(June 18, 2004)
This poem will probably cause some uproar among "religious" people. I mean no disrespect. It was written with great reverence. The intent is to show the utter earthiness, the dirt and stink and human manure, in which God put Himself.
Wiping his ass with his left hand
leaving the predetermined area
away from the community;
wandering among the throngs who had come
for God knows what;
inhaling the tangy salt of sweat,
his own and that of the multitude,
mingled with sea air;
exhaling three decades of breath coated with
wine and fish, milk and honey,
devoid of Listerine™;
scratching an itch in an encrusted right nostril;
ignoring the gnawings of his own belly;
lifting dusty heels and dirty toenails up a hill
to offer thanks and break bread and fish
with both hands.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Midnight Daydreams
(May 2004)
Daydreaming at midnight
when REM should be producing
Freudian or Jungian or Lithuanian images.
Daily lethargy induces
drowsiness
and any inclination toward movement
is postponed.
Propping up the pillow of low expectations
keeps the thought of even putting on slippers
unlikely.
The alarm should be set
for an early wake-up call
to dream in the daylight.
Daydreaming at midnight
when REM should be producing
Freudian or Jungian or Lithuanian images.
Daily lethargy induces
drowsiness
and any inclination toward movement
is postponed.
Propping up the pillow of low expectations
keeps the thought of even putting on slippers
unlikely.
The alarm should be set
for an early wake-up call
to dream in the daylight.
Mama’s Ragdoll (a photo-album for Jane, her mother, and her granddaughter)
(March 5, 2004)
My friend Jane and I were discussing the relationships she has with her mother and granddaughter, and the difficulty she was having translating that into sculpture. The more we talked the more the words formed the picture in my mind. Jane asked if I would put those pictures in writing. When I first presented the poem to her there were only the two major stanzas and the bridge. She told me it wasn't finished. She was right.
Stocking footed
standing on the back stoop,
tiny hands clutching
cotton stuffed cloth—
limp from nights of being slept and dreamt on;
red polka dotted dress stained
at picnics and tea parties under the trees;
blue embroidered eyes smiling,
while innocent eyes search the open sky
for Mother flying away to meet Father.
Sepia snapshots drift.
Black and white photos linger.
Full color images flash.
Knee highs and flats
sitting by the bedside,
older hands caressing
skin and bone—
limp from days of not sleeping, no longer dreaming;
pale rosy flesh drained
from dinners and cocktail parties under the stars;
fading gray eyes smiling
while mature eyes scour the open Sky,
Mama goes the way Daddy went.
Silver halides scan.
Shades of gray focus.
High resolutions dim.
Barefoot toes
pad across the floor,
chubby hands clasping
terry cloth covering—
limp from not napping, video dreams;
sunburned freckles gained
from snacks and games under the sun;
baby blue eyes smiling
while tender eyes ponder an open sky,
as Mom jets off with Dad.
My friend Jane and I were discussing the relationships she has with her mother and granddaughter, and the difficulty she was having translating that into sculpture. The more we talked the more the words formed the picture in my mind. Jane asked if I would put those pictures in writing. When I first presented the poem to her there were only the two major stanzas and the bridge. She told me it wasn't finished. She was right.
Stocking footed
standing on the back stoop,
tiny hands clutching
cotton stuffed cloth—
limp from nights of being slept and dreamt on;
red polka dotted dress stained
at picnics and tea parties under the trees;
blue embroidered eyes smiling,
while innocent eyes search the open sky
for Mother flying away to meet Father.
Sepia snapshots drift.
Black and white photos linger.
Full color images flash.
Knee highs and flats
sitting by the bedside,
older hands caressing
skin and bone—
limp from days of not sleeping, no longer dreaming;
pale rosy flesh drained
from dinners and cocktail parties under the stars;
fading gray eyes smiling
while mature eyes scour the open Sky,
Mama goes the way Daddy went.
Silver halides scan.
Shades of gray focus.
High resolutions dim.
Barefoot toes
pad across the floor,
chubby hands clasping
terry cloth covering—
limp from not napping, video dreams;
sunburned freckles gained
from snacks and games under the sun;
baby blue eyes smiling
while tender eyes ponder an open sky,
as Mom jets off with Dad.
Red Ribbon
(January 2004)
Reaching for
a ribbon of red
hung
at the edge of the earth;
touched
by the fringes of the mind—
circumnavigation…
now to the east,
then to the west.
Lapsing into
improbable daydreams
feared
like a nightmare,
enjoyed
like a fantasy;
a lasting moment
of tomorrow
from yesterday.
Clinging to
rose-coloured vapors
held
by sweaty fingertips
kept
at arms length—
perspective
seen farsighted
from nearsighted eyes.
Looking at
a heartfelt
want
for an ethereal prize
hung
on a deflated chest;
a distant illusion
of tinted emptiness
that fills the horizon.
Reaching for
a red ribbon
hung
at the edge,
touched
by the mind.
Reaching for
a ribbon of red
hung
at the edge of the earth;
touched
by the fringes of the mind—
circumnavigation…
now to the east,
then to the west.
Lapsing into
improbable daydreams
feared
like a nightmare,
enjoyed
like a fantasy;
a lasting moment
of tomorrow
from yesterday.
Clinging to
rose-coloured vapors
held
by sweaty fingertips
kept
at arms length—
perspective
seen farsighted
from nearsighted eyes.
Looking at
a heartfelt
want
for an ethereal prize
hung
on a deflated chest;
a distant illusion
of tinted emptiness
that fills the horizon.
Reaching for
a red ribbon
hung
at the edge,
touched
by the mind.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Questioning Poets
(2003)
Poets don't have all the answers—
they just know how to
formulate the questions.
They're looking,
asking,
trying to answer.
And maybe,
just maybe,
the questions answer themselves
in the searching.
And maybe,
just maybe,
we don't know diddly squat.
Poets don't have all the answers—
they just know how to
formulate the questions.
