Let By-Gones Be.

The even' sure has waned,
and morning waxes more profane
with every minute ticking by
the clock goes tick tick tick
and I
am left to reminisce
on days gone by,
friends gone on,
loves unknown,
and beards gone
unceremoniously
down the
drain.

Art Baby.

His voice breaks forth,
strong as a spring peeper.
compelling as a swathe of gauze.
And I think to myself, this
must be what art sounds like
when she dies.

But then I think
maybe this is the sound
of art being born.

Actually, I know it is.

Love for Sale!

Finder:

Love for Sale!
For what it's worth-
I dug it up out of the earth.
That's right, it holds its value still.
Who'll pay a hundred dollar bill?

A hundred?  There, the man in blue.
Bid up, if you know what's good for you.
A thousand?  Yes, you've got it, miss!
A life-time full of joy and bliss.

Ten thousand from this gentleman!
going once, going twice,
sold!  Come sir, and shake my hand.

Take this love, it met my need.
This money satisfies my greed.
I took what I received for free
and pawned it off, quite happily.
Do what you wish with love, good sir,
I want not what I can not earn.

Buyer:

Love for free!
I paid in full.
I bought it off some sorry soul.
He said he did not care for it.
Come one, come all!  It is a gift.

In the Valley of Decision

Low, down low
where the grass don't grow
in the Valley of the Bones
in the pit, in the snow.
Where the cold wind blows,
where the lions go.
Put your face in the dust
don't rise, don't rise

Kings rise from their thrones
to greet you at your coming
dead kings rise up
"You are just like us
made low, made low in the dust".

In the Valley of Decision
stand up, stand up
heed not the derision
blackened souls, no contrition
pull you down to your face
gnash their teeth, condemnation
heed not, heed not
open eyes to the vision
in the Valley of Decision
stand up, stand tall on the Rock.

Cause For Rejoicing, Whether I Feel It, Or Not.

Shame.  a sooty shroud enveloping
the letter in my chest.
engraved upon the heart
within my breast;
engraved on stone.

The stone immovable.
this rock will crush you.
It is Mount Sinai.

This shame never fails
to point to that letter,
that eternal stone.
It will never pass into oblivion.
It remains, and taunts me now.

But I will not succumb!
Though it wills me drown
in despair, I will crush it.
In the name of the Lord,
I cut it off.

For there is now no
condemnation.
Not for those in our Lord.
For there was a lamb, who
was offered up for this,
this shame.
And he took upon himself the blame
for my sin he was slain!
And I look upon this lamb
as my rescuer.
He has redeemed my life
from the pit.

Of The Moderns

I come into the coffee house, searching for
someone, but embarrassed to be doing so.
So I keep my eyes on the floor, and on the
chalkboard menus, but I let my peripherals
rove, like little eyes on big eyes.
Invisi-eyes.  She would never see them stare.
But she's not here, I ascertain.
So I let my big eyes take a big gulp
of the hipsters scattered around the room,
their lanky bodies draped on chairs like
their swanky threads are draped on them.
Finally my gaze settles on bookshelves
where magazines and other strange publications
are sold.  "Please Pay Before Reading", the sign says.
Honestly, I wouldn't pay a nickle to read
some of the garbage up there,
but I think to myself
perhaps there can be
found a small
book of
poetry.
I find
a publication
for three-seventy five.
I purchase the book, and a cup
of coffee, medium roast; it's late.  I open the book
hoping to find beautiful, rhyming verse, couplet and
quatrain, but it's filled with the stuff of the moderns.
I am disappointed, but I read it anyway.
And I begin, or rather progress, to understand
why it is the way it is, and I can like it.  I do not
love it, but I find I almost-love it, as I find a love for
the poets who composed it.

Halfway House

Halfway house
half-a-house
half a man
half a louse
have a care
help a mouse
trust a hope,
halfway house.

Halfway house
half-a-house
half a woman
half a grouse
have a heart
help a blouse
trust a hope,
halfway house.

Cloud Factories

Hues of pinks and grays and blues-
a towering inverted faucet.
Constantly the spigot spews
a fleeting nimbus portrait.

Two hundred feet below, the street
has little holes along the curb.
White spectres also drift from these
and make their leisure journey skyward.

Preferring nature's presence,
some cities install flowers and trees.
But others favor smoggy blankets
and so construct cloud factories.

