
the Lord.
Statue of “Liberty”? (August 15, 1986)
There she stood in the distance,
Amidst the muck and mire;
Shrouded by the fog and smog—
I was not awe inspired.
Yet they lift her up and paint her face
To give her a “holy” glow.
What are her true desires
Her lips and feet do show.
You pledge allegiance to her,
Declaring her your god;
But soon she will be broken
By a heavy iron rod.
Return your face toward Jesus;
Restore your trust in God;
Remove your sin stained garments;
In His righteousness be garbed.
Inside Babylon
O mighty towered city,
your high walls
hide the open sky;
With cold indifference
you look down
on the common passerby.
O rich and noble city,
gold paved streets
leading to death's end;
The poor continue
in your sight,
yet you won't even lend.
O wise and knowing city,
brain of software,
heart as hard as steel;
You say there is no God,
deep within
you know that He is real.
O pious, holy city,
what will
your end be?
Submit (originally untitled, august 27, 1987)
What is this?
She that has been delivered
should now be the deliverer?
Was not she made the weaker vessel?
Desire for independence
has kept you distant from me;
stubbornness has secluded you.
And I am angry.
Why must you constantly persist
in being the one to wear the pants?!
Can't you see that submission to my love
is such sweet passion!
Oh, come to me and do not resist
I am your husband; you are my help.
You were made for my pleasure.
Oh, how I would protect you with my laws;
I would comfort you by the strength
of my authority! my power! my love!
SUCH AS IS COMMON TO MAN
Contemplating Sin (originally untitled, January 1986)
There is a place to
just stand
where thoughts are most
uncomfortable:
A motionless vacuum
in which many pretty
and desirable
things
swirl around your head,
catching your eye,
snatching at your heart.
All that need be done
to escape
this dizzying death
is to move into
the engulfing light.
Ah, here is the matter—
to decide to step off
the platform of this
pleasurable sickness
into the knowledge
of a death
where the only life
can be found.
In Bondage (January 1986)
In bondage to love—
a need to love
and receive love in return.
A bondage that separates
from true Love itself.
In bondage to feelings
so long held
and so very long formed.
In need of a Saviour
to free me from self.
In bondage! In bondage!
how to let go?
how to totally spurn
This thing that does bind me
from denying self?
I must be in bondage
to One who is true—
for His love I yearn.
I need only to trust Him
and forsake myself.
Proverbs 18:24 (July 6, 1986)
Distant.
All alone on a Sunday night;
Trying to surrender to this inner fight;
I feel so…
Changes occurring on every side;
Separation seems to grow ever so wide.
Is it something I've said?
Is it something I've done?
Is it some sin,
Have I left my first love?
The Lord has been faithful again and again;
I need to remember that He's still the same.
Jesus is merciful,
loving,
righteous,
and true.
Draw nigh to Him, He'll draw nigh to you.
Lot's Lot (July 22, 1986)
Just like Lot
I'm daily vexed;
My righteous soul
becomes perplexed
By blatant rebellion,
Pride and lustful sin.
Yet like Lot
I daily toil,
My holy garment
becomes soiled
With ungodly spots,
Faithless fear and doubts.
I must conform
to Christ's image
And throw off
this worldly visage.
Flee from Sodom's lack!
Flee, not looking back!
Darkened Glass (originally untitled)
Titus 2:11-15
Looking in a mirror
at an empty room
reflecting on the condition of my soul.
(Sounds kinda poetic, huh?)
I know that I'm a
lonely stranger here
sojourning to some place that I've never seen.
(So how'd I get here in the first place?)
Moving on, moving on
prodded and comforted
by the immenseness of The Living God.
(It certainty isn't U-Haul!)
Don't look in the mirror at the empty room;
but look through darkened glass
to the One who's coming soon.
unstable man in midst of temptation (August 16, 1988)
precariously balanced
on the precipice of decision
blinded
(partially willingly)
with eyes wide open
teetering toward
the expansive chasm of catastrophe
almost wanting to
DIVE
on the deadly desires
below
but fearing the fate
that would follow the fall
simultaneously
(though not as strong as
should be in such situations)
hanging on and groping for and hoping that
The Handrail will hold
And It will.