They're looking,
asking,
trying to answer.
And maybe,
just maybe,
the questions answer themselves
in the searching.
And maybe,
just maybe,
we don't know diddly squat.
Patient Supplication
(2003)
Sitting beneath a dead tree
gnarled fingers
bleached and cracked
by pounding rains and scorching suns,
broken and bent
by gusting winds,
hollowed
by hungry ants,
claw and scratch the cloud-covered sky.
Sitting beneath a dead tree
gnarled fingers
bleached and cracked
by pounding rains and scorching suns,
broken and bent
by gusting winds,
hollowed
by hungry ants,
claw and scratch the cloud-covered sky.
Lamentations 9:11
(December 2003)
This poem was not going to be written. After 9/11, I knew that there would be a plethera of poems written. No need to add to the pile. After watching a documentary filled with visual remnants of history I witnessed live on national television, I realized that my perception was unique and that it was necessary that I pen my thoughts.
This poem was not going to be written. After 9/11, I knew that there would be a plethera of poems written. No need to add to the pile. After watching a documentary filled with visual remnants of history I witnessed live on national television, I realized that my perception was unique and that it was necessary that I pen my thoughts.
1
Long ago,
just yesterday,
live on the breakroom TV,
outsiders poked a hole
in our secure way of life.
2
Lives were lost,
confidences shaken;
agencies formed,
privacy taken.
3
And life as we know it
changed.
4
Weep for the victims
not knowing—
how could they know?
that they were someone’s enemy
marked for death,
innocent or guilty,
unprepared
to put in order things left undone:
afraid, brave,
lost, found—
a thousand stories in two hundred and twenty,
one-fifth of five,
and in the air;
all memorialized in silent speeches
shouted from the rooftops.
5
Weep for the families and friends
not knowing,
wanting to know,
not wanting to know;
passing out pictures of missing,
still missing their faces;
praying to a God they know
or don’t know
or never thought about knowing
until now;
questioning
(can we presume to know?);
breathless,
hearts barely beating,
bloated with blood;
searing pain hotter than flaming fuel,
heavier than crushed concrete.
6
Weep for the heroes
not knowing, yet knowing.
Relentless in their efforts
and hopes
of pulling
even one single, solitary
life
from the heap
of arms and legs
and twisted pickup sticks of steel
and buckets of scrap.
7
Weep for generations to come
not knowing nor comprehending
a federal holiday celebrated
with a day off from work,
picnics, and beer;
the impact on those who
watched
in the streets;
stood
in front of televisions for hours
unproductive, unbelieving, not knowing
what collapsed that day.
8
Weep for the misled and deceived,
not knowing, unknown;
fearful pawns
expecting lasting peace
with violence,
afraid to believe the truth,
blinded by centuries of hate
and vengeance
that does not belong to them;
executing kamikaze heroism.
9
Weep for the misleaders,
not knowing or caring to know
because they know
and are certain
beyond their darkened shadow
of doubt
that God sanctions
and demands their sin;
blind leaders of blind—
the bin Ladens, Husseins, McVeighs.
Weep
that they should be,
that they are—
warped and twisted humanity
bent against humanity;
Freewill misused
for a god, for a nation, for self.
10
Weep for yourself.
And know…
know.
Know love, compassion, mercy;
know tomorrow never comes,
yesterday is gone,
and all the other cliches
are true.
Know yourself.
Know others.
Know God.
11
Dust rained,
Darkness fell,
A light glowed in the smoke.
The hole will be filled,
A day will be marked,
And the second law of thermodynamics will continue.
Long ago,
just yesterday,
live on the breakroom TV,
outsiders poked a hole
in our secure way of life.
2
Lives were lost,
confidences shaken;
agencies formed,
privacy taken.
3
And life as we know it
changed.
4
Weep for the victims
not knowing—
how could they know?
that they were someone’s enemy
marked for death,
innocent or guilty,
unprepared
to put in order things left undone:
afraid, brave,
lost, found—
a thousand stories in two hundred and twenty,
one-fifth of five,
and in the air;
all memorialized in silent speeches
shouted from the rooftops.
5
Weep for the families and friends
not knowing,
wanting to know,
not wanting to know;
passing out pictures of missing,
still missing their faces;
praying to a God they know
or don’t know
or never thought about knowing
until now;
questioning
(can we presume to know?);
breathless,
hearts barely beating,
bloated with blood;
searing pain hotter than flaming fuel,
heavier than crushed concrete.
6
Weep for the heroes
not knowing, yet knowing.
Relentless in their efforts
and hopes
of pulling
even one single, solitary
life
from the heap
of arms and legs
and twisted pickup sticks of steel
and buckets of scrap.
7
Weep for generations to come
not knowing nor comprehending
a federal holiday celebrated
with a day off from work,
picnics, and beer;
the impact on those who
watched
in the streets;
stood
in front of televisions for hours
unproductive, unbelieving, not knowing
what collapsed that day.
8
Weep for the misled and deceived,
not knowing, unknown;
fearful pawns
expecting lasting peace
with violence,
afraid to believe the truth,
blinded by centuries of hate
and vengeance
that does not belong to them;
executing kamikaze heroism.
9
Weep for the misleaders,
not knowing or caring to know
because they know
and are certain
beyond their darkened shadow
of doubt
that God sanctions
and demands their sin;
blind leaders of blind—
the bin Ladens, Husseins, McVeighs.
Weep
that they should be,
that they are—
warped and twisted humanity
bent against humanity;
Freewill misused
for a god, for a nation, for self.
10
Weep for yourself.
And know…
know.
Know love, compassion, mercy;
know tomorrow never comes,
yesterday is gone,
and all the other cliches
are true.
Know yourself.
Know others.
Know God.
11
Dust rained,
Darkness fell,
A light glowed in the smoke.