The Treasure Box

Silence-what a treasure.
There it lies in a nest
a turquoise egg 'neath robin's breast.
The worth of patient life can not be measured.

Curled inside a darkened room
curtains red soften his voice
a house of prayer, and not of noise
O shell, be soon removed.

Breaking free at dawn's first light
no longer bound inside a shell
surpassing sweetness none can tell.
Such glory makes the Sun contrite.

The Line

I feign a care, but walk a bridge

I tend the railing, play the ledge

The very heart which gives me drive-

that same vessel constant derides

Reaching inside the cavity

I grip the beating mockery,

and squeeze and squeeze til all beats cease

The dark thing dies-I rest in peace.

Swing Low

Swing low, sweet summer breeze.

Let your voice in the willows lull me to sleep.

Let your soft, gentle motion continue to keep

my hammock a-swingin'

that the one in my arms might go right on dreamin'.

O, keep my head cool; may I not be a fool-

on the wings of the wind cometh peace.

.

Swing high, carriage of hemp-rope and wood.

May I love all my children as a good father should.

May I ne'er wear a mask or a blindfold or hood-

may I see with my eyes.

May I push them and swing them up, up to the skies!

O, the clouds are their playthings, the stars stand in waiting-

I would get them the moon if I could.

.

Swing over, white streak in the deep blue night sky.

You inspire the nations, though I still don't know why.

You are not a bright star that has learned how to fly;

you're a space-rock that's burning.

But I find in my heart an insatiable yearning

to burn next to you,

if we fall, then it's true-Even the Beautiful die.

Babble

“Multiply, and fill the earth”-

That was our Lord’s command.

But men congressed and thought it best

To build a tower in the land.

"With heaven our goal,

the earth below will bow to our great name!"

But unbeknowst to them (poor fools),

their glory would become their shame.

Now learn a lesson from a bird

who knew not any of his kind-

though kept inside an iron cage,

when he was fledged he opened wide

and from within poured forth a sound;

a dulcet song from his own heart;

a song he'd never heard before

but strangely could recall each part-

If lonely birds can sing a tune from each their kin

(tho ne'er they met),

pray, tell why men must learn the words

their Fathers speak 'fore they beget

their sons, and if a boy can learn

the tongues of those who raise him,

why not a cowbird sing the song

of wrens who's nest he hatched in?

Oft scientists and "gentlemen" will cry:

"reeks this of evolution!"

But more inclined to think am I

such things prove man's condition.

Call Me "Corinth"

You, O Lord, can see the condition of my heart;

Its torn apart by sin.

The clanging, awful din of chains

and fetters brings to life the claims

of emptiness e’er entertained

by bold, brash captains sailing night-seas with no stars.

You, O Lord, have knowledge of the darkness in my spirit;

this abysmal pit is trackless.

Without your lamp the cats and crows

would howl and call as they scattered my bones

and brought my head as a prize ‘fore the thrones

of the kings of hatred and death and sulfur and tricks.

You, O Lord, can see that I am Corinth;

I war within my body.

My breastplate is not your righteousness

my shield of faith is pocked with rust

and the belt of truth ‘round my waist wears thin.

O Lord, I needst that cup which overfloweth.

Feathers

And I was born;

Naked.

Heaving chest, screaming breaths

Nursed and then allowed to rest.

Sooner than they could imagine

I would leave the nest.

And I was bourne;

Skyward.

Mounted-up on feathery limbs

Buffeted by the Western Winds

Seeking after all the kinds of vanities;

How pleasant were my whims!

Each new pleasure never gave

But rather took, and how depraved

Was I to think that I had gained

Something worth exchanging for my

Power of flight.

And then came the night.

No feathers now to keep me warm

Each one surrendered to some form of

Shadow-figure dark-deceiver false-hope-leaver

And every time I gave one feather

I received some token promised to be beneficial

I was told that it was silk or gold

But all I ended up with was rocks and tar and lead.

But just as I’d despaired of life

A shadow swooped down from the night

A warm, mysterious someone

Whom I had heard before.

He gave unto me feathers anew

He covered my form with refreshing dew

I mounted up on wings restored

And above me-ever above me-he flew

And now new feathers I have received

But somehow I oft desire to give

A feather when I know I should not.

His grace is sufficient for me.

Images

From whence came the seed-that holy seed,

the virgin's womb therein was planted?

