Long Til now Poems
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The future will bring unexpected things,
A woeful tragedy our heart to sting,
And though our plans be laid so well,
A power, from where we cannot tell,
Moves, or turns circumstance around,
Here giving joy there bringing a frown.
An insignificant spark, a slippery spot,
An induced germ, a misplaced dot,
Can turn someone; a group, a horde,
To bring about peace or bare the sword.
What say ye then, my wise friend you;
Is it blind fate and a little luck too:
Some random power to tip the scale,
And bring forth heaven or show us hell?
Concerning the puzzle of seeming happenstance,
Can you of the future perceive a glance?
Has it reason or design at all,
Can man influence how 'fate' must fall?
How helpless then we tend to be,
If we be pawns in a random sea,
Where utmost effort is brought to naught,
A battle comes that would not be fought,
And all this turns on the merest flick,
Of someone's seeming uneventful trick.
Who can approve such an absurd display,
Of struggling mankind's effort made,
And undone by a change of wind,
The toss and turn of chance to send?
I will not accept such an odd charade
Of appearance too early or too late,
Of a random force that turns my way,
Into some strange and awkward play.
I choose a design of great import,
A meaningful kind, of a rational sort:
With a purpose far above the crush
Of humanity's desire filled headlong rush.
An intent supreme,of a virtuous kind,
With purer motive and reasoned mind;
To set things right and bring an end,
Far more desirable than chance can pen.
To vindicate the cause of all,
The pain, the strife, the rise and fall,
Of man's travail from then til now;
Though to prove it to you, I know not how.
Please bear with me and consider this,
Lest some good purpose we should miss,
Could the answer be thus simply stated:
"By Him and for Him they were created"?
The purpose of creation and the Adamic fall,
Could glory for Christ be the reason after all?
More magnificent a claim cannot be made.
No more noble reason for existence laid,
Than for my existence to be,
To glorify the one who is most Holy.
The Spirit written text does make the call,
Of one Lord supremely over all,
With a secondary purpose in mind,
Of a merciful and a redeeming kind.
All wrapped up in this purpose too,
Could be salvation for me and you.
I ask you now, does this ring true,
Creation made and with good purpose too?
One winter eve I walked out with my dog,
The way was dark, unlit by moon and stars,
My flickering torchlight failing in the fog,
To pick out tree roots,crevices and rocks,
To cause a stumble, and a muffled curse.
Whatever else was lurking in the trees,
Silent and still, in my mind grew worse,
As an unfolding midnight dream turned sour.
I knew the the path. We trod it every day,
So filled with pleasure and delight 'til now.
My step quickened. I could not shrug away
A feeling of disquiet and unease,
Palpable amidst the encircling gloom.
Nocturnal creatures scarcely made a sound
But it was magnified, a crack of doom,
A falling twig, or rustling dried-up leaves,
Predators unseen, darkly eyeing prey,
Their evil presence almost within touch,
Waiting the chance to carry me away,
To drag me to some foul and putrid nest,
Never again to see the light of day.
With tensions high and senses all alert,
Out of the dark, a touch upon my leg.
Startled and fearing, a step back I lurched,
And then relief. It had been but a nudge
From Ross. Perhaps he sensed and shared
My fright, but then, from out the stillness of the night,
A fearsome roar. My feet turned into stone.
Blood curdling, heart stopping, the monstrous sound
Echoed around us. Frozen to the spot,
My breathing stopped. I could not turn around
To flee. And then again it came, so close, it seemed
To set the very trees a-quivering.
What beast was this, what wild and hellish fiend ?
More furious bellowing, on and on
And on, and still I could not see the source.
Turning to run, the path had disappeared.
Crashing through entangled briars, ditches,
Fallen trees, scratched and bleeding, soon I feared,
Mud-soaked and stumbling now, that i was lost.
Still I heard the creature, somewhere behind,
Roaring, bellowing, angry with the night.
I fell into a muddy ditch, half blind,
And scrambled through the slime, hoping I might
Emerge at the wood's edge, so close to home
But, helpless, I was sucked into the mire,
Down,down and deeper down, now filled with fear,
Breathing in mud, heart pounding, lungs on fire.
No hope, no light ahead, my end was near.
I reached the bottom. Now let truth be said.
What did I find? I'd fallen out of bed !
And that, dear reader, though I am not one to brag,
Was my encounter with the rutting Lyth Hill stag !
How can I be selfless without being used?
How can I be demanding without being so rude?
How can I open up without closing back down?
How can I speak if you don't hear a sound?
How can I trust without being betrayed?
Yet how could I leave... even after you stayed?
But how can you love me when I won't let you in?
So many questions.... where do I begin?
--------
Memories now blurred, flying through my mind……
Now, I’m trying to repress the days of being youthful and blind.
Every morning I pull on my armor, right from within,
Preparing for a war, that I intend, to win.
