Long Ravening Poems
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The Christian life is not always all easy
for the Lord's way has many a bumpy road
those that deny this are biblically in error
scriptures clear, His seed will be sowed
The believer believes in their saviour
but also is called to suffer for His sake
to walk His road putting on their cross
learn well His steps before the earth quake
The apostle James speaks of many trials
they all to be thought of being all joy
for testing of faith produces endurance
so your walk with God no one can destroy
When you desire to live a godly life
persecution will come across your path
don't fear it know God's near at hand
for your enemies can't escape His wrath
Hast thou no scar? Amy Carmichael's words
a question we all need to think hard about
as Jesus suffered so will His own do
be faithfully true as Jesus does not a doubt!
(This is based on Amy Carmichaels's classic poem ' Hast Thou No Scar',)
(Hast Thou No Scar
by Amy Carmichael(1867-1951)
Hast thou no scar?
No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand?
I hear thee sung as mighty in the land,
I hear them hail thy bright ascendant star,
Hast thou no scar?
Hast thou no wound?
Yet, I was wounded by the archers, spent.
Leaned me against the tree to die, and rent
By ravening beasts that compassed me, I swooned:
Hast thou no wound?
No wound? No scar?
Yet as the Master shall the servant be,
And pierced are the feet that follow Me;
But thine are whole. Can he have followed far
Who has no wound nor scar?)
A buzz-saw wind
peppers a far horizon.
We hear the nails falling
from an impossible distance.
Damage will be done elsewhere;
instinct squeezes a grey glue
out of blind brains.
A razor-teethed storm
is coming.
We share this piddling dread
with puddle dancing sparrows,
they suspect,
we suspect,
a suspicion clouds all eyes.
Many are all thinking too much
making the sky edgy with thought.
Bundles of nerves
have brought us here
to listen to the engendered,
the endangered,
the ponderous tread of the
shuddersome.
It is then we know
that we are all Acts of God
in a ravening, infidel world.
An ardent lover of words
Of his own is that world.
A crave stretching his soul
Dipping into a plethora of verse
Rising with a fulfilled thirst.
Unpredictable are his journeys
Unfathomable is the depth of his thoughts.
Unchained is his soul
Traveling along with the tune of his heart
The beauty of his mind.
An avid worshipper
Immersing his soul in a mine of gems
Rejoicing the blessings of a compassionate essence.
A heart of a poet
With a meticulous flair for fine art.
Knowledgeable reads
Dropping in relish
Into a haven of voracious insight
Rippling through a ravening mind.
A fervent passion for admiring
What a poet's pen of worth portrays.
A tremendous sense of reverence
Impressed on his fine heart
Upholding noble a value
To poet's endeavouring words
Pay tribute.
An ardent lover
A treasure of words
A heart of a poet
The reward!
May 31st, 2018
The wolves do lope high and free
in mountainous trails and her masonry
the hallowed wood and rocky clefts
hold the dens of their hidden nests
Golden eyes pierce thickened dark
hunting prey within their park
hot breath raises mist in their flight
with urges to run in thick of night
lounging with the pack on a hill
neath the moon silent and still
The forest with all her rookery
cast eyes below to the pack they see
the cold crypt of the earth below
blood covered in splays of snow
pale ice rugs flow on ground and rocks
as the pack do run seeking the flocks
the burrow of the white wolf and her pups
upon her milk the fledgling sups
the shiver of their meal in deathly gore
lying torn apart on the forest floor
the sinuous beauty of their agility
of taking prey down with ability
The dominate male and alpha mate
are always first in hunger to slate
how many priests have nature of pack
are hidden in darkness and innocence lack
looking for victims the prey that they stalk
in secret places the plans of it talk
Religion that is false will slaughter the sheep
to not be it’s prey the truth you must keep
her princes are wolves ravening prey
the word of the truth they seek to stay
they would come clothed in appearance of light
but within the gown is blackness of night
With a flood of lies He seeks to deceive
and devour the hearts of those who believe
The serpent lays in the den of his mate
The Queen of Harlots , Babylon the Great
Ez 22:27 Zeph 3:2-4 Matt 7:15-16
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Oh, My Dear Walter, how your words have slayed
Humbled me, broken me, molded, remade
To taste of your world, see above or below it
Wit of a wordsmith, wry pith of a poet
To so construe love without using the phrase
Scrawl the sinew of war, yet delight in the days
To yawp of the grass - journeywork of the stars
Help heal a nation, attend to its scars
Find grace among horrors, sift beauty from death
The soul-pull of tides - briny kiss of their breath
To habit us all ... to the dazzle of light
Celebrate ourselves, bequeath us the night
Ask recurring questions of romance and life
Of presidents, boot soles, and moldering strife
Demons and mockingbirds, Paumanok's dunes
The pale, horrid witness of unstinted moons
'Twas sad-blown, a bugle, convulsed, was a drum
Yet exquisite, the dirge for a soldier and son
The sorrow of clouds in a ravening sky
The weep of a child should the Pleiades die
Knit airy-fresh words, with uncommon phrases
Draw Apollo and Neptune in all of their phases
Be there adoration as hapless as mine
Yet no soul more ardently leveled, supine
No writer has reached deeper into my heart
Idioms and phrases ... such allurement, impart
Ah, yes, what I'd give to have just one chat
With the rare human being who afforded all that
And maybe I'm biased, if perhaps to a fault
But the name of MY Captain, O Captain ...