The hole will be filled,
A day will be marked,
And the second law of thermodynamics will continue.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
An Evening Suburban Symphony
(November 15, 2003)
Shadows in the darkness,
moonlight in the dusk;
shades drawn,
streets lit,
amphitheatre set.
Choruses of lone TVs
punctuated mumblings,
muffled melody.
Waves of traffic
whisper, wash—
distant lullaby.
Canines echo
short, sharp—sure;
offbeat back beat.
Crickets dance
pirouette and two-step:
contemplative muse.
Bullfrogs flirt
amphibious Barry White,
sensual sonnet.
Muted breezes slide
brushing leaves,
caressing counterpoint.
Solo bird song
peppy piping—pause:
subdued finale.
Shadows in the darkness,
moonlight in the dusk;
shades drawn,
streets lit,
amphitheatre set.
Choruses of lone TVs
punctuated mumblings,
muffled melody.
Waves of traffic
whisper, wash—
distant lullaby.
Canines echo
short, sharp—sure;
offbeat back beat.
Crickets dance
pirouette and two-step:
contemplative muse.
Bullfrogs flirt
amphibious Barry White,
sensual sonnet.
Muted breezes slide
brushing leaves,
caressing counterpoint.
Solo bird song
peppy piping—pause:
subdued finale.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
I Wear A Watch
July 8, 2003
This poem received an Honorable Mention at the 2003 Harvest of the Arts in Rock Hill, SC.
I wear a watch.
Time was
you watched the sun,
the horizon rolling to meet the next;
clouds sauntering past.
You watched the moon
inhale and exhale a steady rhythm;
stars standing still.
You watched apple blossoms
squeeze out fleshy fruit to be pressed;
robins losing interest.
You watched dried leaves
take turns letting go and letting God;
squirrels making investments.
You watched snowflakes
parachute, then pummel—building barricades;
naked trees trembling.
You watched grass green,
flowers yellow, red, orange, white;
raindrops trickling their fancy.
Time was
you watched the sun;
time moved at its own pace;
your place in time took its time.
I wear a watch.
This poem received an Honorable Mention at the 2003 Harvest of the Arts in Rock Hill, SC.
I wear a watch.
Time was
you watched the sun,
the horizon rolling to meet the next;
clouds sauntering past.
You watched the moon
inhale and exhale a steady rhythm;
stars standing still.
You watched apple blossoms
squeeze out fleshy fruit to be pressed;
robins losing interest.
You watched dried leaves
take turns letting go and letting God;
squirrels making investments.
You watched snowflakes
parachute, then pummel—building barricades;
naked trees trembling.
You watched grass green,
flowers yellow, red, orange, white;
raindrops trickling their fancy.
Time was
you watched the sun;
time moved at its own pace;
your place in time took its time.
I wear a watch.
Bottles
(March 2003)
Broken and unbroken
bottles lying in a ditch;
some clear, some brown,
some labeled, others—
who knows—
soda, beer, wine.
All dirty.
All empty.
And they’re all in the ditch.
Broken and unbroken
bottles lying in a ditch;
some clear, some brown,
some labeled, others—
who knows—
soda, beer, wine.
All dirty.
All empty.
And they’re all in the ditch.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
To Be A Man
(March 20, 2003)
Be warned. This one is a little raw. But it's part of the question.
What does it mean
to be a man?
Is it shafts and cams,
oil and grit?
Breaking your knuckles,
sweat and spit?
The gridiron, the nine iron,
the hoops, or the stick?
The pigskin, the sheepskin,
the foreskinned dick?
Jack-of-all-trades or
Master of one?
Phd-ed, MBA-ed,
learned on your own?
Macho? Bravero?
Mucho? Camero?
Does it take a slow hand
all night long?
A five minute cameo,
dance and a song?
Is it the size of your penis,
your paycheck, your car?
Is it time spent with family,
your hobbies, the bar?
Should you leap tall buildings
in a single bound?
Have feet firmly planted
here on the ground?
Do real men love Jesus, like quiche, hate pink?
Must you be a beer guzzling,
belch busting,
gas passing,
son of a bitch?
Or wine tasting,
palette cleansing,
reflux suppressing,
proud to be rich?
Do you have to be hawk-like,
bull-headed, wise as a snake?
Someone please tell me
what does it take
to be a man?
Be warned. This one is a little raw. But it's part of the question.
What does it mean
to be a man?
Is it shafts and cams,
oil and grit?
Breaking your knuckles,
sweat and spit?
The gridiron, the nine iron,
the hoops, or the stick?
The pigskin, the sheepskin,
the foreskinned dick?
Jack-of-all-trades or
Master of one?
Phd-ed, MBA-ed,
learned on your own?
Macho? Bravero?
Mucho? Camero?
Does it take a slow hand
all night long?
A five minute cameo,
dance and a song?
Is it the size of your penis,
your paycheck, your car?
Is it time spent with family,
your hobbies, the bar?
Should you leap tall buildings
in a single bound?
Have feet firmly planted
here on the ground?
Do real men love Jesus, like quiche, hate pink?
Must you be a beer guzzling,
belch busting,
gas passing,
son of a bitch?
Or wine tasting,
palette cleansing,
reflux suppressing,
proud to be rich?
Do you have to be hawk-like,
bull-headed, wise as a snake?
Someone please tell me
what does it take
to be a man?
Why Is Red Red?
(March 6, 2003)
Why is red red?
Was it made for the ladybug in the garden bed?
Why is orange orange?
Without it would an orange be an orange?
Why is yellow yellow?
Would the sun be less bright on the earth below?
Why is green green?
What color would you make the grass or a bean?
Why is blue blue?
Can you image the sky another hue?
Why is purple purple?
Is it just for plums or bunches of grapes so full?
Why is brown brown?
How else would you color leaves when they fall down?
Why is black black?
Does it help us to see the stripes on a zebra’s back?
Why is white white?
How else could you see the stars shine at night?
All the colors of the rainbow,
All the colors of the world
Are the colors that those colors are
So that all is as it should.
