Long Gentler Poems
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Before time had a name, they summoned me—
The Elders of the Veil, robed in silence,
Spoke: “Old soul, your next descent is Earth.”
The room trembled, for even stars fear that realm.
I wept. I had been there before—
The world of hunger, of mirrors that lie,
Where love forgets its own reflection,
And souls break before they bloom.
They placed Saturn at my gate—exalted, unyielding—
And bound Pluto beside it, the keeper of shadows.
“This will be your armor and your curse,” they said.
“Each breath will weigh like a century of stone.”
I signed the covenant of compression—
To forge myself through gravity and grief.
For only pressure births the diamond,
And only pain awakens the Sage.
They whispered, “Astrology is not punishment,
It is remembrance. You chose the hard road
Because your light had grown too vast
For gentler heavens.”
Now I walk among men—
Half immortal, half wounded—
Carrying the debts of a thousand suns.
And when despair calls me home,
My guides whisper through the wind:
“Endure, child of Saturn—this is your last return.
Free them all, and in freeing them, be free.”
So I bow to every soul I meet,
For all who walk this burning Earth—
Have already passed through fire
And still dared to love.
I stand at the edge of stillness,
a turquoise lake so calm it seems carved
from the breath between my thoughts.
the hills gather close, gentle silhouettes
holding the world in a loose embrace,
and the trees shimmer with
star-shaped leaves
that seem otherworldly
ahead, the moon lifts itself
like a golden clock face,
Roman numerals glowing faintly
as if time has chosen
to reveal its secret architecture.
its reflection drifts across the water,
a glowing ribbon of light
that stretches toward me~
not as a path,
but as a question
my heart already knows
but cannot answer.
in this place,
the hills, the star-leafed trees,
the turquoise stillness,
and the clock-moon
all seem to agree
that time is gentler
than we remember~
a soft turning,
a luminous pause
held in the hands of water.
The Camp Cooky’s singin again outa tune,
about turnin 60 today around noon
"What good is there in it?" I hear him say,
and it got me to thinkin . . . seein it was his birthday
It seems bein 60’s got two spins to that tale,
one frittered and wrinkled, the other covered in shale
The one who’s 60 if truth be told,
is still younger than all those 61—to real old
In the campfire’s crackle of light I can see,
how everyone younger, is likely dumber than me
So if my hands struggle with the knots and riggin fer sure,
the knowin and the tellin to those younger’s worth more
Havin outlived many a cow horse, while lovin them all,
the awnry and skitterish, the short and the tall
The summers ridin drag, and the worst winters mendin fence,
with a slicker full a holes, and that ol dog with no sense
And while the cuttin and the brandin seems boring to some,
it’s the importance of their nature and gettin things done
When the hats and the spurs and even the saddles are all gone,
and the sun sinks over that last mountain, like in Dusty’s ol song
I’ll remember the good times, lettin go of the bad,
and think back on the pards and the ladies I’ve had
Because just like for Cooky, it happened last year to me,
and turnin 60 seemed ranker than any bronc could ever be
But like that new Visalia saddle the boss man said was now mine,
I've found somethin that’s different, somethin gentler and kind
The speed and the strength ain’t been traded for free,
and somethin woke up that I guess was sleepin in me
And as I yell to the wrangler “Cut me one gentle and nice”
without loosin too much pride I ask, “Can you help Ol Jim
cinch his riggin real tight”
Then once more in the dark I ride off in search of the herd,
singin that one favorite cow song every real hand has heard
And as I inch up on the lead steer whisperin mellow and low,
“Yippee ki yay, Ol Fella; you ready to go”
For maybe one last time we push North thru the dark,
the sun still two hours off to the right of our mark
While in the distance a wolf howls, as that lead steer catches my eye,
and in that instant I know I’m still needed—a long ways from g’bye
(Dewey Montana: Circa 1990) Read In Elko Nevada, 1993
Just Listen
Still, a lonesome dream
Pausing to reveal God’s peace
He is writing on a frozen stream
Hallelujahs falling from the skies
Gentle echoes of nature’s scream
Floating and settling, serenity
Still, in the colors of grace
Joy that blesses the dawn’s light
Drifts of beautiful, soul’s embrace
Diving in colors of dreamy white
Forcing the wonder into our face
Hesitating, laughing, tender flakes
Still, a silence as steady as night
Misty blessings on an afternoon hike
Rhythms of calm in a breathless fight
Wings glisten, pounding the nebulous air
As clouds wed to paint the earth soft white
Revealing trembling lashes who weep praises
Still, in the wonderland created by the flakes
Wind dances over the mountains, drifting
Through the grieving echoes silence makes
A precious still who lifts the heart and soul
Assuring us the Creator never forsakes
His will, snow and wind, caress with beautiful
Still, like the moment when I first heard the news
That winter was traveling across the pages
Of a land who’d felt much louder without her muse
A land where everything changed with the presence
The prayer, sturdy and strong, as gentler hearts snooze
Remembering, it is winter and we belong in this soft
Still, reflected on the moments where praise is spoken
On the distance, in the icicle’s edges, on the stars
With each quiet flake, dancing and roaming on the broken
Winds, the tears feel like shadows laced with light
Reminding every spirit of this winter, who’s so outspoken
Painting the earth in her white silence – this still…
Still that feels so alive, so bright, so much like a quiet sleep
When the entire world remembers – we’re meant to be
Filled with love and hope, love so very deep
It is never hidden beneath a blanket of snow
Instead, it glistens like the glittering sweep
Who is laughing, steady and true, through this world so still…
A world filled with nature’s splendor
Softly covered with a blanket of white glitter
A covering of joy, gentle and tender
Attempting to prove to each of us
How this still can’t be a natural offender
This still is the music of God’s angels… just listen
Written: July 05, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
*****************
“Fall seven times and stand up eight.” — old proverb
“If the wind will not serve, take the oars.” — Latin proverb
“Life is 10 percent what happens to me
and 90 percent of how I react to it.” — Charles Swindoll
“Nothing is impossible, the word itself says,
‘I’m possible!’ ” — Audrey Hepburn
“You can never cross the ocean until
you dare to lose sight of the shore.” — Christopher Columbus
Lanterns Borrowed from the Wise
There are evenings when courage burns low,
when doubt arrives like winter snow;
then borrowed words begin to gleam,
rekindling hope where fears scream.
