Long Faithold Poems
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About eleven years ago through a genealogical search I found out that my adopted
father is Salish Indian, thereby making me at least half Salish. I dedicate this poem
to the Salish people:
The sun rises and calls our people to the land
The babies clutched, children taken in hand.
Blanketed, shivering bodies in the spring air
Quickly we assemble for the journey
Voices speak quietly; our people are ready.
Rows of deep blue mountains fading into the sky
Keeping watch over us; sentries from high.
We walk past the spring where the water runs deep
Life blood of our people, quietly blessed
We trek along its path, continuing our quest.
A prairie breeze rushes past, pulling at our clothes,
It whispers in ears and tells of the woes
Of a woman who cried for her starving people
A bird was sent that spoke of bitter tears
Drops that fed a plant, feeding our people for years.
The biting wind was cold and our feet pushed faster
It moans and speaks for every ancestor
The land that we walk upon is our heritage
This earth isn’t ours, just a caretaker
Of this blessed land, the people of our Creator
Our feet stumble over the dry soil and rocks
Tracing trails our tribe still hunts and walks
Searching for wild game and berries for the table
Teaching our young of flowers and fauna
Now focused on the ground, seeking the red diva.
The searchers part, fingers pull on the dewy brush
Pushing away grass, hurrying to rush
And find the small plant, the guardian of our land
The tubular sprout that hides in dry soil
From all hands that seek, regardless of the toil.
Both young and old are searching for the small, slight sprout
Ancient rocks are pulled, then heard is a shout.
A young voice cries, “I found it!” Excited and proud.
Young and old group to see the succulent
Eyeing the pink buds and the roots of the green plant.
Small fingers pass the sprout to a Salish elder
The plant is taken and then held tender
Withered fingers lift it, thanking our Creator
For once again we harvest in tribute
The symbol of our ancestors, the Bitterroot.
Re-sound the aura of Holy you
In war or peace your tryst is true.
Through misplaced desire and loud falsehoods cry;
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky.
Let come your Holy fire in heat white pale
Though hindrance of debt is here, retell your tale
To nations wracked by doubt and moral pain be nearby;
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky.
The old, the old has visited men, and malice and evil has employed its ken,
I trace the shadows that beset man, woman and child, yet as they labour
Doubt and cry, raise the standard! your cross on high;
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky.
No man, no strength this world can show, but you alone
And always so, raise hope and raise beleaguered gloom-clad men,
You today and forever, the when and why;
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky
Call all mankind’s troubled brood, sad and haughty, proud and rude
Saying I will return, as even now I sue
Standing alone with love, no gold can buy;
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky.
All time is in your scheme of naught,
By blood and fire your souls were bought,
Now is! time for the battle cry;
As ring out wild bells to the wild sky.
Now we know that the Qur’an, forbids the weight of debt on man,
How more then should we hark to you, (it) as a commandment you gave anew,
Then under a blackened heaven your flesh to die
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky.
All souls of love rejoice and cheer, the time
Awaited is drawing near, when your cross appears on the
Eastern sky, those asleep transformed shall upward fly;
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky.
Dear good Tennyson write me you did bid, the mirror
Self the Lord kept hid; now the Holy Spirit will testify
To deaths legal ending with its alibis;
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky.
Light speed is in your blazing eyes, Let go! The bells
To peal on high, as the old year passes to the bye and bye
With eternal shimmer in the chilly air, and the Holy Spirit in fullest cry;
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky.
© Joe Maverick 20-11-2010
Good morning God
Well
Here I am again
Having this one way conversation
At five in the morning
Wondering if maybe
You might be listening
What’s that you say?
Oh…
Sorry…
I thought you said something
My mistake
Yes…
I know that all I do
Is mostly complain
Or have questions for you
That I know won’t be answered
But still
For some strange reason
I keep talking to you
Every morning
Day in and day out
What’s that you say?
Oh…
Sorry…
I thought you said something
My mistake
Anyway
I just wanted you to know
That I am still here
You know God
It’s been sixty-five years
Since I was born
And although
I keep on talking to you
Every day
I keep on hoping
That you might find a way
To answer me
What’s that you say?
Oh…
Sorry…
I thought you said something
My mistake
Life hasn’t been all that great
I’ve done some pretty stupid things
That no matter what I do
I can’t seem to correct
But still
I keep trying
I can still remember God
When I was seventeen
Just like it was yesterday
But this old body of mine
Aches all over
And I can’t begin to tell you
How often I have wished
I had a second chance
… hey God… any chance of that?
What’s that you say?
Oh…
Sorry…
I thought you said something
My mistake
Anyway God
I really miss the old days
I miss my old friends
And here’s something
Strange as it may seem
I really miss being able to run
You know… with the wind type running
What’s that you say?
Oh…
Sorry…
I thought you said something
My mistake
OK God
That’s enough complaining
For today
I’m going to grab a cup of coffee
And try to shake off
All this nostalgia
But regardless
I hope your day
Is off to a better start
Then mine
Take care of yourself
We’ll speak more tomorrow
Did you say something?
The old parson ministered to his flock where'er they might dwell,
In his well-traveled buggy drawn by his faithful horse, Old Nell.
Nell and he had weathered snow, rain and stinging gale,
Sharing the Master's Good News throughout rural hill and vale.
A humble country parson was all he ever aspired to be,
Knowing the material rewards would be scarce for his family,
But he had a fire in his soul that transcended all worldly goals.
He dedicated his life to serving humankind and saving languid souls!
The white-maned parson served his far-flung fold with dedication.
