Winter Hymn

It is a damn cold night,
But these nights are clear.

The frigid wind has a way
Of cutting down to bone
And probing deeper.

These are the evenings of my discontent.

I am more honest in the cold:
Winter offers the formality
Of doctor-patient confidence,
When the weather reminds me
That death is not so foreign.

This is not the end, but
Death is piling on dying.

On cold, hard nights like this
I hear something written on my heart.
It whispers: “I see a new day coming,”
and:
“There is beauty in cold, desolate places.”

Cliché-ly Titled Poem?

Another poem from my poetry writing class. The assignment was to do a metered poem. I chose iambic tetrameter--that is, four iambic feet, which consist of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable.

As usual, your criticism is welcome.


Some Lines On Romans 1-8

2009

The law, the law is everywhere.

In everyone you meet--it's there.

It's written on our hearts--and still,
We each will do what each one wills.

Oh what a wretched man we are,
We hit the ditch when aimed for stars.
But what's a wretch who doesn't know
What he will reap from what he sows?

In love, in love is everyone

With all the different things of fun.
And given over, righteousness
Is put on hold for things much less.

Now what's the wrong of all of this?
What's right with what you say we've missed?
And who's to say it's wrong at all?
We're past some dumb, archaic Fall.

Indeed we are, and so it seems,
We still cannot fulfill our dreams.
As slaves to passion, pleasure, hate,
That promise much but don't placate,
We map a self destructive course,
And of us all, I am the worst.
Yet all things work for me, for best.
That's not the verdict I'd have guessed.
It seems the last thing left to see
Is: Oh, who will deliver me?

Place Poem

Another assigned poem for my Poetry Writing class last semester. We were required to pick a place on campus, describe it in poetic verse, then add a character to the location. If you go to Winthrop, try to guess where it is.

Also--I love feedback on my poetry--specific feedback. As in, this line works, I don't understand that line, etc. So do not withhold if you have something.

Decide, Decide, or Die
2009

A young man walks through
The small, secret, brick-lined tunnel,
Decide, decide, decide: Two white doors,
One knobless, contend on either side.
He bears a strange similarity to
The long, unused light, exposed by a cracked cover,
Residing with a pipe on the too-low white ceiling.
Why choose the knobless door?
Why not the obvious, knob-ful choice?
Four times sprayed paint calls him, with a
Revolutionary upraised fist to “GIVE IN,”
He wants to give in to the knobless door;
The knoblessness is no less than alluring.
The fifth “GIVE IN” fist, however, once
Scrawled on the ground, is worn away:
Many have walked that way before.
And, one time on the rusted vent, the fist
Reminds him of the temporary nature of things.
How this decision, indecision, result,
Are already all but gone.
Three prosperous green dots, blooming with
His potential, underline a lover’s note:
“It’s too late to turn back now…
I believe, I believe, I believe I’m falling in love.”
No. He turns back now,
He believes, he believes, he is loveless.
In dying retreat, he ducks to miss the pipe.

Dear Lake Erie

Lake Erie
2009

Hello, Lake Erie,
You and I are something of the same.
You are a Great, I am a great.
Though when put with others, not so great.
You retain water for only a few years;
My fears keep my heart's retention
Often to a few days' time.
Sometimes I fear my fears
Keep me from being a part of some
Grand Paddle-To-The-Sea adventure.
You too were guarded once,
By a proud Iroquois nation,
That is until explorers came
From foreign lands to lay
Claim to your abundance.
What that some far off power
Would lay claim to my protected heart.
I am as shallow as your hundred-meter depth,
Deep--but never deep enough.
How do you deal with never being best!?
You and I, dear Erie.
If we were tested, separated
From those around us, yes--
We would excel! Well,
We would be best, but
Alone.
No, good lake, dear friend,
I think we can both agree
We want to be put with others,
Even if it averages us.

"To Fetch A Pail"

What you probably know after reading my blog for o-so-long, is that I am a poet of sorts. What you may not know is that this past semester I took a poetry writing class. The reason you do not necessarily know this is because I have not posted any of my poetry that came out of that class. Now I am remedying this--

To Fetch A Pail
2009

A modern Jack and Jill,
Arduous brother-sister partnership
That climbs in search of water
May find that what the bucket's
Filled with, what they're looking for,
Is not the expected clean and clear.
While trying to construct to
Some sort of paradise,
The bridge we thought we'd built
Across the infinite looks great
But weighs down on our shoulders
As we try to carry it.
Let's try some demolition:
There is a devastating majesty--
A clear, pure stinging to the heart
That can catch you, safe.

