Tag Archives: poetry

Sweet rendition of “Your Song”

Jonathan and Charlotte – Vero Amore (Your Song)

Sweet sounds. These two are neato. And their story is pretty cool too. Britain’s Got Talent grads.

Take a look at what’s going on while they’re singing. It ain’t just whistlin.


Wait For Him

Micah 7

Woe is me! For I have become
As when the summer fruit has been gathered
As when the grapes have been gleaned
There is no cluster to eat
No first-ripe fig that my soul desires

I have begun to see
The depths of me
They have trickled through
My sight and to
The fragile bowl
Of my desolate soul

There is so little right
In all that I pretend of light
And that which has a holy glow
Is nothing in me to know
Though I deny my hand
Nothing helps me to stand

And so in death I pour
My last breath out on the floor
Pinned by gravity
By the horror of me
And beg with a whispered word
That no-one near could have heard

But as for me, I will look to the Lord
I will wait for the God of my salvation
My God will hear me.

When this finally
This song sweet as spring breeze
Flies into my soul
Twill finally render me whole
And perhaps strongly
That even I can hear me

Who is a God like you, pardoning iniquity
And passing over transgression
For the remnant of his inheritance
He does not retain his anger forever
Because he delights in steadfast love
He will again have compassion on us
He will tread our iniquities underfoot
You will cast all our sins
Into the depths of the sea

How wonderful a name my nephew has. He has such a lot to learn from the prophet Micah. Powerful to save his soul. Powerful to save my soul.

Micah 5

But you, O Bethlehem Ephrathah,
who are too little to be among the clans of Judah,
from you shall come forth for me
one who is to be ruler in Israel,
whose coming forth is from of old,
from ancient days.

And he shall stand and shepherd his flock in the strength of the Lord,
in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God.
And they shall dwell secure, for now he shall be great
to the ends of the earth.
And he shall be their peace.

__________________________________________
I have known in my head for a long time that my sin, not that of others against me is the target of my warfare. I must delve within me and know that sin, know it clearly and honestly. I have to realize that, though all around me is corrupt, what God is looking at in my life is my sin and That is what I am about in pursuit of holiness. It is and should be a daunting, exhausting and ultimately a profoundly miserable task.

If one can gaze at the cross with anything less than amazement, grief and maybe even shock at the depth of his own sin, where can he find hope? I had to know my destitute condition before I could realize my redemption. In Christ, I find my hope, for in me there is nothing but darkness and misery. His Spirit brings light to what would otherwise be a murky, lurking soul.

See Gollum in the Lord of the Rings story. There’s not much better graphic example in literature today.


Inspiration

And the dancer spins
The time is passing

Soon there will be nothing
His arms flow lithe

He springs into the air
And though the time is no longer there
He moves slower than falling snow

For a long, drawn moment
His wavering shadow lingers
He dances on despite time’s fingers

Then it is gone.

_______________________________
Originally Published on: May 27, 2005


Justified

O, what is this?
O, what have you done?
O, what you have done

Like the fellow who hung
There just beside you
Lived his whole life
Perishing, perishing

Who, in a moment
Heard your Spirit
His foot in a grave
And you snatched him from it
Alive, alive

We want this paradise
Like you promised him
Didn’t thank you
For making him good
You made him live

He cried to you
like the poor wretch there
There by the priest
He knew only you
Dead and Risen

You died and rose
You are the root
You are our fount
The one who died
The one who rose

Raise our cups
In Christ, you
For you alone
Are our redemption
And our perfection
Your glory

——————————————–

But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’

For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified.


Winds On Our Anniversary

It has been so long
since the wind has blown
across our path
as we stood side by side
in the fields
 
Five long years
of laughter and tears
in our house
sitting side by side
and apart
 
Have not rendered us
from living as us
together
in heart and soul
together
 
May you remember well
as I do
these dreams of light
that may yet in our time
come true
 
Keep hope in you
keep faith in me
keep well its symbol
that is our fair ones
the part that is already true
 
I will touch you
once again, Love
as winds blow
across our path
dream of me.
______________________________
For our anniversary on 23 December, 2001.


Poetry Not Mine

In looking at some new sites (to me), I discovered this one. Very pretty.

Pieces

And this one by Francis Thompson

The Hound of Heaven


Somewhat Coherent

Things I’d like to work on.

