Back to the Old Haunt.

Let spirits sacrifice themselves at once,

Fresh ghosts delay the making of a dunce.

Hist’ry’s silhouettes bow into the dark

as tombstones crumble ‘fore love’s solemn mark.

~

What love is deep as wells in which death dwells?

Bodies of the slain piled on clouds above

paint out seven portraits for seven hells –

each one more lacking in art than in love.

~

Before the clock has finished its ticking,

may we stop and stare fast into the ground.

Who knows what rising tides come trickling

when tears of the hope-lost turned joyous found?

~

Sound a cry! The fury calls before the dawn;

its age-old custom torn away.

When forced silence reigns in a beating heart’s song

and there are left no more words to say.

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Apprehension.

Will my love meet me there

On the top of the mountains, beneath

the sky of his grace?

Will he receive

my worship and provide a quiet place?

How will he know what words to say

how will he capture my heart each day?

Will I be enthralled for moments

fleeting,

only a soul-moving thrill

I’m seeking?

O Lord, have mercy on

my self-wise thoughts.

You are my glory, you are my stay

I am but night that you’ve turned into day.

May I mind you more than I mine myself

for diamonds, where none are

found. In you I hope, and to you I look –

there is a sound.

And so I strain my ears,

Listening.

Come, Lord Jesus, come.

 

Merry Christmas.

This day each year, cold hearts grow warm,

as Christmas cheer floods city streets.

A sunny day or harsh snowstorm

does not prevail o’er gifts and sweets.

And yet, lest we dare to forget,

the reason for good tidings is here.

A Saviour born, His journey set;

to die for us whom He holds so dear.

Season’s greetings through sacrifice,

He embraced sin’s shadowy wages.

And yet we go, in snow and in ice

to carol ’bout three wise old sages.

We praise thee, O King, for Thy love

that conquered death’s grip long ago.

We love not the fresh cookie dove,

but You who died to save your foe.

Merry Christmas, we say, but shall we engage

in marrying Christ as the Church?

And tell of His story, His lasting glory

for He’s worth the journey and search.

Good news do I bring, and good tidings too;

merry Christmas to all, blessings to you.

The Savior was born and loved a love true,

that we might be saved for nothing we’d do.

Hay Fever.

The lonely flowers roar between the trees,

as snowfall graces withered golden leaves.

Some clouds of white in royal sky do yawn

upon the song of dusk’s dear friend, the dawn.

The blades bend forth with every silent breath;

from green to grey – a gradual passing death.

A wind, a gust, a gale, a squall, a storm

does rob the land of all that might feel warm.

So, small pebbles arise with time to show

that nature guards itself against its foes.

And mountains gaze into the forest land,

content to know that they shall always stand.

The sun awakes from linear slumber now

to shine upon the ocean’s wavy brow.

The swell and fall of endless love between

the ocean and its heart, the shore, is seen.

As stars guffaw beyond the atmosphere,

the planets rotate freely without fear.

But comets fly around and try to feel

the gravity of their lifelong ordeal.

 

Metamorphosis.

It is again the time to change,

to fly and leave this humble plane.

This lumpy body’s soft comfort

shall be exchanged for winged fame.

Attached below a branch’s shade,

the merry fellow curls halfway.

His head and limbs are useless now

and his old skin he does betray.

Once free of skin, he winds up tight,

he holds in close his inmost thoughts.

A shell around him slowly forms

that will bestow some polka dots.

And so he waits, and waits, and waits.

A pair of wings instead of feet!

But soon he finds, within that shell,

his metamorphosis complete.

Lightness of Being.

To walk among the meadows

and not break out in hives.

To smell the trampled flower

and hope that it survives.

A wisp of cloud beyond the view,

grassy feathers specked with dew –

its name is just a life that thrives.

As sunbeams pour onto the Earth

and springtime has just given birth,

the heart is cheered by time.

Though clouds float on in silent mirth,

they shine with joy’s peerless worth

with wisdom just sublime.

A feather falls as if it flies –

the pull of gravity it flees.

The wind bears it upon its sighs

as the sun smiles on all it sees.

Treading Water.

The storm around calls to the end of all breath,

the watery gallows roar.

Without any hope, all that remains is just death –

its call we try to ignore.

We tread amongst sharks stalking all around,

water approaching the neck.

A cry, a plea, a shout, yet no sound

for in ocean, we’re just but a speck.

He calls to us, invites us to walk on the waves

if only we’ll trust and believe.

The water’s below our feet, for He saves

as we now His warmth do receive.

At times, we may slip and fall back into wet

silent waters, but lest we forget;

He found us in those dark depths of the storm

and has never let go of us yet.

Slowsand.

Sighs masked as hearty shouts,

wand’rings marked as guided routes.

Yawns removed from concentration

feebly yearns for liberation.

A slow ascent upon a plane,

a crawling climb beneath the slain.

Labored breath intent on rest,

the rise and fall within the chest.

Thoughts just flitting here and there,

sparks igniting ends of hair.

Preparing speeches ne’er to raise

the spirits of the languid daze.

Poet Tree.

A thousand voices, each cry rang true

the poets’ voices all sang through.

A silent night, a mighty storm,

death of function without form.

The poets rose, shrieks shrill indeed

’til echoes met with scorn did bleed.

A waste of space, but some would say

that time itself could not delay.

And so, from fell branches swayed their words –

a noose bound tight around their fate.

A meal made ready for the birds

who feasted on the wanton hate.

Roads Traveled.

I’ve walked a shadow’s dance,

a letter’s prance, a mountain’s trance.

Lances, shattered spiral twirls,

fallen stars that sunshine hurls,

poppy meadows deign to bellow

melodies of churches yellow.

A song of sorrow for tomorrow,

dancing sprite a heart did borrow.

Pardon me, the ride’s at three,

I have not paid the rainbow fee!

Time to eat a panda’s meat,

filled with fury, tasty heat –

in a hurry, speak the worry

as I run to seek the meek.