As a violin cries, my voice soars
And as I move towards The Lord
With my chords and my cords
Singing of the heavenly rewards
(We are God’s instruments)
It is He Who invents
And uses us as His instruments
He produces with musical implements
Every instrument that repents
For The Holy Spirit (you see)
I am a wind wood who breathes
And gives up each breath
As the symphony will progress
So play on piano (ebony, ivory and hoary)
God has given us gifts for His glory
And God is instrumental in our salvation
(As He was also in His creation)
As the stars sang and in each angel’s refrain
Listening for the trumpet blast at the end of days
And we sing of (God, as He descends from above)
Jesus: The Way, Truth, and Life, The Ancient of Days
I don’t recognize this container I’m in.
Where did it come from and when?
It happened overnight, I thought I had time.
I thought I had braced myself for this inevitable transition.
But when the obvious became real
I was still caught off guard
Not willing now to sanction this transmutation.
It’s frustrating being forced to accept these changes.
I never agreed, show me where and when I signed up for it!
My mind tricked me.
The way I think is childlike and silly.
But the other day I went to scratch my head, and what I saw on my arms,
Made me feel scammed and caused me dread!
The fish scale, wrinkles and hanging muscles.
These can’t be my arms they’re my grandmothers.
I looked closer at this organism
And was astonished to find so many areas falling behind.
Where are the protocols in place to prevent this?
Where are the protocolist, The manufacturers warranties,
And general implements and installments.
I paid in all my life
And this is the assurance my insurance gives me.
Damn, I wish I would have read the small print.
When the mouth
says one thing
and the brain
implements actions
that changes the outcome
then the brain is the truth.
Get involved in a project
And the hours just slip away.
Before you know it, dusk arrives
To zipper up the day.
No matter what you work on,
Using implements or brains,
The progress that you make depends
On how the time restrains.
With luck, you get to finish
Or make good on your intent,
‘Til you look outside and wonder
Where exactly this day went.
Remember when grandma would boil the eggs?
There were no fancy color kits to buy.
She used crushed berries for the royals, purple and blue,
tea or coffee for sunny shades of yellow and orange,
and spinach for gracious green (the only way I liked it at the time).
Glorious golden and regal red – from onion skins! Oh my!
If she had eggplant or red cabbage, she made precious pink and purple.
What passionate pastels emerged and earthy hues of neutral nature!
colors of nature
repurposed from the heavens ~
two times the blessing
No chemical dyes with eggs swiftly finished and decorated in one sitting.
Grandma’s eggs took gathering the eggs from the nest,
food or food scraps, a couple of days, several helping hands, various
utensils and implements, and make quite the mess! A perfect process!
humble beginnings
after a long abstinence ~
a welcome reward
Oh, the love and joy from decorating those eggs.
No kit can ever compare.
They are incantations,
holders of truth and lie,
they can be imprecations for bad or sly,
they are hammers that forge our lives,
implements which are sharp as knives,
mastering them may seem nigh,
one may think he is adroit in this art,
or it may be a mere start,
Here no element is a titular part,
some might think of them as banal,
in the world of today they are crucial,
oh so don't you belittle,
lot to learn in this field of imagination,
they are salient to the way of education,
They may be a boon or an imprecation,
The baker had a busy day,
Making pies, cakes and bread
He was hot and bothered
And was looking forward
To rest his weary head.
He made some gingerbread men
And put them on a tray
He switched on the oven
And cleared his implements away
The cookies smelled delicious,
Good enough to eat
No one was suspicious
Of the effects of that oven's heat
Eventually, the gingerbread men were done,
The baker examined them
Every single one
Some looked perfect
Just as they should
Some were an ugly shape
That was not good.
Some too soft
Others were brittle
Some too brown
And some too little.
The poor weary baker
Felt very sad
As he looked at the biscuit tray
He was upset and mad
Because he did not like to waste
Any imperfect biscuits, cake or bread
They had the same taste
So he crumbled up
The disfigured biscuits instead.
As the workworn baker put his hat on the shelf
At the end of a long day
The perfect gingerbread man mumbled
That is how the cookie crumbles
They tell me: clean all the closets --
give away clothes, things you'll never use--
toss it all, decorate anew -- but,
must I part with what you
touched -- what you gave life
by using, by cleaning,
by valuing? What to me
had no intrinsic worth
you made precious, and
now these are not mere objects:
the trinkets, utensils, furniture,
clothes, pictures, car, house --
machines, implements, tools, books --
all the trappings of our lives.
Discarding them will be
another step erasing you.