Why is red red?
Was it made for the ladybug in the garden bed?
Why is orange orange?
Without it would an orange be an orange?
Why is yellow yellow?
Would the sun be less bright on the earth below?
Why is green green?
What color would you make the grass or a bean?
Why is blue blue?
Can you image the sky another hue?
Why is purple purple?
Is it just for plums or bunches of grapes so full?
Why is brown brown?
How else would you color leaves when they fall down?
Why is black black?
Does it help us to see the stripes on a zebra’s back?
Why is white white?
How else could you see the stars shine at night?
All the colors of the rainbow,
All the colors of the world
Are the colors that those colors are
So that all is as it should.
What Is War? (an answer to Catherine's question)
(March 5, 2003)
When my daughter Catherine was 10, she couldn't help but notice all the news concerning the post-9/11 war situation. And with all the talk in school on the subject she was quite concerned. She asked me this simple question and at the time I had no simple answer that I felt was acceptable to her young mind. After some consideration, I wrote her this poem.
War is a big argument between two or more countries.
Some people take sides. Some are friends.
Some are enemies.
War is sad.
It’s when Daddies and Mommies, brothers, sisters, uncles and cousins go away
and may never come back.
Some come home heroes. Some come home hurt.
War may help some people. War hurts lots of people.
Things get broken—really bad.
War is loud. And ugly. And dark.
War is about big words like freedom
and liberty
and injustice
and ideals.
Sometimes these big words make sense.
Sometimes they don’t.
What is war?
I wish I didn’t know.
When my daughter Catherine was 10, she couldn't help but notice all the news concerning the post-9/11 war situation. And with all the talk in school on the subject she was quite concerned. She asked me this simple question and at the time I had no simple answer that I felt was acceptable to her young mind. After some consideration, I wrote her this poem.
War is a big argument between two or more countries.
Some people take sides. Some are friends.
Some are enemies.
War is sad.
It’s when Daddies and Mommies, brothers, sisters, uncles and cousins go away
and may never come back.
Some come home heroes. Some come home hurt.
War may help some people. War hurts lots of people.
Things get broken—really bad.
War is loud. And ugly. And dark.
War is about big words like freedom
and liberty
and injustice
and ideals.
Sometimes these big words make sense.
Sometimes they don’t.
What is war?
I wish I didn’t know.
No One Listens To Poets
(February 13, 2003)
Writing madly
about justice and injustice,
the inner man and
outer beauty;
feverishly chronicling
moods and feelings and
thoughts and ideas
that make the learned man squirm
and the uninitiated exclaim
“Oh, isn’t that pretty.”
Giving voice to the intangible,
form to the unseeable,
life to the dormant heart;
laying bare his and the soul
of countless others
that couldn’t give a damn
or know that they give a damn.
Rejected by publishers of prose,
or given their share
of thirty pieces of silver
to lay down and play dead.
Lauded at death
as prophetic
after it doesn’t matter;
given their place in history
when all they really needed
was enough to pay
the light bill.
Writing madly
about justice and injustice,
the inner man and
outer beauty;
feverishly chronicling
moods and feelings and
thoughts and ideas
that make the learned man squirm
and the uninitiated exclaim
“Oh, isn’t that pretty.”
Giving voice to the intangible,
form to the unseeable,
life to the dormant heart;
laying bare his and the soul
of countless others
that couldn’t give a damn
or know that they give a damn.
Rejected by publishers of prose,
or given their share
of thirty pieces of silver
to lay down and play dead.
Lauded at death
as prophetic
after it doesn’t matter;
given their place in history
when all they really needed
was enough to pay
the light bill.
Progress
(January 30, 2003)
Progress.
Earth’s surface covered,
the ocean floor conquered,
final frontiers found.
Progress.
Every neuron and id and ego
defined;
minds expanded past ten percent.
Progress.
Universal conscienceness shared.
Maybe.
Mapping the past,
future unknown.
Progress.
Soul and spirit rediscovered,
Intelligent Designer and higher purpose
sought?
Do we progress?
Progress.
Earth’s surface covered,
the ocean floor conquered,
final frontiers found.
Progress.
Every neuron and id and ego
defined;
minds expanded past ten percent.
Progress.
Universal conscienceness shared.
Maybe.
Mapping the past,
future unknown.
Progress.
Soul and spirit rediscovered,
Intelligent Designer and higher purpose
sought?
Do we progress?
I Still Use Pencil and Paper
(January 20, 2003)
I still use pencil and paper
(any paper—
legal pads, printer paper, napkins)
to write.
The feel of the pencil, or pen, in my hand
(get your mind
out of the gutter);
forming each rounded O, each sharpened I;
spelling, misspelling every word;
drawing each sentence, paragraph, story.
Scratching, erasing, rewriting
on college rule,
between the lines,
along the margins.
Sometimes cursive, occasionally block,
often illegible;
to be typed and spell-checked and printed
at a later date, but
I still use pencil and paper to write.
I still use pencil and paper
(any paper—
legal pads, printer paper, napkins)
to write.
The feel of the pencil, or pen, in my hand
(get your mind
out of the gutter);
forming each rounded O, each sharpened I;
spelling, misspelling every word;
drawing each sentence, paragraph, story.
Scratching, erasing, rewriting
on college rule,
between the lines,
along the margins.
Sometimes cursive, occasionally block,
often illegible;
to be typed and spell-checked and printed
at a later date, but
I still use pencil and paper to write.
Unfinished mss
(2002)
Orphaned children
anticipating adoption,
stray puppies at the SPCA,
lonely hearts
left
forgotten.
Notes and photos,
newspaper clippings paperclipped
to beginnings and endings and
in-betweenings;
filed away in folders
to be finished when the muse strikes.
Passionate ideas penned
in the heat of thought—
good, bad, mediocre, brilliant—
that someday
Orphaned children
anticipating adoption,
stray puppies at the SPCA,
lonely hearts
left
forgotten.