The "Scene"

A week or so back, there was a hardcore concert at my church, and I found it comfortable to sit on the ground in the middle of the room, from whence this poem was born.

For those of you who don't know, the hardcore 'scene' is composed of those that listen to, play, and go to see hardcore music performed. Some of this subculture's characteristics are intense anger and wild, violent dancing at concerts.

"A Musing On The 'Hardcore' Scene"

I sit on the floor, a silent sage or judge,
Laying no condemnation, simply
Careful observation, quiet analysis
Of a group that screams and riots
In defiance of everything;
A culture, sub-culture
By most contemporary standards.

My presence on the ground is foreign,
Obtrusive, and unheard of,
To a group that is foreign,
Obtrusive, and unheard of.
I am an interloper through my position,
Seated, on the ground,
While the norm is: standing,
Screaming, dancing, flailing,
Wanting loving, but lacking,
And so hurting.

I am learning that my silence is so strange
Because silent sitting, thinking
Is not an option for those that surround me.
I am in appearance like them,
But I did not come from them.
They yearn for love,
And so scream, and shove.

Set Before Us

This one was a straight-up prayer to God. It's passionate and therefore powerful.

"Set Before Us"

O to talk to You, to walk with You!
God I thought I’d been walking with You for quite some time,
But now I’m convinced it’s been little more than baby steps; a crawl if at all.
How can I move forward if I keep setting tripwires and minefields for myself?

I want to run the race marked out,
To persevere until the end,
But when You’ve been knocked down as many times as me,
To see that end-of-tunnel light is only growing more difficult each night.

These set-backing knock-downs haven’t even been powerful pushes:
Light breezy gusts of stupid, un-sated, petty desires
That have blown my chaff-like heart off course:
Here and there, to and fro; places I never intended to go.

But lo and behold, truly truly I say to You!
I am stuck in the muck and filth of my heart,
I need a brand new start in this eternal race!
Faith hasn’t been mine for quite some time.

I’ve sought salvation and satisfaction in plenty of petty idols.
Truth be told my soul is in a hole like Sheol: Dark, and damp.
God please be my all powerful, eternal, faithful lamp
And guide my baby steps into strides
On the race that my pace may increase
Until at last I see Your face, in that glorious place.

God take my depravity,
I need help to break free from the weight of sin inside of me.
Help me not shirk my responsibility,
But take my best, take my worst,
Give me a marathon runner’s thirst,
For You.

A Lesser Grief

One of my favorites. It was originally inspired by a particular person, but soon developed beyond that as I recognized that this is a widely occurring condition.

One of the first people I showed it to told me that this poem could very easily be pegged in the Victorian era, when this sort of sentiment would be the widely conveyed one. Nowadays, that is not so. We're all about speaking our mind, yet we hide so much.

"A Lesser Grief"

I am afraid of the unknown,
Of what words unsaid might say.
What murmurings of the mind
So fearfully withheld may do:
Doom could be dispensed
As pensiveness runs free.

I too fear, thy dear opinion kept
Leaves worst to grasp, I pine.
My thoughts stay here
As thine are there.
Wherefore we hide the truth,
For fear of the unknown?

What dared we've to disclose
Is just enough to bluff the heart,
To set the mind a-foolish-flutter
And clutter reason over-much.
Our subtle sleuths do thrive,
Alive subconscious.

The words restrained
Leave chance for wound unmeant.
An arrow from bow bent
In plain sight's view does leave
A lesser grief than blow
Unknown from friend.

Truth indeed does clear the air,
Wherefore then content are we,
Coexistent in a cloud?
To stay ourselves, our aim,
Maintain the status quo;
Obscure the truth and cure a shift.

Any revolution for us yet,
Our paths and hearts are set against it,
Content in current state,
Yet discontent does rage inside,
As fear does fill the flesh,
I am afraid of the unknown.

Less Than Watchmen For The Morning

I wrote this in a moment of desperation, and for that reason, it is powerful. At first I thought it was not as well done as some of my other stuff, but I have since retracted that judgment.

While it is not as technical or vividly poetic as some of my other work, it is not worse, simply different. Few of my other poems have the raw emotion that this one does.

Can anyone tell me where the title comes from?