For It is firmly fixed and stable,
and holds on tighter
than It is held;
but binds only with bonds
forged by the bonded himself.
Cold Flame (March 1989)
I would that my heartstrings were cut
so as not to be blown by the slightest
breeze of Romance's breath of folly.
It seems unfair
for one to have the natural desire
burning in one's bosom
blistering the soul in solitude;
left vulnerable to the variant elements
of chance and circumstance.
Let it be swept into flames
or smothered to ashes!
The flames
dance with life;
consuming,
energetic.
Light.
Warmth.
The ashes
lay out dead;
no pain,
still.
Gray.
Cold.
This glowing ember
only smoulders;
a dull,
throbbing
ache,
on the verge of either extreme.
This lonely coal needs
the fuel of a lover's heart
and the steady wind of the Spirit of God
to ignite it into flames.
Not the illusory inferno
of Lusty Romance
(which subsides in a moment),
But the abiding Torch
of Lasting Love.
The ashes have no hope.
Alone In A Dream (March 14, 1990)
It is past midnight;
darkness has long
taken hold.
It has gripped me;
squeezed me;
twisted my bones up tight.
I look past the darkness
to a distant shore
(it is far away
(or is it?))
To a vision of loveliness; of light.
Can I see it?
Can I hold it
in my heart?
Do I dare?
How pleasant it is
in this vision—
The day is smiling; it's bright.
(Oh, will it smile for me?)
The shoreline is simple and pure.
Dancing is in the air.
See!
The birds don't care
for the impossibility
of flight.
Oh! Could it be?
I dream...
I am awake in the darkness.
Someone pull me from this sleep.
"THE SPIRIT OF MAN IS THE CANDLE OF THE LORD..."
Fragments (originally untitled)
Fragments
of broken lives
scattered
across the floor
only to be swept
away
into endless gutters.
Who
will pick up
the pieces?
Who
can make sense
of the confusion
we allow
ourselves
in?
Only He
who
has walked
these roads
can gather
the remnants,
unraveling
the confusion;
forming
new lives
when
we allow
Him
to.
Paradox (August 15, 1986)
The sun was shining
in the rain;
Reflecting joy
within the pain.
Take up your cross
and die to "me";
And you shall live
eternally.
Humble yourself
God will exalt;
Stand still and wait
with Christ you'll walk.
To God's law you must
be bound;
And you will find
where freedom's found.
Journey To An Oasis
Passing through a barren land
O'er wavy dunes of salty sand
Parch'd by the blazing sun
Weary and worn, no where to turn.
I thirst.
'Cross the steaming plain I see
A vision of an isle; of trees.
Tis this true that I see there?
It helps me none to just stare.
I search.
A well of water find I here
A river flowing crystal clear
Wondrous trees of fruit abound
A place of rest; my soul resounds!
Rebirth.
He Is Giving
He's given me friends and a family,
His grace, His comfort, His rest;
All this and more He's given to me,
You see I've truly been blessed.
What more could He possibly give me,
He's given all that there is;
His life, His love and His mercy,
The knowledge of knowing I'm His.
So why should I ask for anything more,
What more could He possibly give?
I pray that He will open more doors
So that others, like me, might live.
The Worth of a Bird (May 18, 1986)
I saw a sparrow
fall today
with not
my eyes alone.
I felt the pain
my Father feels
when one of these
has fallen.
He tells us that
He loves us more
and carefully
watches us.
This is love
unfeigned and real
and not
poetic lust.
Habitation of God (originally untitled, June 1987)
God is not pleased to dwell
in buildings of brick and stone
which are made from the sands
of the earth.
For He has created finer and grander
sanctuaries in the forests
and mountains and seas,
which are carved from nothing.
Though these are more suitable
(and the heavens far more so)
the Lord longs to dwell
in the stillness of the soul of man.