Notes and photos,
newspaper clippings paperclipped
to beginnings and endings and
in-betweenings;
filed away in folders
to be finished when the muse strikes.
Passionate ideas penned
in the heat of thought—
good, bad, mediocre, brilliant—
that someday
The Sculptor
(2002)
A blank block of granite—
impassive, impartial;
an empty page.
Chopping out chunks of it—
imperfect in form,
complete in his mind.
Carefully chiseling it,
(cutting and chipping, routing and clipping)
improving rough places,
(smoothing and rubbing, sanding and scrubbing)
perfecting detail.
Illuminating light;
imparting, impressive—
time bound in form.
A blank block of granite—
impassive, impartial;
an empty page.
Chopping out chunks of it—
imperfect in form,
complete in his mind.
Carefully chiseling it,
(cutting and chipping, routing and clipping)
improving rough places,
(smoothing and rubbing, sanding and scrubbing)
perfecting detail.
Illuminating light;
imparting, impressive—
time bound in form.
Attempts at Haiku
(2002)
Writing Haiku
Pencil, paper, pen—
Heart and mind and soul revealed—
Words strung on a line.
Adventure (for Catherine)
Uncharted forest;
Father, daughter hand in hand
Find new paths to test.
Sky Dance
Puffy, pillowy clouds
Leaving shadows on the ground;
Light plays in between.
Melancholia (originally untitled)
Cold breeze blows through trees.
Black bird dead on needled bed.
Clear sky—blue—asks why.
Writing Haiku
Pencil, paper, pen—
Heart and mind and soul revealed—
Words strung on a line.
Adventure (for Catherine)
Uncharted forest;
Father, daughter hand in hand
Find new paths to test.
Sky Dance
Puffy, pillowy clouds
Leaving shadows on the ground;
Light plays in between.
Melancholia (originally untitled)
Cold breeze blows through trees.
Black bird dead on needled bed.
Clear sky—blue—asks why.
Christmas Past
(December 9, 2002)
I wrote this as a Christmas "card" for a writing group I had the pleasure of being a part of. The group met monthly at the local Barnes & Noble. I was working 2 jobs (Waffle House nights and Applebee's days) and would give up my afternoon nap to attend. I couldn't sleep. My mind would continue to buzz after these creative, critiquing sessions!
Traditions remembered,
Memories enshrined;
Futures envisioned,
Pasts left behind.
Greeting card feelings,
Sentiments opined;
Gift giving lost meaning,
Wantonness fine dined.
Secular icons,
Religion maligned;
Material embraced,
The Spirit resigned.
Brilliance is dangled—
Invitations to blind.
Illumination replaced,
Truth redefined.
One chorus forgotten:
Perfection designed
For peace on this earth,
Good will to mankind.
I wrote this as a Christmas "card" for a writing group I had the pleasure of being a part of. The group met monthly at the local Barnes & Noble. I was working 2 jobs (Waffle House nights and Applebee's days) and would give up my afternoon nap to attend. I couldn't sleep. My mind would continue to buzz after these creative, critiquing sessions!
Traditions remembered,
Memories enshrined;
Futures envisioned,
Pasts left behind.
Greeting card feelings,
Sentiments opined;
Gift giving lost meaning,
Wantonness fine dined.
Secular icons,
Religion maligned;
Material embraced,
The Spirit resigned.
Brilliance is dangled—
Invitations to blind.
Illumination replaced,
Truth redefined.
One chorus forgotten:
Perfection designed
For peace on this earth,
Good will to mankind.
Creative Writing
(July 2002)
Flat.
An endless expanse of white sand;
Not a soul in sight.
Point to it, Prophet Man,
point to it!
Point!
Dry.
Ah! And less. Lax. Pensive. Wise stand—
yet—they’re bones of white.
Speak to it, Prophet man,
speak to it!
Speak!
Flesh—
an end? Less expensive. Why tease and
toy with soulless might?
Breathe on it, Prophet Man,
breathe on it.
Breathe.
Sky—
and endless—expansive. Why, it is and
soulful. Dark and light.
Write it, Prophet Man,
write it!
Write!
Flat.
An endless expanse of white sand;
Not a soul in sight.
Point to it, Prophet Man,
point to it!
Point!
Dry.
Ah! And less. Lax. Pensive. Wise stand—
yet—they’re bones of white.
Speak to it, Prophet man,
speak to it!
Speak!
Flesh—
an end? Less expensive. Why tease and
toy with soulless might?
Breathe on it, Prophet Man,
breathe on it.
Breathe.
Sky—
and endless—expansive. Why, it is and
soulful. Dark and light.
Write it, Prophet Man,
write it!
Write!
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Dog On A Chain
(May 7, 2002)
Wow!
Look at this! Look at that!
What’sthatsmell?
What’sThatsmell?
What’sTHATsmell?
It’s...it’s...it’s...it’s...
Whoa!
A ball!
Get the ball! Get the ball! Get the ball!
Hey, hey, hey, hey
this, this, this
is, is, is
Hmm...?
Where
does
this...
Gotta run, gotta run, gotta run...
Wow!
Look at that!
Wow!
Look at this!
What’sthatsmell?What’sThatsmell?
What’sTHATsmell?
Aaah...
Gotta run, gotta run, gotta
Whoops
Okay.
Anyway.
Okay?
Sigh...
What?
What’s that?
It’s a cat!
It’s a cat!
Get the cat!
Get the cat!
Get the ca
Cat! Cat!
Cat! Cat!
Okay.
Okay.
Anyway.
Anyway.
Need to
drink some
water.
Need to
drink some
water.
Gotta run
(gotta run)
Gotta run
(gotta run)
Gotta run
(gotta
Anyway.
Anyway.
Anyway.
Sigh...
Wow!
Look at this! Look at that!
What’sthatsmell?
What’sThatsmell?
What’sTHATsmell?