Is WALT.
The land suffers too much greening;
luxuriance froths to fever and glut,
birds cannot consume all the insects,
nor serpents eat the thronging flocks.
The soil hogs on the swill of decay,
drey and burrow are ovens
for a prowling pestilence.
There is no softness. The sun
bites the bloated and rancid,
a balance is tipped off kilter,
the climate repaints its face
more garish each day.
A little poverty is needed, a tax
on the riotous and abundant,
the sickly succulence of ripe sap
be drained and clarified.
We live now in the eyes of strangers,
hunters are maddened by the gnawing
of long fevered bones.
They are older now of course,
even their fat tabby cats are living longer,
contrarywise, the world is younger,
the world has caught a disease,
the sky is getting closer to the ground,
and the ground gives way.
They are older and more lost now,
few are ever found living in the day,
though their gandering minds
will remind you precisely
of the weather on any Wednesday
in March, forty years ago.
The cities are almost empty of them,
they have been removed
to further outskirts,
parts given new names,
since the end of those alien wars.
They have forgotten the horror,
forgotten,
their shocked, unready husbands,
sons and daughters,
that ran toward the ravening monsters.
We were all unready,
the government, and the military
fell apart in days,
in the end we prevailed
with bolt-action rifles, knives and axes,
even our clawing hands.
We used to call the old ones,
Alzheimer patients,
they live in a world not yet drenched
with the blood-soaked gore
of our own memories -
how we envy them.
The truth is cruel,
a blurred reality.
The truth is in my heart
carefully hidden from prying eyes.
Don't sigh my friend,
you cannot read it in my face,
'tis well concealed, rest assured
as a secret newly found,
hid from curious eyes.
So, I hide my truth,
I do it on purpose,
keep it veiled for it is mine.
Don't ask: a futile plea.
I once told the truth
that led to a beleaguered life.
Ah, I had high hopes then.
Now I've had enough.
I keep my secret.
A pack of ravening wolves
gnawing at my insides
will never pry away
that which I carefully hide.
Which really is a pity,
for 'tis agony for me
not to reveal openly
the love I harbor for ye.
* There is one person I would bring back in a heartbeat, and that's my favorite human being of all-time, Walt Whitman - he literally changed my life with his poetry, and brought true beauty and joy to my life. Never underestimate the power of words. *
__________________________________________________
Oh, My Dear Walter, how your words have slayed,
Humbled me, broken me, molded and remade.
To taste of your world, see above or below it,
Wit of a wordsmith, wry pith of a poet ...
To so construe love without using the phrase,
Scrawl the sinew of war, yet delight in the days.
To yawp of the grass - journeywork of the stars,
Help revivify a nation, attend to its scars.
Find grace among horrors, sift beauty from death,
The soul-pull of tides - briny buss of their breath.
To habit us all ... to the dazzle of light,
Celebrate ourselves, bequeath us the night.
Ask recurring questions of romance and life,
Of presidents, bootsoles, and a moldering strife.
Demons and mockingbirds, Paumanok's dunes ...
The pale, horrid witness of unstinted moons.
'Twas sad-blown, a bugle, convulsed, was a drum,
Yet exquisite, the dirge for a soldier and son.
The sorrow of clouds in a ravening sky,
The weep of a child should the Pleiades die.
Knit airy-fresh words, with uncommon phrases,
Draw Apollo and Neptune in all of their phases.
Be there adoration as hapless as mine?
Yet no soul more ardently leveled, supine ...
No writer has reached deeper into my heart,
Idioms and phrases ... such allurement, impart.
Ah, yes, what I'd give to have just one chat,
With the rare human being who afforded all that.
And maybe I'm biased, if perhaps to a fault,
But the name of MY Captain, O Captain ...
Is WALT.
All around me the land suffers too much greening.
The luxuriant froths over into a feverish lush.
Birds cannot consume all the insects.
Snakes cannot eat all the birds.
The ground hogs on the swill of decay.
If this is natures wealth then a little poverty
is needed, a tax on the riotous and too abundant.
Death the reaper must rule his kingdom with more gusto,
both the prey and the predator sparring none,
the sickly succulence of overripe sap
drained and clarified by a cooler sunlight.
I was whelped in more temperate climes,
wolves died of hunger and age not heat stroke.
The rabbit burrows are oven gates
for marauding hordes and an avid pestilence.
The balance is tipped and off kilter,
The climate repaints its face more garishly
each day.
I hear the mandibles of ferocity, their
click and remorseless grind,
and there is no softness in the nibbling jaws
of those who rampage silently,
those, who strip the bloated and obese
to the dark and rancid bone.
I secretly journey now under dawn stars,
trace my way over cooling paths
before another fevered heat
force feeds the land.