It is there that He desires to build
a beautiful and holy habitation
designed for His pleasure
that His name be known.
Mouths of Babes
Daddy?
are there still angels
and do they
still help people
and do what God says?
And Daddy
does God still
talk to people?
Sometimes
I talk to Jesus.
Sometimes…I don't.
When I grow up,
I want to be
just
like
Jesus.
…And There Was Light
Narrow bands of amber
stretching forth
from behind puffy silhouettes of clouds,
pushing back
the night blue skies.
Beneath,
a shattered reflection of the same
spread across
the broken blackness of the sea.
The Choice (November 1987)
You cannot choose to choose,
the choice has been chosen as yours:
to choose not to choose
in itself is a choice.
So choose you this day
the choice you will choose—
to be chosen or
chosen to lose.
DEDICATED TO:
You—Why Me
To Roger Armstrong: A good friend and brother in the Navy
You lift me up
when I'm feeling down.
You give me a smile
when I'm wearing a frown.
You let me know
that Love's still around.
You always remind me
that I'm not all that smart.
When I want to stop
you make me start.
You write the songs
that go deep in my heart.
The Love that you give
I can't understand;
For someone like me
I can't comprehend.
We're always together
forever—Amen.
If I Never See You Again
(memories toward the future)
for Kingdom Ministries
"Iron sharpens iron"
Grandma's love is everywhere
restless nights; sleeping days
another knock on the door
in the middle of the night
don't forget the chess game craze
broccoli
I cannot live with that person
first or second shift
through the strife and gossip and discontent
I see Jesus in you
why did some turn and go?
the years have come and went
Chuck
"Crap or get off the pot!"
"I LOVE YOU, JESUS!!!"
broken strings and prophesying
"The devil is a bone-breath."
One, Two or Three
broken hearts and poetry writing
The Purge of '85
it Never Gets Cold
with the Razor Strap Waltz
Mylon, David, Danny, Lenny
depression, submission
rebellion, commitment
Bro. Stair, Bro. Den, Bro. Bruce, Bro. Ely
Love Lines
Best hamburger in town
sidewalks are cold
more work, more pain
how many radio shows?
need to pack groceries
more tears, more gain
the garage
hymns for a hangover
button, button, who's got the buttons
dead horses at family meetings
Friday night to Tuesday night
Givhan's State Park
Alex's is where the gates are meeting
The Time Machine
is picking your nose a sin?
Last Days in America
CO does not stand for commanding officer
speaking in tongues
I Timothy 3:16; I John 5:7; Colossians 2:9; etc.
Just one last verse.
"That's right, bubba. That's right."
Honeysuckle Morning
A poem for Grandma Gatrelle
The morning mist
rests upon the treetops,
its tender dew
left clinging to each blade of grass.
Already the sparrows and field mice
are gathered about the lawn
seeking an early meal.
And the honeysuckle
that blankets the background
shares its fragrance
with them that love the new day;
the day the Lord has given.
The Canary (July 17, 1988)
A poem for Vinnie Pascalino
I feel alone
and confused...
going from one massive head-trip
to another.
Where is the love? Oh, where is the love?
Once upon a noonday dreary,
while I wondered weak and weary,
What to my wondering eyes should appear…
But a canary!
He certainly wasn't much to look at.
His dull feathers reflected
my melancholy mood.
But when he burst into song
the Light shone in his eyes…
and we laughed.
So I took him
and put him
in a cage.
(But canaries should be free;
they don't belong in a cage
(or a box for that matter).)
Then one night when the moon was bright,
the canary
flew away.
I'm glad the canary was here.
I'll miss the canary.
I hope the Light
stays in his eyes…
and maybe the song
will burst elsewhere.
Where is the love? Oh, where is the love?
God is love.
Where two or more are gathered in my name.
Sharp Truth
I've come to the conclusion
that my happy delusions
are more of a fatality
than the pain of reality.
"For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart."
Hebrews 4:12, KJV
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