A gentle lady’s plight
falls like leaves off a branch in winter
afore beauty coveted in her youth takes flight
as her barren turned roots make
admirers frown in displeasure
her barks covered in snow
turns brittle offering no shade nor fruit
yet the axe-bearers come
hacking at her trunk with relentless brute
and took away what little she had
for themselves to use as fuel
a kindled fire warms their cold stiff bodies
while keeping them full
they looked at each other and said
what wrong did we commit
there were no flowers to appreciate
in the middle of winter they mused
hence they agreed amongst themselves
it was her only value.
Thought the wef types were really slick.? Turns out they promoted starmer; bland as
They come., indeed and no charmer.' Beating up the elderly children and farmers.' Baldrick has now lost his job.' I
Shall not sob..' Is that guy in the dingy in-coming the afore mentioned starmer.?
When my mother says it's time for bed
to relax and rest my sleepy head
A kiss goodnight, then off I will go
I do love my pretty bedroom so.
On my window seat I love to sit
at night when my room is candle lit
I look to moon above and stargaze
a scene of which tranquil dreams are made.
I'll read from my book of fairytales
that's when my imagination sails
Fairies dance from out of the pages
in adventures my heart engages.
Afore I climb into bed to sleep
I pray for happiness, joy and peace
On all the worldwide stages that be
for everyone, family and me.
A cabin in the pines, it’s been years
It resembles what I remember even as it appears
On New Year’s Adam, it begins to snow
(It was Adam before Eve as you know)
Northern Wisconsin calls me home again
Old memories awaken as night thoughts do stem
The oil lamp flickers on nostalgia’s hem
Blank paper awaits: from old yarns that’ve been spun
Outside winter dances in a frigid hush
Inside warmth permeates
Then a gentle knock, and the silence it breaks
An old friend, a familiar face illuminated by fire light
(Is it a second chance at love at first sight?)
Guided by love, and family’s guiding vane
She enters, seeking warmth and to explain
How loneliness shaped her and years we can’t ignore
We talk of days we once shared afore
Our laughter echoing through the snowy hours
Tonight, no passion, only a friendship’s bowers
God’s presence felt, our presences collide
The fruit of The Spirit towards which we both stride
I honor the woman she has grown to be
The full spectrum of her muliebrity
Through grace and time, His love for us is known
God has guided our paths (to us previously unknown)
The night afore Christmas Day came our way
Twelve relatives descended, for to stay
Had to assemble several spare beds
But they did look cosy, it must be said.
A merry time was being had by all
Awaiting the moment Santa would call
The children were noisy, were kept awake
By the row that us oldies did create.
There was singing, drinking and lots to eat
Suddenly down the chimney came two feet
It was Santa come with his ho-ho-ho
Was offered a drink, but said no-no-no.
Then off up the stairs Santa Clause did run
We heard a scream, which then stilled all our fun
All wondered what on earth he could have done
To induce such an awful commotion.
It turned out that the kids had startled him
Jumping from their beds making a right dim
Santa ran down, his face glowing bright red
That was down to the children, one would guess.
Santa said that he'd been pulled, tugged and torn
The kiddies said not so, a promise sworn
They just meant to render Santa a hug
But dear Santa told them, no such luck.
Santa ran off then, faster than a flash
His goodbye was, “I will never come back.”
Upon the atheist rests the weighty task
To show all knowledge stands on mortal ground
Can nature’s uniformity unmask
Or logic’s laws in reason’s courts be found?
And absent from God, such footing seems unsure
For concepts fade, absolutes ‘came obscure
Now, Santa Claus, in a cheerful mythical fray
Will liken faith in God to flights on a sleigh
But transcendental truth is not a game
Nor matter or motion, or bound to a Yuletide frame
God’s attributes no creature may possess
Omniscience alone is God’s mindset
Thus, by what is revealed, we clearly see
Reality conforms to His decree
Santa’s lore can’t rival what is afore told
For only God holds wisdom’s keys of old
So, in this search for truth, let hearts be wise
No creature takes God’s place because God decries
The gates are thrown open!
Wipe that sneer off your face
Surrender to the thundering God
Or I His prophet will so help me do it for you
You just didn’t want to see what you’ve always known
You are welcome here whatever your sins and wicked ways
If you will but open your eyes and See
Pitch a tent with us on this sacred land and
Live as you were wrought from stone and flame
Raise your arms to the heavens and stand afore the hurricane
August 27, 2025
For what charge is this you lay at my feet?
For what misdemeanour or untruth did I afore commit?
Did I steal, did I lie and some innocence fall in my stead?
Did I indeed do much worse and is someone known to me now stone dead?