If my heart is my comrade and my mind is the enemy,
Then in the midst of this battlefield,
Life is the remedy…
---
Trying to stay sane, knowing that although this is temporary, nothing is vain…
Learning that there is always a purpose and people will try to corrupt us, and bring you great shame…
Being told that ‘Victory isn't given to he who starts the race the strongest, but he who endures until the end.’
Trying to suspend you from learning to depend... on yourself,
instead making you depend on the wealth,
Of someone who doesn't even know who he is,
while you’re grasping the stealth of your true identity, in your right hand, in your heart, the knowledge…
Never been withheld
…
..
.
Feeling the world come crashing down on you, compacting into a mist of air so cool,
The breeze passing right through, right into the depths of your pores, to ensue,
The burning and broken and fragile pieces of the inhabitants of the earth from your birth til' now..
Physically becoming everything that you breathe, touch, conceive, munch, perceive, every aroma...
And every great or insignificant trauma, reflecting off your skin oh so temporarily, the mark so paper thin…
Physically, THAT is what you are…
Because we only see the physical, right?
Yet, behind every movie is there not a director… a cast?
And behind every painting is there not an artist, combining colors and lines so vast?
And behind every child is there not a journey, a past?
...
That you did not walk, yet you know that it’s there, not by sight, scent, taste, touch, or hearing... But something inside you, that says it makes sense, KNOWS that all of that is there,
KNOWING
...
..
.
Form:
What Is The Reason For Creation?
The future will bring unexpected things,
A woeful tragedy our heart to sting,
And though our plans be laid so well,
A power, from where we cannot tell,
Moves, or turns circumstance around,
Here giving joy there bringing a frown.
An insignificant spark, a slippery spot,
An induced germ, a misplaced dot,
Can turn someone, a group, a horde,
To bring about peace or bare the sword.
What say ye then, my wise friend you;
Is it blind fate and a little luck too:
Some random power to tip the scale,
And bring forth heaven or show us hell?
Concerning the puzzle of seeming happenstance,
Can you of the future perceive a glance?
Has it reason or design at all,
Can man influence how 'fate' must fall?
How helpless then we tend to be,
If we be pawns in a random sea,
Where utmost effort is brought to naught,
A battle comes that would not be fought,
And all this turns on the merest flick,
Of someone's seeming uneventful trick.
Who can approve such an absurd display,
Of struggling mankind's efforts made,
And undone by a change of wind,
The toss and turn of chance to send?
I will not accept such an odd charade
Of appearance too early or too late,
Of a random force that turns my way,
Into some strange and awkward play.
I choose a design of great import,
A meaningful kind, of a rational sort:
With a purpose far above the crush
Of humanity's desire filled headlong rush.
An intent supreme,of a virtuous kind,
With purer motive and reasoned mind;
To set things right and bring an end,
Far more desirable than chance can pen.
To vindicate the cause of all,
The pain, the strife, the rise and fall,
Of man's travail from then til now;
Though to prove it to you, I know not how.
Please bear with me and consider this,
Lest some good purpose we should miss,
Could the answer be thus simply stated:
'By Him and for Him they were created?
The purpose of creation and the Adamic fall,
Could glory for Christ be the reason after all?
More magnificent a claim cannot be made.
No more noble reason for existence laid,
Than for my existence to be,
To glorify the one who is most Holy.
My dear friend.
The first time we met,
as I held a door open for her stride,
I saw not the eye's image, not yet;
I glimpsed, outwardly, her beauty inside.
I did a double take at that smile,
heard her thanks and silently rejoiced;
her normal visage I saw, after a while,
and 'til now this thought I had not voiced.
We walked inside, and with so many others
we covered that room in song.
Unfamiliar, not yet in practice brothers,
nonetheless not a thing could any find wrong.
Music quickly became our bond,
leading to so much more.
Of her humor and spark, I am quite fond,
life near her never close to a bore.
With the clarinet she made art,
but too, just so with her hands;
the lady with the large heart
your attention her muse commands.
She's told me of despair complete,
of feeling all hope, at times, gone.
She found a way to fight, compete;
to win out to a new dawn.
Faint of heart, weak of gut,
none can accuse her of having been -
we've discussed disease, pain, smut,
her sensibilities speaking falsely of sin.
For in her I can detect none,
one just wanting to forgive, smile and laugh.
I often help her get the latter done,
both drinking deeply from friendship's carafe.
Once so long ago, for so short a time,
we were somewhat more than friends,
kisses and walks shared in a courtier's clime;
never been strained since - just the way life wends.
Then, thousands of miles apart,
we talked not quite so often;
then, difficulties pierced her heart,
my words the blows to soften.
Still she's suffering, sadly,
still she's stuck sorrowed;
yet some small slice of it I have to see gladly -
at least that it's my solace she's borrowed.
For she's recovering some of my sanity,
giving me that much more connection to home -
to the therein found sample of humanity
that's solemn upon seeing me roam.
Just today, she's helped me all anew,
drawing the weeping wolf, in exchange for this -
envisioning what will be my new tattoo,
a new mark on the flesh, to reminisce.