It’s...it’s...it’s...it’s...
Whoa!
A ball!
Get the ball! Get the ball! Get the ball!
Hey, hey, hey, hey
this, this, this
is, is, is
Hmm...?
Where
does
this...
Gotta run, gotta run, gotta run...
Wow!
Look at that!
Wow!
Look at this!
What’sthatsmell?What’sThatsmell?
What’sTHATsmell?
Aaah...
Gotta run, gotta run, gotta
Whoops
Okay.
Anyway.
Okay?
Sigh...
What?
What’s that?
It’s a cat!
It’s a cat!
Get the cat!
Get the cat!
Get the ca
Cat! Cat!
Cat! Cat!
Okay.
Okay.
Anyway.
Anyway.
Need to
drink some
water.
Need to
drink some
water.
Gotta run
(gotta run)
Gotta run
(gotta run)
Gotta run
(gotta
Anyway.
Anyway.
Anyway.
Sigh...
Gray and Gritty
(May 4, 2002)
Stanley and his wife delivered the Sunday paper. They always came into the Waffle House just before I finished the night shift. He would give me a copy of the paper and always ordered the same thing. To most people he didn't seem very friendly, but he and I got along just fine.
In memory of Stanley Alligood
August 20, 1939-May 2, 2002
“If he liked you, he liked you;
if he didn’t, he didn’t.”
Gray and gritty darkening dawn
brought the Sunday paper loosely covered
with plastic.
Ambled over, shuffled greeting;
over medium, coffee black.
Graveled joking
understood in
gleaming mischievous eyes
(mistaken meanness).
Wink a wink.
Grin a grin.
Heh!
Gray and gritty darkening dawn;
aluminum foil folded tightly over
leftover ham.
Shuffled out, muffled grouch;
hearty heartfelt
“Take it easy, boss.”
Shed a tear.
Wink a wink.
Grin a grin.
Heh heh.
Stanley and his wife delivered the Sunday paper. They always came into the Waffle House just before I finished the night shift. He would give me a copy of the paper and always ordered the same thing. To most people he didn't seem very friendly, but he and I got along just fine.
In memory of Stanley Alligood
August 20, 1939-May 2, 2002
“If he liked you, he liked you;
if he didn’t, he didn’t.”
Gray and gritty darkening dawn
brought the Sunday paper loosely covered
with plastic.
Ambled over, shuffled greeting;
over medium, coffee black.
Graveled joking
understood in
gleaming mischievous eyes
(mistaken meanness).
Wink a wink.
Grin a grin.
Heh!
Gray and gritty darkening dawn;
aluminum foil folded tightly over
leftover ham.
Shuffled out, muffled grouch;
hearty heartfelt
“Take it easy, boss.”
Shed a tear.
Wink a wink.
Grin a grin.
Heh heh.
Moving
(September 2001)
Wasn't very happy in the current job situation, but didn't know what else to do.
Dull and labored footfalls echo
echo in the empty halls that
turn upon themselves,
that turn upon themselves.
Dust clogs the pores of the paintings
on the walls and the cracks
and the crevices of collected curios
cluttering the hall.
Now, looking out the window
looking in at
looking out the window
looking in at
the carpet looks greener than the grass:
Is the grass greener
on the floor that hasn’t been mown?
(Was that a mixed or melded metaphor?)
Renovate or relocate.
Wasn't very happy in the current job situation, but didn't know what else to do.
Dull and labored footfalls echo
echo in the empty halls that
turn upon themselves,
that turn upon themselves.
Dust clogs the pores of the paintings
on the walls and the cracks
and the crevices of collected curios
cluttering the hall.
Now, looking out the window
looking in at
looking out the window
looking in at
the carpet looks greener than the grass:
Is the grass greener
on the floor that hasn’t been mown?
(Was that a mixed or melded metaphor?)
Renovate or relocate.
Caged Angels
I don't have a date on this one. The title was inspired by a painting of Peter in jail and angels outside the bars to rescue him. The perspective is from inside the cell, so the angels appear to be inprisoned. The poem itself is about writing poetry.
A glimpse,
A glimmer
Out of the corner of my eye.
A word.
A whisper.
Cherubim flicking the back of my mind.
Floating.
Flirting.
Get the net and catch ‘em,
Paste ‘em on a page.
A glimpse,
A glimmer
Out of the corner of my eye.
A word.
A whisper.
Cherubim flicking the back of my mind.
Floating.
Flirting.
Get the net and catch ‘em,
Paste ‘em on a page.
Between The Lines
(somewhere between 2000-2004)
I wrote this after hearing about a suicide.
I left it up to you
to explain
my departure;
to conjecture
the reason I left.
I didn't give a reason,
didn't have a reason;
reasoned that I had
too many reasons;
but you can sort it out.
My life is out of control
and I can't control
what I can't control
(but I'm in control).
I leave it to you to handle what's left:
What's left of my head
on this page or the pillow.
Think of me always this way—
that I've left what was left
of my life too fearful or fed up or fouled up
to live.
I wrote this after hearing about a suicide.
I left it up to you
to explain
my departure;
to conjecture
the reason I left.
I didn't give a reason,
didn't have a reason;
reasoned that I had
too many reasons;
but you can sort it out.
My life is out of control
and I can't control
what I can't control
(but I'm in control).
I leave it to you to handle what's left:
What's left of my head
on this page or the pillow.
Think of me always this way—
that I've left what was left
of my life too fearful or fed up or fouled up
to live.
Into Y2K
The year 2000 and beyond. Job changes. Developing marriage. 9/11. Church split. More issues, more questions. I spent some time away from church...away from God. During this time, I continued to write. A co-worker read some of my poetry and asked me to write song lyrics for her. That resulted in "Broken, Bruised, and Bleeding", several lyrics relating the story of a woman in an abusive relationship. I also wrote lyrics based on the book Johnny Got His Gun. I'll think about posting those in separate sections.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Murder in the Second Person
(1999?)