Writing more. I don’t have the focus or maybe the material for writing. Funny how I have so much to say and nothing really translates well to writing. Could go on and on about my opinion on this or that, but whenever I do, I realize I either don’t really know what I’m talking about or it’s not worth dissection in the first place. Or, worse, somebody has already done a far better job covering my subject. I’m REALLY into this blog by Abraham Piper, which is rich and fresh and witty beyond my meager means. I haven’t ever been able to write like he does. Challies is another that I read all the time and he has years of continuous reading and writing at his back, framed by a massively sharp thinker. What Piper does with words, Challies does with contemplation and neither of their gifts have I. Oh well.

Poetry doesn’t come up on command or I’d be pasting verse up every day. I would love to be flowing with pictures but the tap is very unpredictable. Oh well.

I plan on getting round to another Bible study. Possibly another run through 1st John. Blind, without comparing to my previous study. I think that could reveal a lot about my growth and perspective changes as well as much new insight just because of the work I’ve done in studying doctrine and the Word since the first round. That’ll be nice.

Or I might run through a different book in the Bible. I’m very interested in the Epistles, specially the ecclesiastical themes. Our church study on the Fundamentals of the Faith has been very enjoyable, so maybe combining that with a book study would be really fun. I’m not sure when or how I’ll start that.

I would really like to paint more, but darnit if the mood just leaves and comes as it wills. Like the wind, creative movement like painting and poetry are so unpredictable and touchy. Anything can set me off on a whirlwind of pictures and I can lose touch with the inspiration just as fast.

I can’t really see doing a routine journal thing. That’s not me. I can’t tell about all the stuff I do each day for a number of reasons. The regular junk at work is usually just junk. Shoot, I get more research, Bible study and ideas at work than at home, but I can’t keep focused on writing there with all the real stuff going on. The work at work is just that: work.

And home is home. Chasing kids, trying to be a loving and involved dad while battling the discipline and ever invading ruckus and clutter of a family of 6 is thoughtfulness killing not to mention too engrossing. Though I might sit for an hour at the computer, my mind is on 50 other things at once. There’s so little time to lock down and focus. Usually when the quiet zone appears it is sudden and I’m brain-dead enough to lose all grip with creativity or productiveness.

So it’s incredibly challenging to me to write much, at least on what I really want to write. Or to paint something or even read. I usually manage to hit my Doctrine book or the Bible daily. My Bible study homework from church is a fit-in-when-possible thing. I get my personal study done on the road to and from work by listening to sermons or lectures and then sporadic reading during the day. It’s fairly easy to tell if I’ve done enough for a day when I actually have an article posted here about it. I guess that means I”m not totally in the red for progress.

Can’t complain, of course, since 2 jobs, 4 kids, 1 Wife, Church, Girl Scouts and all the other stuff that’s running life is still allowing me to sit and think for a few minutes a day. Call that grace. I’m ever thankful for it. Good products out of that stuff is being able to help Anika and Heather out on their college homework, breaking up some study stuff for Heather, helping some of the guys out at work with writing. I can’t say I haven’t been writing at all, just not writing what I want to write. It’s not creation from me.

So I’ve been pondering what I can do about it, praying about it and sorta just keeping stuff in the back of my mind. Maybe it’ll come to fruition or maybe the Lord has me running circles for the time being. I guess it’ll come around eventually.

Doesn’t help that I’m pulled in so many artistic directions. Painting, woodcarving, writing, poetry, gardening, reading and all the other stuff that I guess is pastime material are all my passions. How does one know which to do at what time? And which, if I had to give up the others, would be my one true desire? Probably reading, haha, since it requires the least amount of exertion.


Paper Screams Death Throes

Paper Screams was condemned to the ether-trash a little while ago.  I have uploaded the last backup from March 25th of 2009.  All poetry is on LAH now as well as whatever postings were on PS.  It’s organized by dates of original posts.  Poetry is still sorted as was on PS (category/book).  Many of the images were lost because of dropped links (outside the home site) and I’ll fix those I can.  Some may not come back.

I have applied the category “Paper Screams” to all the poetry.  Additional categories that apply to Paper Screams content include:

NOTE:  My work in Paper Screams spans about 20 years of my life and there is material that is not suitable for youn-uns (primarily in the Sunrise department).  I have made efforts to notify readers of sensitive material in such cases.  You’ll see them with the headline

“This poem is classified DRUNEO for Don’t Read Unless Not Easily Offended.”

(Notify me immediately if I’ve missed one)

There are NO instances of inappropriate imagery or other media on the site.


