Category Archives: Verse

April is National Poetry Month?

So much I’ve wanted to write here in the last few months, but always running out of time, of energy, of the ability to put sentences in front of and behind each other. But at least, this: sharing of someone else’s words that echo inside of my own self.

teacups

“somehow my dreams seem like
a chipped and dirty teacup.
somebody elses’ hand makes them charming and sweet but
I just make them look ordinary and worn out.

I was skimming through old journals this afternoon. Well, I suppose you would call them journals. I write copiously in spiral bound notebooks and never date anything, and don’t have any order to how I store them. One has to infer from the context the approximate time, but even that is not much help, because I mostly write what I feel, not what has happened. So I don’t know when I wrote this, and I don’t even remember writing it.

Looking over my blog, I realize I haven’t been writing much on it. It isn’t because I have nothing to write about; I could always write reams. It’s just that it seems that so much of what has been tumbling through my head is highly personal, which means I can’t write honestly about it in a global nature, and what’s the point of dishonest writing?

I suppose there really is a time for everything, and maybe this is just not a time for many words in public spaces. Somehow I know that the time for many words will come again, but for now it is time to be satisfied with few words.

sometimes you wish you had a choice to
chose which dreams you wanted to dream
they’re like a shadow, uninvited
they drink the tea you don’t want to serve.

Summer Solstice

The light shines down and all around–
light and life and growth abound.
Strong and straight and tall and proud,
Land and beast these men have bound.

. . .but the glory was fading away
the glory was fading away
yes, the glory was fading away

The sun runs long and reaches high;
Nations, kings and peoples rise.
But who can hear the grieving sighs?
No one looks on as one bird dies.

. . . Oh, the glory is fading away
the glory is fading away
no, the glory is fading away

God has stooped to meet us here,
but we don’t want a prophet or seer.
“Empty words,” they mock and jeer.
“Our time of power is now so near.”

. . . but the glory was fading away
the glory was fading away
yes, their glory is fading away.

Commencement

Come, oh, Come–
Come up and see what you have done;
Look at the path your life has taken–
See the creation of your presence.

We labor, we struggle
We walk, we grow
We stand here and see
a milestone wrought

Come, oh, Come–
Come up and see what you have done;
Look at the path your life has taken–
See the creation of your presence.

Stand in the assembly now
Speak to the grace of God
Life is life, and death is not
The mercy toward a hopeless lot

Come, oh, Come–
Come up and see what you have done;
Look at the path your life has taken–
See the creation of your presence.

A new beginning from an old routine
years of labors for a whispered dream
Faith outworken from sight unseen

Come, oh, Come–
Come forward and see what you have done;
See the path that your life has taken
See the creation of your presence.

The Son of Man now returns
Plans built before the world
Reaches now it’s foremost cues
No more labor — no more hope.

Come, oh, Come–
Come forward and see what you have done;
See the path that your life has taken
See the creation of your presence.

A Heavenly assembly, a glorious crowd
Little children all now grown
Graduation now, from death
                                                              to
                                                                        life.

Sunday Song: Tender Love

It’s a tender love that’s gonna bring you through,
Whispering to your heart
So that you’ll know what to do.
It’s a tender love not about to let you go,
It’s a tender love and there’s
So much more to know.

Love that’s holding me, tender and true,
Love that’s molding me, seeing me through.
I’ve stood in true amazement
Of all you’ve done for me,
My faith so small, but you do it all,
You give it all for free.

It’s a tender love that’s gonna bring you through,
Whispering to your heart
So that you’ll know what to do.
It’s a tender love not about to let you go,
It’s a tender love and there’s
So much more to know.

Let go of the past, get up off the ground.
This love will last, this love I’ve found.
I stand in true amazement of what you do in me,
I’m in a daze, yes I’m amazed,
Embracing the change, I’m free.

It’s a tender love that’s gonna bring you through,
Whispering to your heart
So that you’ll know what to do.
It’s a tender love not about to let you go,
It’s a tender love and there’s
So much more to know.

It’s a tender love that’s gonna bring you through,
Whispering to your heart
So that you’ll know what to do.
It’s a tender love not about to let you go,
It’s a tender love and there’s
So much more to know.

Phil Keaggy

Sometimes we need songs like this.

Foolish Thing

It seemed like a good idea
at the time
to speak, to pray,
“Your servant listens, send me.”

But when He hears and answers,
our hearts chill.
Where are we sent?
Against the strong, wise and cruel.

Surely we shall be found out!
Found as thus–
weak and foolish,
despised and easy to crush.

We question His perception–
with no skill,
and but a child,
and You mean to set us here?

We scramble for protection,
but not His.
This is against
pain and humiliation.

He would not wear that armor
when He came.
It did not fit,
and would have bound Him useless.