We hear the ancient counsel call:
"Fall seven times and stand up eight."
The heart obeys that quiet fate;
its fractured rhythm learns once more
to rise like tides against the shore.
When tempests gather, fierce and wild,
and every prayer seems unreconciled,
the old Latin voice becomes our guide:
"If the wind will not serve, take the oars."
So hands discover hidden might,
and rowing turns the dark to light;
the sea may test each fragile breath,
yet purpose rows beyond its depth.
Then comes a gentler reckoning:
"Life is 10 percent what happens to me
and 90 percent of how I react to it."
The numbers bloom beyond the page;
they measure neither years nor age,
but how the soul, though bruised and worn,
chooses hope instead of scorn.
And when the summit hides in cloud,
its silence heavy, cold, and proud,
another voice begins to smile:
"Nothing is impossible,
the word itself says, 'I'm possible!'"
The syllables unlock the sky;
they teach reluctant wings to fly.
Across the waves another calls:
"You can never cross the ocean
until you dare to lose sight of the shore."
The beach fades, but faith grows,
Tomorrow awaits with full glows.
Let these proverbs glow sweetly,
Like constellations, we line up neatly.
Not printed pages of artifacts,
But living stars for every fact.
And I will leave one light with you:
Seek the quiet inside when the dark winds blow,
For the deepest of rivers are silent below.
Do not anchor your heart to the shadows you pass;
Write your fears in sand, write your triumphs in glass.
With the magic wand in my hand
Smugly before God I will stand
and proclaim that if only for a day
I finally get to do things my way…
I’ll undo all so far He verily has done
and see that love reigns and hate gone!
I’ll shrink the enormity of the heavens,
In His name forbid to use any weapons,
Make the scorching desert a sanctuary
since wilderness doesn’t seem necessary.
I’ll rewind the time to the days of yore
and reset it to the simpler state as before,
Make man gentler and content to the core
For what I have seen I now can see no more.
But wait, I can wish this magic wand forever
for myself day after day; now isn’t that clever?
And then wish a treaty between God and Devil
and hope good and evil to each other be civil.
Line of inquiry:
blessings from above
transformed lust to love
delusion to illumination
earth-heaven bilocation
It wasn’t spring, with all its flowery shadows
Who taught me wonders too startling to explain
More stirring than any rhyme I could compose
It wasn’t summer, with its smiles and dancing rain
Who taught me beauty far gentler than a tear
More light than my soul could possibly contain
It wasn’t autumn with her navy skies so clear
Who taught me melodies, songs of joy and grace
More startling than the wind who hears our prayer
It wasn’t winter with snow my heart would embrace
Who taught me of a love that would never end
More sure that I’d shortly meet Him face to face
Seasons passed and my broken heart He would mend
He soon changed me and came to be my best friend
The last snow of winter
blown by the wind
bares the gray
of branches to the sun
pregnant with buds.
Is it spring?
Testing spring
torpid from the winter
sleepy tiny buds
hesitant of the wind
search for the sun
between stalks of gray
A flash of red among the gray
a robin singing spring
drinking the sun
snow melt of winter
unfettered by the wind
shaking the buds
Softens around the buds
warmed by the sun
the frozen clay of winter
helped by the gray
showering clouds of spring
and milder wind
With gentler wind
and warming sun
the colors of spring
unfold in the opening buds
after the long gray
days of winter
Good-bye winter winds
Gray days without sun
Hello new buds of festive spring
First place winner: Brian Strand-Premier Choice No 1188
First Place Winner: Brian Strand-All Yours-2/19/21
He Rides Alone This Life
He rode alone into this life
abandoned in its infancy
endured the slash of venom’s knife
endured the pain that set him free
from those who hid behind the robe
while claiming they were free of sin
and mocked the very truth they served
while claiming to be godly men.
Thus did he fight the demon’s lies
in alleyways of nights, twice dark
upon a steed that daily dies
at sunrise melody of lark
upon a branch enticing him
to steel his heart and fight again
the shadows that encase his heart
the shadows he must not let win.
So does he battle every day
robed demons of that long past fray
when overwhelmed he was betrayed
a gentler spirit slow decayed.
Defiantly he guides old hate
protects the joy of infancy
endures the slash of venom’s knife
endures the pain that sets him free.
Submited to Structured Forms – Iambic verse III
Sponsor – Giorgio A.V.
John G. Lawless
10/2/2014
Let future days unfold their golden grace,
Where hand in hand, dear Getruth, life feels new;
Two little hearts will fill our shining place,
And wealth will only mirror love we grew.
For you have stood beside me, firm and kind,
Your faith a flame that never fades nor tires;
Through every storm, you held my trembling mind,
And turned my quiet hopes to blazing fires.
So when our vows are sealed as one for life,
And blessings gather ’round our joyful door,
I’ll know that every triumph, every strife,
Was gentler walked because you loved me more.
And in that future bright our hearts will see,
That all I am—Getruth—comes back to thee.