Long Meek Poems
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Oh listen people to my story
And a tale of Christmas glory
It happened in a quiet town
And this is how it all went down
A Stranger who was passing through
With piercing eyes of azure blue
Had met a man who'd reached the end
His broken heart that wouldn't mend
This Stranger who was meek and mild
Found out the man lost wife and child
The things he cherished most on Earth
Both died while wife was giving birth
A man the town had known so well
Was left here now an empty shell
So every day the man was prone
Sat on a park bench all alone
The Stranger took him by the hand
And told the man what he had planned
Your wife and child I vow to save
And resurrect them from the grave
So wipe the tears right from your eyes
And witness glory from the skies
Then with the coming of the night
Their graves were washed with blinding light
The Stranger bowed his head in prayer
With the sound of choirs in the air
This broken man was so beguiled
When both wife and child rose and smiled
In awe the man fell before them
This miracle that stood before him
The tears of joy streamed down his face
And thanked the Stranger for his grace
Then as they heard an Angel cry
The Stranger lifted to the sky
This family well and on their way
Was back together Christmas day
From the dark cave where death did grip,
Rise to new life the deathless one;
O Christ did brave that unknown trip,
Meek men can strive as grace floods sun.
Love is first cause to set man free,
Etch a fond hope as faith greets quest;
Now live true course with grace you see,
Truth sculpts the scope of fragrant zest.
Sense a deep poise of profound change,
End as love starts to show the way;
Ask to know choice in mellow range,
Start with clear heart to live fine play;
Opt thus to feel true soul in-sync,
Note happy days that fashion cheer.
Touch can then heal where goodwill links,
Old ancients ways purged without fear.
Embrace warm grace with beauty bright,
Align your soul with true grandeur;
Succeed fine face to glimpse new light,
Trust love one whole to cast splendour;
Each moment here shapes history,
Rich beyond form the rainbow path.
Vouch wonder's cheer with grand plenty,
Ink brand new norms with awesome stuff;
Reap what you sow in light that shines,
Give and take joy in sacred moves;
Indulge wise show of insight fine,
Lasting love toys in mystic grooves.
Leon Enriquez
01 April 2018
Singapore
Underdog Alleluia
By Mark D. Stucky
Why do we love underdogs?
Why root for ragtag Rockies
and scruffy low-rated teams
coming from behind to win?
Why adore unlikely triumphs
against impossible odds?
Our culture can still remember
underdog-filled Bible stories,
from David and Goliath’s battle
to the meek inheriting the earth.
And America was once an underdog,
rebelling against earth’s mightiest empire.
Although Britain wielded superpower might,
and colonists fielded motley militias,
somehow, against improbable odds,
America survived and thrived.
In the centuries since,
the story transformed.
America became Goliath.
What will be our story now?
(First published in The Purpled Nail, 2 June 2023.)
(Photo by Kara Carelle on Unsplash.com.)
Preface, there have been a lot of shots heard in my area around 10:00 or so at night in recent times/years. What and where, not sure. One night a year ago November, 2:22 in the morning, I was awakened by gun fire. I called the police and they said just stay inside, we have police in the area. Some young man had gone loco. They brought in the swat team and we sheltered in place for six hours. I no longer feel safe in my own home. I hope this helps to bring some more clarity to this poem.
A shot rings out in peaceful night.
And get's your heart to pumping fright.
A coldness fills the safe and warm.
As fear is now a daily norm.
This world has become more unkind.
With sanity harder to find.
It leaves us to just sit and stare.
And perversely pray our sinful prayer.
We ask that God removes this fear.
We just want it out of here.
And somewhere inside we want revenge.
And pray for hero's to avenge.
We wonder if it's wrong to pray.
For God to just take them away.
Somewhere inside we cease to care.
If they're the one's who sit and stare.
Justice for the meek and mild.
To restore peace that they defiled.
We feel no need to see their face.
Just vanish them without a trace.
So now you know that we aren't saints.
It's an ugly picture our soul paints.
When faced with fear we know not where.
As we cower in our sinful prayer.
"While many are silenced by authority, some are voiceless as they have no courage to protest. But some prefer voicelessness for convenience sake which is a graver offence" ~ By Poet
In a world of much noise and cacophony
Some are fated to remain voiceless,
Due to reasons forced or voluntary.
Raising no protest, they yield to their fate
Watch the meek docile lambs that move,
Behind the shepherd to be huddled inside
Food and shelter are all they need,
And they abide to be shorn with no dissent.
Silent are the beasts that trot along,
Miles on end through rugged tracks.
Blissfully ignorant of what awaits,
They stagger lamely to the slaughterhouse.
Mournful is the voicelessness of the slaves,
Flogged and beaten to bear the yoke,
Stifled is the cry within their throats,
Never once let out to break the calm
Heart rending is the voicelessness of the dumb,
Trying in vain to utter fleeting thoughts,
Through signs and gestures crude to view,
Lisping and blabbering in broken sounds.
Fierce is the silence that lingers on,
The ones subdued under stark threat of life,
Gagged and tied unable to moan or move,
While looted of all that is hoarded in life.
Silence turns golden for the sober man,
Who remains sedate when taunted or abused
And shuts his mouth with great restraint,
To prevent a brawl from brewing up
Voiceless lies the dead beneath the sod,
Actors who once rocked the stage,
They exited out from this turbulent world,
To be shrouded within crevices dark.