Whose hands and feet were made to bleed

that sin in men might be surmounted?

And how that man who then ascended

(and how to ascend unless first come down?)

And how rose he in clothes resplendent

bade his Spirit stay aground?

(Yet his Spirit remains unbound).

O, we are not our own, in truth

for formed by God and bought with blood

are we, designed for one pursuit:

His righteousness (tho we are mud).

Yea, dust we are, dismiss it not.

Allow it to course through your mind.

We who are dust prophecy thus:

"The earth shall not remember you

when you have reached your end of time".

But earth is not a resting place

nor is it home, or a treasure gained;

At least for those who understand

that She will perish in the flames.

No, earth is wherefore men may work-

at birth "clock in", and death "clock out".

and all mankind yearns earnestly

that all their work will bring about

reward.  Reward!  And such reward!

They know not what reward there be.

But all who trust in Jesus know

that their's shall  be eternity.

Take this last verse along with you

this phrase doth vibrate with the truth:

Tho we know what we are at present

the future is not yet made known.

But work we will with all our skill

til we stand in perfection before God's throne.

Ode to a Village Elder

Ira was an old gray man from Arizona-

Gray beard, gray breath, gray head.

He lost his wife to a bad fever twelve years ago.

Her name was Nelda.

Nelda had red hair when she was younger.

Later in life her hair was blue.

Ira had retired from the railroad a few years ago,

and in the absence of Nelda,

he'd taken up a lot of hobbies.

Ira was a cheese-maker, bird-breeder, bingo-ball-reader.

But when he wasn't busy, he would just sit out in the garage on 

an old barstool, and hover over his tackle box

organizing his lures, and dreaming of finding a perfect 

fishing hole full of fat trout.

The Valley of the Shadow: A Dream

Here again, the hot red rock towers above me.

massive columns of sandstone seemingly leaning,

ready to crush me.

.

To dare to climb would be suicide for surely

the rocks would break off in my hands and

falling backwards, I would plummet 

to the canyon floor, and the birds would pick me apart-

they would redress me until my clean, white bones shone

and joined the old dry bones scattered around,

those bones of men and beasts, all succumbed

to the terrible Valley.

.

I walk the middle path, the dry river bed.

Here the stone giants can not reach me.

The only men here are bones, and even in life these

men had been little more than shells-hollow, empty shells-

from long years spent in canyons of regret, 

this red, red valley of certain death.

.

I am becoming a shell here, too.  I am like a guitar-

only skin and ribs, and empty inside.

Like a guitar, I can not make my own song, 

but simply echo the notes played over me.

The A minor is strummed-a pointed question.

D minor answers dolorously.

I look left, and a wild cat is lying on a low crag, 

with his tongue dried like a tobacco leaf, and stuck

to his thin lips.  

A grandfather grasshopper drags himself along

in front of the cat, but the creature pays the old insect

no mind.  

He just stares, removed from it all.

Finally I hear E major, and it swells, along with my heart.

Now there is a little fat to chew, some marrow to draw from the bones,

but it quickly bows, and the piece is finished,

ending on A minor.

There is no resolution, only surrender to the Shadow.

It is a land without hope, and the walls of this shadow land

echo the last note.

Triune

Truth is Transcendent

it ne'er was dependent on man.

God is the Be-all

the end all, the three-all-in-one.

Christ is the Savior 

who gave our poor race redemption.

For Every Man

For every man, a castle-

a stalwart stone stage

a rock to last from age to age

a womb from which to send forth delegations

to the nations

to thistles and briers

to make war, but if not, then peace

yes, peace

For every man, a brigantine-

a fantastic floating fortress

a king of seas and oceans

a proconsul demanding fealty

of the Ionians, Moors, and Portuguese-

the Captain of captains,

the blessed brig which

knows no fear

For every King, a Queen-

a delightful, daring dame

a shining, pure-white pearl

a jewel-mine full of precious stones

to decorate the thrones

of her king, and sons,

and also her own.

Sleeps and Dreams

I know why the icy river flows so fast this time of year,

And I know why the words I whisper fall upon deaf ears.

The dark was heavy on my breast-a weight of lead shaped perfectly

to stay the movement of my chest and hold me in a broken dream.

I know why it’s easier to sleep and dream, than wake;

to sleep and dream’s a lawless reality I can make.