A high school English teacher once told us that stories are told in the first or third person. Never the second. Ah, a challenge.
YOU!
Yeah, you.
You know you’re guilty.
You were there.
Maybe not in flesh, but in spirit.
Because you knew all the details.
Yeah, you had access to all the info.
Maybe not every time,
but when it was all over, you knew.
Yeah, you knew.
At the very least you’re an accessory before, during and after the fact.
In fact,
you’re the reason all these crimes were committed.
Don’t deny it! It’s true. Oh, yeah, it’s true.
All those senseless murders are your fault.
YOUR FAULT!
All right.
You didn’t actually with your own hands commit the atrocious deeds.
But you paid for ‘em.
You bought ‘em.
What’s the legal terminology for hiring an assassin?
Oh! the price of blood. Spilled blood. Cold blood. The life was in the blood.
(Do you like that word “blood”?
A kinda blunt word, blood.)
And for what?
To entertain your passion,
your love of the hunt;
the chase.
And never the same.
No, sir. No one can pin an M.O. on you.
Except for maybe who does the killing.
You might stick with a certain “craftsman” of the trade,
but you demand they vary their methods somewhat —
just to keep it interesting.
A gun.
A knife.
Exotic poison.
In the dark.
In the open.
Nobody knows. Everybody sees.
The more bizarre and fantastic,
the better.
And yet,
you really don’t care how they die,
just
as long
as
someone is dead.
Dead for your pleasure.
And you just couldn’t resist
the temptation for one more.
Just one more.
Seduced by the deception…
the uncertainty…
the romance.
You know you’re guilty as sin.
You know you never could resist a good murder
mystery.
A high school English teacher once told us that stories are told in the first or third person. Never the second. Ah, a challenge.
YOU!
Yeah, you.
You know you’re guilty.
You were there.
Maybe not in flesh, but in spirit.
Because you knew all the details.
Yeah, you had access to all the info.
Maybe not every time,
but when it was all over, you knew.
Yeah, you knew.
At the very least you’re an accessory before, during and after the fact.
In fact,
you’re the reason all these crimes were committed.
Don’t deny it! It’s true. Oh, yeah, it’s true.
All those senseless murders are your fault.
YOUR FAULT!
All right.
You didn’t actually with your own hands commit the atrocious deeds.
But you paid for ‘em.
You bought ‘em.
What’s the legal terminology for hiring an assassin?
Oh! the price of blood. Spilled blood. Cold blood. The life was in the blood.
(Do you like that word “blood”?
A kinda blunt word, blood.)
And for what?
To entertain your passion,
your love of the hunt;
the chase.
And never the same.
No, sir. No one can pin an M.O. on you.
Except for maybe who does the killing.
You might stick with a certain “craftsman” of the trade,
but you demand they vary their methods somewhat —
just to keep it interesting.
A gun.
A knife.
Exotic poison.
In the dark.
In the open.
Nobody knows. Everybody sees.
The more bizarre and fantastic,
the better.
And yet,
you really don’t care how they die,
just
as long
as
someone is dead.
Dead for your pleasure.
And you just couldn’t resist
the temptation for one more.
Just one more.
Seduced by the deception…
the uncertainty…
the romance.
You know you’re guilty as sin.
You know you never could resist a good murder
mystery.
From Poet to Poet
(1995?)
For what cause do we construct?
A museum of art?
A retail outlet?
Schools of thought or
a place to rest our heart?
Do not regard poetry solely
from the lofty towers of academia;
examine the depths
of the dungeons of the soul,
the narrowed hallways of life,
the inner courts of conscience.
Truly, perform the art
with proper tools
to exact a structured edifice.
Yet, peer through the outer facades
and between the pilings
to what makes a castle a home.
For what cause do we construct?
A museum of art?
A retail outlet?
Schools of thought or
a place to rest our heart?
Do not regard poetry solely
from the lofty towers of academia;
examine the depths
of the dungeons of the soul,
the narrowed hallways of life,
the inner courts of conscience.
Truly, perform the art
with proper tools
to exact a structured edifice.
Yet, peer through the outer facades
and between the pilings
to what makes a castle a home.
lonely sailor shipwrecked upon an immovable Rock
(November 10, 1993)
Wicked winds and raging waves
stirred beneath the clouds,
beat and batter, no care no matter for
this wretched, broke wayfarer.
Salted sheets of frothing foam
poised above its prey,
pounce and pierce with stinging fierceness
the opened flesh lay bare.
Nerves numbed in the needled dark.
sight dimmed in the cold.
Strength bruised in the cursed din.
(clinging, clawing, slipping, falling—
Lord, just let me die!
fighting, fleeing, cursing, pleading—
Lord, just tell me why!)
Tempestuous days make old.
Balmy breeze and calming seas
stir beneath the clouds.
Wicked winds and raging waves
stirred beneath the clouds,
beat and batter, no care no matter for
this wretched, broke wayfarer.
Salted sheets of frothing foam
poised above its prey,
pounce and pierce with stinging fierceness
the opened flesh lay bare.
Nerves numbed in the needled dark.
sight dimmed in the cold.
Strength bruised in the cursed din.
(clinging, clawing, slipping, falling—
Lord, just let me die!
fighting, fleeing, cursing, pleading—
Lord, just tell me why!)
Tempestuous days make old.
Balmy breeze and calming seas
stir beneath the clouds.
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?
A Cry In The Night
(December 27, 1992)
Break me out of this crusty shell
of human existence.
Free me from this self-imposed prison
of putrid self-indulgence.
(For which the correct
theological terminology is sin.)
Let me die and remember no more
the paradox of pleasure and pain
that awakens the death of the soul.
Kill me that I might live
to experience the pleasures of life
and to endure the inevitable pains.
Burst the barnacled bubble
of my wanton flesh;
Replacing this stifling, stagnant vacuum
of indecency
With the sweet breeze of your Spirit.