He was welcomed by saint and sinner alike with love and admiration!
Whether it be in the local saloon or Victorian parlor, it mattered not,
He put folks at their ease always proffering a pertinent mot!
He encouraged hapless souls stranded upon life's treacherous shoals,
Counseling them, helping to redirect their individual goals.
His congregation sat rapt, hearing his sermons so germane,
Simple messages about the remission of sin for which Christ was slain!
He performed baptisms, weddings and funerals for many generations,
Sharing with folks their sorrows, tears and joyous celebrations!
At the end of his earthly quest, God bestowed upon his brow a crown,
Saying, "Parson, you have served Me and My flock with great renown!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
God always leaves on a light,
In our darkest hour He guides us through our plights.
Our eternal hope His never ending grace,
To someday be able to gaze upon His face.
How many times have I heard His name taken in vain?
I too have uttered those words and the foul taste still remains.
How many times has He been held in contempt for things He didn’t do?
Like the loss of a child or a loved one that has left a void so deep in you.
Do we give Him the thanks when all is well and all is good?
Some do but all should.
Do we share His love the way He wants?
Or are we ashamed some will ridicule and others will taunt?
Have you ever received a blessing and not realized from where it came?
Maybe a check from out of the blue, just what you needed and it had your name.
Could it be the Lord showed you a little of His love?
So why not give thanks to our Father up above?
When my final bell tolls and they lay me down to rest,
I hope the Lord hears my final and last request.
That there be room in Heaven for this old coot and I’ve earned my berth,
And I hope I’ve reached a few souls before parting this old earth.
Down to the river so many went that day,
As brother Bobby and Pastor Ray baptized them the old fashioned way.
Such a beautiful site to behold,
Warm hearts receiving our Savior in waters so cold.
Such a devotion, such a great thing,
To see so many dedicating their lives to Jesus, you could almost hear the angels sing.
They went by twos as each declared their faith to the Lord,
Each testimony given individually as each was in search of Heaven as their final reward.
New spirits arose from that river that day,
Cleansed, made anew with a new song in their heart and the feeling all would be okay.
A new road to travel as the old ways were buried that day,
A new reason for life with the assurance that Jesus is never far away.
Such a meaningful day, seeing so many souls surrendering to our Lord,
And all in one accord.
A day I think I’ll never forget,
Seeing so many happy faces and so many that were wet.
According to the towns population approximately one sixteenth of its population was
baptized that day.
Awesome show of Christian faith is something I’m proud to say.
Sometimes, that old road we travel on, sure gets long
For miles and miles, think that you can go anymore
Old Satan will come along and promise the easy way
If you take it, that is where you go wrong
In his face, you have to slam that door
Then get on your knees and pray
In our travels, we are never alone
We may feel lonely, even forsaken
The Old Devil is sure not the company we need
The Good Lord never leaves us on our own
Though sometimes we may need a good shaken
So it will be Satan that we heed
It has been said, "That we all have a cross to bear"
And sometimes that is sure a heavy load
But you might not know it, help is right there by your side
The only request is a simple prayer
Removes the barriers and rock from your road
But that is for you to decide
"God helps those who helps themselves", my mother used to say
And we have to show him that we are trying
He knows that Satan will always have another trick
But don't be afraid to ask him for help when you pray
And that you are not just crying
Because we all have to carry our end of the stick
Form:
Oh, light a candle
For there is no money in piety
Be wise old man
For your children will suffer your philanthropy
Open those white and milky eyes
The world has no compassion for poverty
Hunger will wither their strength
What will they do with their lifeless bodies
Be wise old man
Will you let them beg
Till their tongues are weary with exhaustion
And citizens grow weary of their presence
Their souls are fat too violet
For such a fate
Be wise old man
They are undeserving
The streets are far too ghetto
For such pure innocence
You have lived many years
But they have left you none the wiser
Such a pity, old man
Such a shame
Be wise old man
God has reach
But so does the devil
Fear reflects in their eyes
It pleads from the depth of their souls
Money is paper
So you say
Indulgence is evil
S you also say
But what good is honor of piety
When you have no strength left to receive it
Be wise old man
For there is no money in piety
Beyond the markets
Of old Calcutta
Where the narrow streets
Weave and wind
Past the old men
With their little pipes puffing
And old woman whispering stories
Diyaa waits for me to come
And she smiles
Her delicate hands
Tugging lightly on my wrist
Lead me through the streets
Past the fallen cherries
And crushed oranges
That lie gathering flies
Like a Sheppard gathers sheep
To a table she’s prepared
Of spice teas and jellies
She offers everything
Including herself to me
And though I cannot
Give her the love she wants
She takes what I can give
As though it was
The most wondrous gift
As though it was
A blessing
Though her world
Is still filled with misfortune
And her days
Sometimes filled with sorrow
And though
All the champions of Calcutta
Have fled far beyond its borders
There's fire in her silhouette
With eyes that fill the darkness
Looking for hope
Looking for me
As she smiles
Form:
So the mystic turned another card
He thought and then he said
There are eight demons in your heart
And one inside your head
The tired figure raised his brows
Then whispered more than spoke
Is there some way that you can help
Some chant you can invoke
Yes the mystic’s voice replied
But such things are not cheap
For you see I’m old and frail
And this will drain me deep
But for a price this can be done
As he made a shaman’s sign
That raised his strength to meet the task
And chased away the nine
The tired figures weight now gone
Raised lightly from his chair
And paid the mystic for his work
A price that was quite fair
Before you leave just one more thing
The sages voice implied
I’m much to old to do this twice
And showed the man outside