This is way the flesh ends not in burning or dust
Not in a whimper but a scream
As you see I am an Artiste and such,
Not in paint but flesh and blood, bone
Hearing the voices talk, words of wrath and greed
I feel their call, crawl deep into my mind, I intone
Burrowing like maggots into my spine
This is the way the flesh will end in the cry of the damned
Oh the pleas, such sweet music my victims make
Crimson on my delicate fingertips, I taste
Oh what a rush don’t you think
I’m just an artist a traveler in spirit really
On my way to the holly-caust
To see the pyres of some mad American empire
Turn to ash and dust
My blades cast a fine rust
This is the end of flesh and bones, souls
Crimson is such a good color on you
Tis stark against your pale flesh
Delicate like China's pure white dust
Oh how you scream so
Hush that delicate mouth
This is the way the flesh will end
In the rhythm of my blades
Fresh crimson spins, crushed
An Artist of flesh n bone, blood, & still-life
Don’t you think this glorious, such a trip
Oh to think I’m just a passenger on his ship
Of life, can you hear their screams?
This is way the flesh ends not in burning or dust
But in the lines made in flesh, silver sharp blades cut
Can’t you see I am an Artist
Not in paint but in flesh blood, n bone
Hearing the voices talk, words of wrath and greed
Oh the sweet screams
I feel the call, words burrow deep into my mind,
Piercing like daggers deep into my spine
This is the way the flesh will end
Not in the whimpers of the meek
But the righteous scream of the powerful
Oh the pleas, of my victims
Crimson on your delicate lips
Oh what a rush don’t you think
This is way the flesh ends not in burning or dust
Not in a whimper but a scream
As you see I am an Artiste and such,
not in paint but flesh and blood, bone
Heart of Gold
A heart of gold
Will melt in the fervent heat
Of scorn…in the fires
Of pride, where greed is born.
A heart of lead
Will be Heavy with poison,
With bitterness and regret.
Weighing you down in the dark, to drown
In its depths.
A heart of stone
Feels no more pain...no hurt,no loss
Nor happiness again. Numb to sorrow but also to peace, imprisoned In stone with no release.
A heart of clay
Grows stronger
In the oven of Love
But shatters when Hit
with one careless shove.
A heart of flesh and blood
Will beat on and on when filled
With the unconditional love of God.
Letting go of past hurt, forgiving and meek,
Healing our hearts 'til Death's final defeat.
?
Form:
The production of godly living
means to put filth and sin away
this is done by being meek
receive the implanted word to stay
Having this word for your souls good
so do what God’s words clearly says
but not just to hear these scriptures only
commit to do this in all your earthly days
Don’t be like that mirror man
looks at himself then does forget
what he has seen there pone wonders
deceiving himself of who he has met
The one who will fully persevere
who’s seen freedom’s law perfectly
will act on what’s been heard
to do God’s revealed will correctly
This is indeed the blessed child of God
receiving grace from their merciful Lord
(James 1:21-25
"Wherefore lay apart all filthiness and superfluity of
naughtiness, and receive with meekness the engrafted
word, which is able to save your souls.
But be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only,
deceiving your own selves. For if any be a hearer
of the word, and not a doer, he is like unto a man
beholding his natural face in a glass: For he beholdeth
himself, and goeth his way, and straightway forgetteth
what manner of man he was. But whoso looketh into
the perfect law of liberty, and continueth therein,
he being not a forgetful hearer, but a doer of the
work, this man shall be blessed in his deed.")
I MUST EMBRACE THE ENTIRETY OF MY EXISTENCE
I must quietly acknowledge my tenacity and strength,
deny the words and actions of narcissistic
controlling forces, and individuals who have tried to muffle,
my thoughts, worship ... and hopes.
I am a twig that bends with the wind
and refuses to be broken.
A seedling that could not be crushed
through adversity … but will sprout.
I will rise, fall and rise again.
I will innovate, invent, create,
paintings and ...poems.
Despite aging, social and racial inequities,
I will muster the courage for difficult pathways,
all the while challenging situations,
not of my own … making.
I will confront the improbable and the impossible,
with gusto and with great expectations.
Offering to Infuse the wisdom of scriptural truth
in the minds of all meek and truth-seeking individuals.
Regardless of race, social, or … economic background.
I will lend my voice to present the clarity
of God’s love, wisdom, justice, power, and
his purposes for us, and his will for our earth.
A restored Paradise, through the reign of his
anointed son, and King … Jesus Christ.
I desire to do this with love and empathy,
as I attempt to gently pierce through the clutter
of unscriptural doctrines.
I know this will require my love of mankind,
my courage, patience, and tenacity. but always, always
the essential force of … God’s Holy Spirit
and his blessings!
May 2, 2022 copyright
All rights reserved
Contest: Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
SponsorBrian Strand
The voice is mine and yet not,
I have nurtured it, both goaded,
and placated it,
until its tongue is as liquid as molten
silver.
It is not human, never was.
It came to me as a stray dog would,
though it is more a bird than canine,
for it will fly up into my throat.
without any help from my mind.
Perhaps it is that fabled muse,
yet it is also,
a hag and a crone,
sometimes a sweet-faced harlot.
I cannot count its many faces.
It is a male wolf, a stag in the wilderness,
its call is a summons for my ghost to speak,
to feast upon the vapor
of a blood script.
Gentled am I, made meek and mild,
A mute angel roams my earth,
it hunts for white doves.
The captured birds are taught
to mark scratches upon a plasmid velum,
symbols that utter the un-utterable.
I have this strange-strangers voice,
I have a hollow stem
that rises up to pierce a deep inward sky,
what it will say next, what it has now said,
and what I am now,
only the voice knows.