Break me out of this crusty shell
of human existence.
Free me from this self-imposed prison
of putrid self-indulgence.
(For which the correct
theological terminology is sin.)
Let me die and remember no more
the paradox of pleasure and pain
that awakens the death of the soul.
Kill me that I might live
to experience the pleasures of life
and to endure the inevitable pains.
Burst the barnacled bubble
of my wanton flesh;
Replacing this stifling, stagnant vacuum
of indecency
With the sweet breeze of your Spirit.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Reflections on a Past
(November 1992)
At this time my father did not have a relationship with God (that I knew of). He was going from wife to wife, dream to dream, doing his own thing. He finally remarried my mother (25 years after their divorce), renewed his relationship with Jesus, and is now ministering through music to the elderly. Go God!
Sat down to a meal
of kidney beans and rice—
cornbread on the side.
Handed down from daddy.
Certain he got it from his.
Where’d he get his direction?
God, don’t let me go that way.
Lookin’ at 30 Years of TIME—
photos of history—60’s through 80’s:
a lifetime.
Erection of walls’
torn down again—
still there.
Massive achievements
(token really)
amidst naked foreign children
and half-naked American women.
Erections of men’s lusts—
for greed—
for power—
for a snapshot in the history book.
Powerful men—
some died;
all dead.
Anger in the eyes
of those who don’t
know their cause;
passionate appeals
from voices that dreamed;
desirous glee
from the apathetic.
Fires in souls,
fires in Watts,
souls in fire.
Napalm replaces brimstone.
A glossy, two-dimensional world.
Pick it up; put it down.
Turned back to the fixin’s on the plate—
the beans were cold.
God, don’t let me go that way.
At this time my father did not have a relationship with God (that I knew of). He was going from wife to wife, dream to dream, doing his own thing. He finally remarried my mother (25 years after their divorce), renewed his relationship with Jesus, and is now ministering through music to the elderly. Go God!
Sat down to a meal
of kidney beans and rice—
cornbread on the side.
Handed down from daddy.
Certain he got it from his.
Where’d he get his direction?
God, don’t let me go that way.
Lookin’ at 30 Years of TIME—
photos of history—60’s through 80’s:
a lifetime.
Erection of walls’
torn down again—
still there.
Massive achievements
(token really)
amidst naked foreign children
and half-naked American women.
Erections of men’s lusts—
for greed—
for power—
for a snapshot in the history book.
Powerful men—
some died;
all dead.
Anger in the eyes
of those who don’t
know their cause;
passionate appeals
from voices that dreamed;
desirous glee
from the apathetic.
Fires in souls,
fires in Watts,
souls in fire.
Napalm replaces brimstone.
A glossy, two-dimensional world.
Pick it up; put it down.
Turned back to the fixin’s on the plate—
the beans were cold.
God, don’t let me go that way.
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.
The Deceitfulness of Sin (Hope in a Straw)
(August 1991)
My face is bloodied
from tripping over my own feet
while holding my hands behind my back.
I murmur and complain
in the numbing pain,
but refuse to untie the laces.
Can I continue this pace;
this macabre up and down dance
with no movement?
I am on the outside on the inside
and it is my duty
to reach up to pull myself out
as I push myself down.
The blood has been shed.
My testimony stands still.
The blood has been shed.
The Spirit moves on.
The blood has been shed.
Grasp at the straw that is big enough
to break the dragon's back.
Cauterize the putrifying sores of my mind;
Purge out the dregs of the wine
from the fruit of the forbidden tree.
Grasp at the straw.
My face is bloodied
from tripping over my own feet
while holding my hands behind my back.
I murmur and complain
in the numbing pain,
but refuse to untie the laces.
Can I continue this pace;
this macabre up and down dance
with no movement?
I am on the outside on the inside
and it is my duty
to reach up to pull myself out
as I push myself down.
The blood has been shed.
My testimony stands still.
The blood has been shed.
The Spirit moves on.
The blood has been shed.
Grasp at the straw that is big enough
to break the dragon's back.
Cauterize the putrifying sores of my mind;
Purge out the dregs of the wine
from the fruit of the forbidden tree.
Grasp at the straw.
A Prayer in Melancholy Pain
(1990)
I was not in a joyous mood; God did not seem to be listening.
One morning I awoke to look out my bedroom window at a frost covered lawn and flowers blooming on the bush.
Autumn.
Cold and cruel
daubed in dulled hues.
Darkness comes early,
clutching for control.
And the Sky seems strangely
silent and still.
A bitter wind
whips this battered soul,
provoking retreat within.
Death does not judge—
all is stripped bare;
snapped
from warmth to frost.
Help me find
the flowers in the frost.
I was not in a joyous mood; God did not seem to be listening.
One morning I awoke to look out my bedroom window at a frost covered lawn and flowers blooming on the bush.
Autumn.
Cold and cruel
daubed in dulled hues.
Darkness comes early,
clutching for control.
And the Sky seems strangely
silent and still.
A bitter wind
whips this battered soul,
provoking retreat within.
Death does not judge—
all is stripped bare;
snapped
from warmth to frost.
Help me find
the flowers in the frost.
Retro 90's
Looking back (isn't that what a lot of this is all about), a lot of big things happened to me in the 90's: I regained contact with my 10 year old daughter, Beth, in '90, she came to live with me in '92; I married for the first time in '93, I divorced in '94; remarried in '95, gaining not just my wife Lynn, but two more daughters (Carrie 13, Catherine 3); became a grandfather in '97.
And mixed up in all of that was the continuing struggle with sin, loneliness, and other personal pains. Most of the poetry posts from that decade reflect those inner travails.
With my heart on my sleeve,
Jongleur the Cupbearer
And mixed up in all of that was the continuing struggle with sin, loneliness, and other personal pains. Most of the poetry posts from that decade reflect those inner travails.
With my heart on my sleeve,
Jongleur the Cupbearer
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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