There is nothing between the daylight and the dark. No grey space for thought or error, no ending, no start.
As I stand here alone in a world I don’t know, as I listen to lies from the truth men in their show. Though contempt I do feel for the meaning written in your eyes. You’ll find Jesus preaching in hell before any truth of my lies.
“Tea”
Steam pouring forward, perhaps captured with the cold air of time
To be forgotten and lost
Blown away too quick to be tangible
Gentle momentum but me
Not so
Not even the steam ringing from hot tea
Whiskers of cinnamon promise fulfillment
Spikes of ice hot cut it short
Forevermore longing to be
Something more then hot tea taken on an unforgiving night
Bound for nothing
Bound for black and quiet
Only for a moment to be thought of a graceful dance guided with wind
And even I
To be known only to be lost
And to have been something
For it to lack with the persistence of time
Afore loved is always a burden that carries deep into the roots of a being
Although to be named cold air
Is still to be named
Carries with it a reluctance to reminisce
The cold air
"There's a river meandering through the mind,"
older than the Englishmen who raised a bridge
over its Constitution, a nude Indian sped away
from a warring Englishman behind
absconding by canoe to an adjacent isle
but smallpox caught the indie afore ammunition
"There's a river meandering through the mind,"
that witnessed the grapes of wrath in '37
and suffered its wine, the black potential rebelled
against the clear minority who had signed
emancipation letters without intent
ergo, cars with bodies went flying upon the riparian spine
"There's a river meandering through the mind,"
leaning on treasonous city hearts, wrinkling under the trebled
degrees of island sun, chuffing at progressiveness
and how the colour schemes lightly redesigned
black power free, it seems, walks unfettered to its banks
carrying tackle, tiki-torches, tourists, a picnic, and gun
In tattered stacks I sought my way, through dusty tomes of lore
To trace the steps of yesterday, reflections of a time afore
Where apparitions haunt the mist and tarry for a while
To sadly rue the curs'd path of follies artful guile
A shadowed figure paused paying heed to my regard
And from the silent mien I collected my reward
Oh how the heart in hopeless grip doth dwell upon the fear
Reflected in those empty eyes afar and yet so near
They told of tales aplenty, grim in ways unmatched
Of fated days to come in distant memories past
Of portents and of omens, of misgivings dour repast
In ancient times afore those held in futures grasp
There I marked the warning in somber tides of woe
There I gained in mourning the tears of sorrow left unsown
With heavy heart and troubled mind I went upon my way
From tattered stacks and dusty tomes to seek the light of day
With weary steps I trod the paths so many trod before
Of follies dark and artful guile from curs'd days of yore
Wade in the Water
While you can
Afore it steams away
Like the whistle of
A boiling kettle
Tis not the age of lushy, dewy dawn
the springtime of our race
when we knew not right or wrong.
In the gardens of the past,
before we knew a story had begun
There was room for naive error
afore the coming of the Son.
But not for us -no- for we live in the fall:
the anticipatory autumn afore the harvest
at the twilight of time.
What powers have been set before us!
A wealth of resources to wield both right and wrong.
And there are fewer and fewer excuses for wild error
now that the deposit of faith has grown so great.
We live in an age that requires precision and care,
and a heart that can hear our Lord's
still, small voice
amidst the panicked crescendo of time.
2025-03-13 ~8:45-8:56 PM thought of ~7:30 AM on March 11th or 12th
“Thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes.” He said,
Filled with milk and honey but overwhelming his expectations - he feared,
Finding peace and solace in its feel of evermore candor-not for-yet made for-in plentiful, he cheered,
Until I sought no more in its unparalleled enchare.
Out the door she gushed and out his heart she made deport,
Staring across the open door, across the hallway with his heart implode,
Laying waste to the mask which clots his eyes afore.
I implore to thee, whose eyes are that of a doe,
Sing into my ears once more and ward off my fiery foes,
Dance with me once more, oh how I MISS YOU so.
"The snow did not even whisper its way to earth, but seemed to salt the night with silence" - Dean Koontz.
Still as the winter’s night, mourning
When will we heed His soft warning?
Snow dreams, believes, sometimes a sign,
This is the still who makes souls shine.
Gentle flakes, silently falling,
At times, winter’s breath comes calling,
Warming hearts and souls, so divine,
This is the still who makes souls shine.
Whispering to the spirit, winds
Risking moments as night rescinds
Wind rebels, and stutters a whine,
This is the still who makes souls shine.
Snow blesses those who love winter,
Wonder afore life’s midwinter,
Song of love, falling on the pine,
This is the still who makes souls shine.
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