On Creativity

My thoughts, probably not well organized, nor authoritative in any sense:
I think creativity (at least in writing) is selfish. I’m having difficulty combining the concept with altruism. I don’t think one can make stuff up just for others.
I heard on NPR about someone who wrote poetry with the hope she would “disrupt the common folk who pay the bills, watch TV and carpool” and lead them to deeper thought or some such nonsense. I don’t think the interview has been broadcast, and can’t find it, so it may be up later on the site.
If that’s the goal, you might need to teach them to read first, eh? Otherwise, those who already read our creative product are in the window as we write. I’m just running this through my head as I type, but it seems a sound train of thought. And they haven’t changed yet, have they? Khalil Gibran is as moving a read as they get, and the world hasn’t kicked to a new orbit, nor has Heinlein, on the opposite end of the writing spectrum done so. I’m certainly no source of personality able to affect the world.
My work, I think (have convinced or deluded myself) is ultimately for me. I avidly soak up the reviews I get from others (heck, I fish for it as best I can), but I don’t think it reaches anyone without me first.
The goal certainly isn’t to convert anyone to my train of thought, or to convince them of anything I believe. I don’t think (and I may be wrong since I’m trying to analyze something outside my little bubble) that I can disrupt someone else’s think with my own think.
Altruism sure seems more likely to manifest in forms of writing such as essays and advertisements. Politics and all that mess deal with trying to convert people to some awareness. Make sense?
My work is initially designed to draw a picture for me. Then, hopefully, it draws a reaction from an audience. Sure, that reaction is keyed specifically in nearly every piece, but it’s gotta work on me first. So am I foisting my emotions and dreams off on my reader? Or am I simply displaying my laundry to whoever may be passing by, with no desire to see a change in them?
I could certainly hope to affect You, reader, but that’s a pipe-dream when I finally stop and think on my work. Better to use a phone, email or snail and lay out my wants in clear text so the audience at least knows what to refuse and in what form, polite or curt, the response should be. It’s safer than offending a writer (see disease reference below) by responding to the art.
In the end, the reactions of the reader certainly don’t produce any dependable change, that I’ve seen. I mean, I have not, that I know, written some spell into my work that makes You fall in love with me, or You understand where I’m coming from, or You forgive me for whatever it was, or You appreciate the thing I want (theoretically leading You to try to get me the thing I want). I don’t think it’s worked as yet, anyway, hah.
I’ve probably talked myself into a corral at this point, but it’s not the first time. Maybe going back to this I’ll sort out the point.
I’ll defer to Heinlein on one thing: Writing is a disease. It’s symptoms are a need to produce, regardless of anything but the production itself, words. The writer is historically known to become moody and unpredictable as the affliction progresses. Acute cases of symptoms can closely resemble those of rabid animals, specifically foaming at the mouth, a tendency to bite if interrupted in the writing process, and general irritability bordering pure viciousness. If deprived of the means to write (writing is incurable), the patient suffers as if from caffeine or nicotine withdrawals, becoming shaky, paranoid, sleepless, and generally unfit for social interaction (this last bit rarely distinguishable from the normal personality of the writer).
This alone may be enough to defend the idea that creativity when applied to writing is not altruistic. We either write to get money, get something off our chest, or just because the paper is useless without some incoherent scribble marring it’s purity.
Whatever.


Architecture

Something with these colors, perhaps more greens. Flowing lines, like threads or cobwebs. None of the traditional looking clicky buttons. Something in which the reader can become enthralled.
I’ll probably never publish the collection in book form, for profit or widespread dispersion. It’ll most likely go out to the world when I croak off. I’ll put that in my will, how bout that.
But here, on this medium, it can be read, hopefully appreciated by others. I’ve seen little so far that is similar to my work, so maybe it’ll be fresh. I would love to have the play-time designing images around or for each piece. Simple work, but pretty. Maybe some realization of my mind’s setting when I’m writing the stuff.
I’d like to really open the windows. Maybe someone will see something there that I’ve not seen. Maybe the work involved in compiling and constructing will open a few eyes in and of itself. I might learn something. Might very well end up with alot of new writing. Might finally finish some of the projects I’ve let sit in the shadows for years.
More than just posting thoughts, I can share my work. What good is it if I keep it where it will only gather dust, pages slowly falling apart. Gold leaf on the net will stay gold. On a book, it’ll fade or flake away.
How would you like to read the story of the Golden Beads. Or dive into Flight. Rejoice with the lords of life. Dance in the desert or fall to your knees Behind These Dunes. Or cry at the keyboard. Walk the desolation with Rowan and Rune. Watch over someone with no name, who pleads with you for protection. Fall For Me. Grow old and dance one last time with your daughter. Farewell to someone who smiled her last breath. Drift into madness or return from terror. Want something so much your muscles strain, or marvel at the gift of Breath. Would you like that? I would share my version of it.


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