“Less Than Watchmen For The Morning”

My sanity is gone.
My sanity is GONE!
I must be crazy to be thinking these thoughts
Or saying these things, these words:
I know I’m going crazy, I know I’ve gone insane.
It’s the pain…or lack thereof.
My heart’s a black hole, devoid of love.
Oh sure, people love me.
And I’d love to say I love them too,
But actions speak louder than words, you know?
…and those have been sorely lacking of late.
And I sure as…well, I’ve got a few idols I love more than You.
True, I know that You Love me the same yesterday, today and even tomorrow…
…or do I?
That’s why I must be going crazy,
I must have lost my mind.
Because it’s You I cannot find.
Oh Lord El Shaddai, I don’t know why
Your All-Sufficiency isn’t sufficient in my mind.
I can’t see You…I don’t feel You.
I want to feel, God, I want to HEAL!
He said taste and see but weak stupid me
Isn’t up to that now.
I need change, God please rearrange all the idols of my heart
Start to regenerate this flesh!
The self-imposed darkness is closing in,
Elohim, speak-------into the darkness
And breath life, end my internal strife.
I do not feel You nigh, I don’t feel…not even to cry
And so I wait.
I don't want to, I don't care to try
But I wait.
Please come Adonai.

Goodnightlove

Written late 2008; One of my best. The structure and meaning is some of my most skillful/purposeful.

"Goodnightlove"

Goodnightlove:
You are off to dream sweet things,
In your head,
On your bed,
I hope these things of one is me.

This day's love does cause exhaust,
I so fear,
You my dear,
May find it weary for the cost.

"Give all" is all that love asks,
None--not I,
Can deny,
That love not this is but a mask.

Mine mortal means indeed are
Too meager,
Far weaker,
Than will sustain you to afar.

Forforever:
The best of me to rest you
Never will,
Ever fill,
Or come to satisfy me too.

Mine incomparable acts
Rare indeed,
Ne'er succeed,
To fulfill you and love's contract.

I am small and of no weight
Simply man.
Foolish plan:
To love you in my current state.

My flesh is dark, hark! 'Tis weak!
So must you,
Love me true,
And find due end to which to seek.

Tillmorncomes:
Mine heart fails despite best try
My dearest,
You know this:
Contenting love, not mine, is nigh.

Perhaps whence this love scours,
All will see,
We will be,
Found to find each other is ours.

But only then, when love based,
Not in you,
Nor me too,
Will love not ours be our pure haste.

So shall you I hasten to,
At nights end,
I begin,
To love not you, yet love you true.

Much Too Strong For Fantasy

One of my better poems, relatively structured compared to most of m poems. I worked on this one for almost six months before I finished it. I think it turned out excellently. And yes, it has two titles, because I think both of them are completely effective.

"Much Too Strong For Fantasy”
-or-
"The Process By Which Two Persons Achieve Sustained Movement Through The Air"

You and I my darling dear
Will flit and flee into the sky
Far away from all our fears
And hallelujah we shall cry.

The others think they understand
Why our hands are clasped so tight;
To grasp the love on which we stand
One must with us engage in flight.

The love with which we fly is true
Stands firm quite through life's days and nights;
Depends not how I feel for you
And weathers all our faults and fights.

Self-sacrifice sustains us here
It takes ourselves out of our love
Removes the lust and leaves love clear;
We fly sans fear so far above.

The lucid sky our muse becomes
And sings our love's sweet covenant.
Our flesh and blood and love are one
My strength to fly less you, relents.

Darling dear so shall we fly
My worst and yours is in this best
For us the far is now brought nigh;
I wonder with wonder at how we've been Blessed.

Except You Enthrall Me (Never Shall Be Free)

This is one of the best poems I've ever written. It's one of the first real poems I wrote, too. The title comes from John Donne's fairly well known Holy Sonnet XIV.

"Except You Enthrall Me (Never Shall Be Free)"

I want a swing in my backyard,
But since I don't have one of those
I'd like a backyard too as well,
In a place that no one knows.
And in this swing I'd swing
While in my mind I would discourse,
Of my thoughts unto my thoughts and ponder much on prose.

Though poetry clear I could hold dear
As dear these time upon this swing.
Who knows? Perchance I'd chance to sing a ditty sweet
Or ballad strong of loves long lost or yet to come,
While swinging free under the tree
In my backyard where no one goes.