We think it depends on us–
insist it.
How we forget–
Not who is sent, but who sends.

Why does it seem easier
to question
God who formed us
than the world set against us?

Frustrate the wise, call the weak.
Those that are,
truly are not.
Impossible! See Him smile?

[Yet still we struggle, of course.
Silly, but
we seem to think
we don’t make a good punch line.]

Nehemiah

Being able to write words but not music is like being color-blind.

The strength of the labor is failing;
There is so much work to be done, and we must—
but not able, not able are we.
Our hand grow weak and our hearts give way.

Remember the Lord, remember the Lord,
Pray for your people, fight for your friends
Remember the Lord, remember the Lord,
Great is our God, and awesome His hands
Remember the Lord, Remember the Lord,
Remember the Lord, Remember the Lord!

The plans of the people are scheming;
Where ever we turn, there they are set against us–
They despise us, reproach us with glee.
What shall we do, and what shall we say?

Remember the Lord, remember the Lord,
Pray for your people, fight for your friends;
Remember the Lord, remember the Lord
Great is our God, and awesome His hands
Remember the Lord, remember the Lord,
Remember the Lord, remember the Lord!

The path of the journey is wand’ring;
So easily distracted, so many false turns, ’cause
The stubble, the rubble we see
Has caught us fast and we are way-laid.

Remember the Lord, remember the Lord,
Pray for your people, fight for you friends.
Remember the Lord, remember the Lord,
Great is our God, and awesome His hands.
Remember the Lord, Remember the Lord.
Remember the Lord, Remember the Lord!

Episode II of Really Bad Poetry Written Way Too Late at Night:

We p’litely ignore them,
We rudely ascorn them,
But them dirty darn dishes
don’t never go away.

And so we wait a while,
and we complain a pile,
but them dirty darn dishes
don’t never go away.

We consider some kings,
and cabbages and things
but them dirty darn dishes
don’t never go away.

And then we squash some flies,
and we pick at the pies,
but them dirty darn dishes
don’t never go away.

They’re a thing that we hate,
and yet though it get late,
still them dirty darn dishes
don’t never go away.

If you know of a way
please tell us today
to get rid of them dishes
that never go away.

But please don’t be absurd
and tell us that you word
is to clean them up clean:
there’s a flaw in that scheme!

‘Cause we’ve tried it you know,
but they’re back by t’morrow!
And those dirty darn dishes
DON’T NEVER GO AWAY!

There is still no extra credit for correctly guessing why I was up so late.

If it hasn’t been abundantly, manifoldly obvious to you, I shall simply have to note that I don’t seem to really make any use of figure of speech, or subtly, or analogy, or hyperbole, or exageration. That’s just the way it is, and you either laugh or cry. It’s pretty easy to figure out which to do: if it’s someone else waiting their turn for the bathroom or someone else’s night to wash, you laugh. Loudly. If you’re waiting, or you have to wash the dishes, you cry. Loudly.

And now, for our feature presentation!

Episode One of Really Bad Poetry I Wrote Way Too Late at Night!!

It has come rather painfully to my attention that majority of songs and verse is no longer written for anything more than monetary gain; the daily woes and cares of the common man has been left behind. There are, of course, a few noteable exceptions. Like, for instance, this very touching song taught to me a few nights ago:

Joy the world, the Barbie’s dead!
We bar-b-qued her head!

But for the most part, the world of verse is in shocking dissarray, with ludicrous Disney songs getting into books that proclaim themselves as things like “110 of the Most Beautiful Songs Ever Written.” The closest people get to songs that actually have bearing in one’s actual life talk about your pick-up truck and your favorite dog dying on the same day. The sentiment is nice, but really, I do hate to break it to you, I have neither a pick-up truck nor a dog. I’m talking about more universal themes, sans the par-for-the-course the “girl who jilted me”, the “girl I jilted”, “the girl who thinks I’m going to jilt her, even though I swear I won’t jilt her like the last 15 girls I jilted”, and the “guy I didn’t expect to jilt me even though he jilted the last 15 girls” songs. More universal than that, even.

I feel, therefore, the great burden for the common man to once again speak for themselves. I am confident that no matter how awful my attemps, they will still be a welcome relief from commercial offerings. I am, alas, not melodious enough to put it properly to music, so you’ll simply have to read it aloud with great feeling, and let the words speak for themselves.

A bathroom we have one;
Of people we have twelve.
There’s never a line,
It’s always a circle—
AND ALWAYS MIND YOUR PLACE!
Waver once, you’ll wait an hour;
There’s
never a moment’s peace
On either side of the
Bath.
Room.
DOOR.

(P.S. No extra credit will be given for correctly guessing why I was up so late writing verse.)