Putting an end. And of
my losing you -- again.
Her skin had become the canvas for the unmarked pain
The color of red dripping across her wrists covering that of a tears stain
Losing sight of everything she has lived for
Standing there knocking on deaths door
Begging pleading for him to let her in
Stating her heart can’t stay in this world of mortal sin
The fact is she had been feeling this way for a while
And no one noticed in her phase of denial
She stood there each day in front of the the people who said they cared
Slowly fading away as they just watched and stared
Standing there watching her as she pushed herself beyond her limits
Everyone preaches rules that no one implements
All it took was for one inconvenience to the higher power
And now her strength is what must tower
When she stood there and tried to talk
Her feelings is what they all would mock
When it became to much for her to bare
They all stood there with a confused glare
They stated she never had mentioned it
And now at their table is an empty place to sit
The years have not mildewed
for my moss is deep and soft,
it is a fine as baby hair
as thick as an uncut meadow.
Somewhere there are lands I have plowed
over and over,
beneath which are the fragments
of chalky skeletons,
the remains of scant harvests.
Time accumulates a life,
caves and cave-ins layer atop each other,
and above it all
the moss flourishes
to cover an abandoned machinery
that once excavated molehills.
Rusted tools, implements
now all buried
yet still they seep iron
into my earth.
My moss is threaded with clover,
a greening stronger than steel.
I am heaped and rounded
a place for buttercups in summer,
and when a winter-tide
seeks out that velvet plush,
it shall not bite nor crush
but lay as a companion beside me.
On the eve of 25 December
We expected joy, gifts,
But rivulets of blood and tears;
Gushed over the land.
When Vodka surrogates the lamb;
All in the game are futile
The day is rendered no specialty
Given that the real day is latent
It’s vile to rule the sanctified day;
As archaic or discriminatory:
For the wicked ideology to maneuver
Derailing even the chosen
Carried away by the folklore
Working against Holy Spirit – on the day.
The carnal mind
Powered by the serpent
Implements a Law free strategy;
Where people of their own interests
Succumb to the second and final death!
I have with concern been lamenting
With my chilly fears augmenting:
A young promising morning might soon age
And a planter close a helpless page …
My muscles are dying for a cutlass,
My strength enough to not seek a lass
My nostrils fish out odorless fertilizers;
The sparks in my eyes Advertisers
I shouldn’t ears supply with any story,
Now, I could from Ants snatch their Glory …
Through and through An Agricultural Mind
To more farm implements find;
A new day might start ageing like my father
As time further does its race farther.
Migration of Tractors
David J Walker
I remember the migration
of tractors
From farm to farm and
field to filed
Other traffic must yield
to the slow-moving behemoth
in John Deere Green
the farm boy driving it was
no more than 13 on a
Saturday when the other boys
Were doing the same thing
With large clanking implements
In tow
And the 13 year old drivers
Knew the way to go
Where their fathers
Were waiting in
Beat up old pickup trucks
I remember the migration
Of farm boys to larger
Towns
Vowing never
To return
Tall and narrow,
the houses stand,
wall against wall,
hunched together
on the edge of the
cobbled street,
as if armed against
the unknown.
Tiny balconies
Where laundry
Used hang on railings
To dry, now bursting
With potted plants
Walls bright yellows,
greens and blues,
stucco and stone
mortared together
hundreds of years ago
by stout men in
leather aprons
with the rudest of
implements,
they lean inward
over the street,
which once ran with mud,
the contents of
slop jars, and wash water.
Now teeming with tourists
who hobble on the cobbles,
peering into first floors,
converted into tiny shops
crammed with hats
and shirts and sandals,
soaps and wine and bracelets,
postcards and paintings,
candy and local delicasies.
Oldtown suddenly finds itself
squarely in the middle
off the twenty-first century.
My obsession with writing implements is getting out of hand,
while not quite turning out as planned. I’m still without
that vintage Montblanc, but I’m saving a place in my cabinet
for it, right in the middle where it’ll really shine.
a good pen is
necessary for writing
rivers of ink
I collect all sorts of pens, varieties of nibs allow me to create poetry and illustrate it too; it allows me to create universes. With the ink, I am in flow.
the power of
the fountain pen
creating worlds
My pride is a toss-up between Parker Blue Diamonds and Esterbrooks; if they don’t glide like silk across the page
my creativity stalls. What is given to me, echoes through my soul.
the rivers that flow
from my soul onto the page
channeled scenes
3-24-2021
ALL YOURS (Mar 26) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
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