I fly quite high into the sky
(beyond the dirt I'm grounded on)
And think on more than me and mine.
This swing remains two metal chains
And rubber sling for short a time
If on it sits an unwhole soul who craves
A thought beyond the known.
I want this swing so badly, because on it
I much further see,
My vision goes beyond my sight,
And on it once I saw the light.

Sprinkles On The Asphalt

I wrote this one about camp, for camp. I love it, a lot. If you want to know what camp is all about, this is definitely a good place to start.

This also ends the period of my semi-apprenticeship in poetry, after this point is where I really began to dig into what it means to write a good poem, and to be a poet.

"Sprinkles On The Asphalt"

Not one second less than four-teen hours ago, this pavement was bare!

Where O where did all these sprinkles on the asphalt come from?

That question can be answered only by what happened a few seconds less than four-teen hours ago:

One hundred-fifty-plus excited little tweens and teens came screaming up the road:

Whoa they're sure excited about a bunch of silly games and a pointless competition-cheering-high-

low-volume-stick-cutoff-yarn-around-the-wrist-is-our-alliance created only to ensure fun was had the past six days.

Unhindered by such silly thoughts they fly up the the pavement to get their reward for all their hard work those six silly days:

A bowl, Styrofoam, containing two small scoops of plain old vanilla ice cream.

But plain it remains not for long as this throng of excited little tweens and teens begins to decorate and consecrate their reward with all types of ice cream toppings:

Reese's some prefer, or there were also a lot of Maraschino cherries tossed on,
But one topping was thrown on nearly every bowl: sprinkles.

And as one might expect a herd of one-hundred-fifty-plus excited little tweens and teens to do, the sprinkles are inevitably flung and trampled upon the asphalt.

The irony of this situation is...that in just a few seconds later than four-teen hours from the flinging of the sprinkles (and the subsequent trampling of the same),

All the physical proof that will remain to indicate their pure unadulterated excitement and the experiences of the week will be just that:

sprinkles on the asphalt.

All that their counselor--friends invested in them this week, you may seek to find physical proof of, but you will find naught but sprinkles on the asphalt.

The marks their God-creator-lover-friend put on their heart are far from the view of any physical-viewing-device,

Eyes cannot witness or describe the work their Father in heaven has begun in them those six silly days at camp.

Only in the ways they go home to show this work by their works can one work to see the work their good God has begun in them.

Of all the things they have been shown, how God has made himself known by his deeds and his great love, no eye can see and no ear can hear.

So if you're seeking here to see what was done this week, then venture elsewhere you must because the only empirical evidence of this week left here at camp,

is Sprinkles on the asphalt.

A Matter of Consequence

I would be a fool if I said that circumstances do not inspire poetry. I really like this one, even though it is by far not my best.

"A Matter of Consequence"

To be with you is my desire—
This fire burns within my being.
Seeing you each time does turn,
Inclines my heart to be with you.
To hold, embrace—to kiss your face
Is what the lust inside me says.
Ways together we might be,
I could see, but not condone.
Low am I in mind and spirit
As passion-fire does fill my veins.
In vain I seek to fight my flesh,
But all my best is brought to naught!
I want to love my God, my Father!
But rather would my body be
With you, my object of desire.
Indeed I am already walking
Down the path that leads to "us."
Thus you find me struck asunder,
Under the weight of what is "we,"
And what I know is all undone!
Cannot I find a path in middle,
To pursue you and God at once?
Break me God! I cry to heaven,
And bend my heart to do you will!
Yet will I cry when you and I,
Must separate and wait 'till when?

Singularity

One of my first real solid poems...I worked on it for a long daggum time, too. I am a huge fan of breaking the norm. But I can't just say 'BE UNIQUE' because everyone is just different enough from everyone else to be technically 'unique.' There are a select few, however, that are singular, above and beyond the moderate uniqueness everyone else has achieved.

I like to think I am or at least strive to be amongst their ranks. On a side note, I advise against being different just for the sake of singularity, though...when choosing to diverge, I would urge you to be purposeful and skillful in doing so.

"Singularity"

The singular soul, who not converging, controls,
Holds in hand what is to be commended.
For those who chose (and don't diverge)
The normal course of course don't live,
Except to sleep in waking hours,
Covert in bowers of comfort hidden,
Content to cling to what's beloved,
With unbidden acts to act as if free.
To claim the name of freedom true
And do nothing other than other's firsts?
True liberty 'tis to be and see
And call from beyond man's great fall,
To fight the forces of fleshly faults.
This freedom bold of old beloved,
Now looked upon with rancor strong.
Instead to stand amongst the others
Of similar fate masses fated are.
This doom--rare worse--to not disperse
And remain chained in self-crafted irons.
'Tis doom to not disperse; To be
Unique and not depart is art.
For art in every heart is found
And when unbound is full-fledged life.
Consistent life safety provides,
Divides the soul and mind in strife.
Yet one of man's high ends exists:
To scatter as skilled as do branches from tree,
Into their own air pairèd still with the trunk.

The Fifth

It's very simplistic, but better than a lot of stuff out there, and the meter/rhyme is pretty daggum good. Again, from high school. I can definitely see a correlation to "A Lesser Grief," which I will be posting in not too long.

The Fifth

I gaze at her each passing day
And wonder at what I should say.
To tell her what she means to me?
To tell her what in her I see?
To do so would reveal to much,
Few are the brave who would do such.
Simply one statement could disclose,
My feelings then it would expose.
To scrutiny public, before all,
Without anyone on whom to call.
Unless of course the feelings shared
(Could it be that indeed she cared?)
Would lead us both together pleased
Reputation safe from being seized?
If only assured my path could be,
And known it were she would agree.
With confidence approach I would and say:
"It's you who brings light to each day."
Alas, such knowledge still goes pursued,
As I remain here, sadly subdued.

Adverbs Are Now Nouns

Post high school, but early college. I hope to extend it and develop it more at a later date.



The beauty she is,
of now and of future,
Burns forever my heart
Through the end to begin,
And right on straight through because.

The feelings I bear,
Of now and of future?
Melt forever my mind
From final to first.
And distract to continue control.

Her glances and ways,
Of now and forever,
Hold in hand my attention
To conclude from beginning
And forever encrypting the how.

Eve's Purpose Complete

Wrote this back in high school about a specific girl. She was pretty and she was godly, which is why it never worked out, because I wasn't

"Eve's Purpose Complete"

"She walks in beauty" as Byron said,
And golden locks flow from her head.
Her eyes twin perfect sapphires be,
I view each time they turn towards me.
Her smile—striking—and often there,
Revealing true and honest care
For every other but herself.
Her faith she values above all else,
An occurance strange in modern days:
Christ's love performed in all her ways.
No hate she feels for race or creed,
Though for salvation she sees the need.
Regarding relations; she remains pure
For the mate she knows God will procure.
Perfect in nearly every way
Though that never would she say.
The completion of what was meant for Eve,
So close and yet removed from me.

More Old Poems

Just some old poems that I wrote a long daggum time ago. The first one I wrote in 2006, then revised and 'released' in 2007; the second I wrote my first summer working at TVR, while, coincidentally, running the archery range. It's short, but I like it.

"The Prodigal's Argue"

Isn't this great?
You start by stabbing my stand,
You tell me I'm wrong,
That what I'm living's a lie,
Isn't the truth.
I battled that point,
But hey, can I live with
You believing that, but:
Second, you start
preaching me,
teaching me,
telling me,
all
about this belief.
But wait. Oh no.
Don't begin to berate
or instruct me in what
I know to be true
and lovingly live.
Don't flaunt all that's false
you claim of my faith.
This is mine [not alone].
Abandoment I accept,
[on your part] abandon it,
I can live with that, can I?
But don't even begin to tell me
about it, as if. You care?
Not that [I]t won't
welcome you back, brother lost.
but until then,
you, are interloping,
Trying to tell what
You still fail to grasp.
You're illegit,
Don't argue the kingdom,
How it works and is run;
Don't attempt to explain
That which you disdain.

"My Life: The Arrow"

O Lord, if my life
Be akin to an arrow,
Then I ask that its archer be you.

For with you as my
Marksman, my flight will be far
And the sin of my shot shall be none.

For what better a
Life than one led by the Lord?
And what truer a
Target than one guided by God?

Redemption Poem

Old old old....like, mid-2007 old. Yeah.

"Redemption Poem"

O Lord, how great Thou art,
You see into my heart,
And love me still the same,
Despite what You should blame.

My sin your son did slay,
And still does to this day!
Weak and fallen, without excuse,
Still You forgive my every abuse.

Even still my heart does fail,
And forgets whom it should hail.
Whenever I might roam,
Still You bring me home.

Now wrapped in Thy great love,
And grace sent from above,
It is well with my soul,
My broken life made whole.