No matter what trials befall her in this life,
she simply must know that she's never alone;
during the tribulations and strife,
she just has to pick up the phone.
My dear friend.
Stacks of Aloneness
by Odin Roark
He wandered here among the longings
And the forgotten,
Not many remaining properly covered,
Their dust jackets of protection
Long gone.
Worn and torn,
The many leaned fatigued in their shoulder to shoulder exile,
With an occasional entombment in plastic wrap
Sweltering in the heat of its many paged passion.
He saw there was something for every kind of aloneness,
Requiring only to be read,
Not bought and placed on another shelf,
But made companion,
A redemptive power for continuing,
often singular journey of aloneness.
A sudden draft from the entrance door
Fluttered the pages of an ancient pyramid travel guide,
The open page 86 sent miniscule sand afloat,
Including its stowaway squashed flea,
Having once bitten the privates of the book’s looting bandit,
Now reduced to but another powdery remnant of history
He gazed upon the shaft of light spotlighting the settling dust.
Such never-ending stacks of tomes, he thought.
A mix of direct and implied philosophy of time,
Some read and pondered,
Others once he knew were but color-matched bindings for
A decorator’s intellectual pandering to
A 5th Avenue looky-loo,
Someone wanting the perfect life,
A delusion her inheritance
Could ever accommodate.
And then…
There was this one opus, ‘til now he knew not of.
Here, the fortune of lovers lying side by side
Beneath the weight of print and paper,
Shared a vial of death, now empty.
A desperate love wanting only to be read,
To be understood as prohibited emotion
Reduced to a finite repose in the darkness of closure,
Like the unopened book now about to have its long awaited embrace.
From his hand he placed the worn book down for ring up.
The clerk opened the cover to reveal its eye-pencil message:
“To my love. May you live long enough to finish this.”
Smiling to the obviously homeless man,
the clerk said, “Just a buck, including tax. Gotta love a bargain, eh?”
“Yes,” he said. “They say the bard knew aloneness needn’t be lonely.
Think he was right?”
She shrugged.
He handed her four quarters.
To get lost amidst a painting
cast into my mind
falling into my eyes
all these scenes creating
fast forward and rewind
all that is before me, can shatter into behind
the distance between us is clearly insurmountable
oh, but the numerous ways you captivate me, they truly are uncountable
a clearly jumbled message symbollically unpronouncable
to place visual sound upon the wall
one of mankinds best achievements of them all
began our understanding of this home we call
oh those myths so long and tall
the many graces and disgraces of our rise and fall
these forces that drive, or events contrive
to wither and die or somehow survive
the riddles left behind, from a picture once scribed
a monumental scene so puzzlingly described
from somewhere deep within the mind
that 'til now had lain blind
until the light helped you find
accesible yet locked away
those emotions that run astray
to gaze upon this scene
and melt into your dream
these secrets that you weave
concealed tricks flourish from your sleeve
the inconceivables you make me believe
the truth you make my eye deceive
all the abstracts I dare to conceive
a flick of your wrist, a twist of your brush
however the blood may rush
or whatever need you must
I place in you absolute trust
a splash of blue here
to make your point clear
guiding eyes far and near
colour all the space between
a timeless beauty in no need of a dream
expertly blended, with neither crease nor seam
these various regions of the whole glorious picture
the beauty portrayed could almost rate scripture
so drain your glass and raise your pitcher
a subtle change in the texture of the tone
as dramatic as the angle that glance is thrown
collisions of kaleidescopic insight you've woven and sown
a majestic masterpiece i'm sure you've known
as from those first daubs of paint you planted this seed you've grown
that sprouted this vision which before you is shown.
©John-Ovan.P.Hull
there were days full of so much weeping I couldn’t see
months of wondering why she would so easily flee.
I would lay on the bed holding her bear; swollen eyes-
wearing her leather bracelet and old torn brown hoodie.
but that was then, and it took me ‘til now to realize.
that…
this is now and someway somehow, I have learned to heal.
I’ve taken the real and learned to deal with all that I feel.
I used to drown as deep as she did before she said goodbye,
now my emotions have surfaced, and I no longer conceal.
I have gained the knowledge her suicide was not my “why”.
my depression wasn’t because she made the choice to leave.
no, it wasn’t because her dying was too hard to believe.
it was the fact that she was so sad that I couldn’t mend
her broken heart so many a time, seeing her always grieve.
kind arms I did lend, and now to heaven hugs I lovingly send.
from anger to forgiveness, so much surrender I’ve gained.
now only good memories, not the painful have remained.
from anguish to ease when I think of her beautiful smile,
this all has hit me lately and it may seem so unexplained.
but God has given me grace; for it is just His gentle style.
more sympathetic am I to her sorrow and much distress.
back then I was confused, now it’s all clear, I must confess.
I remember the combat in my soul when I saw a photo
of her smiling; today winning the war is my tender progress.
I was holding onto the pain now the torment I’ve let go.
so, you ask me what my life was really like way back then.
I say to you it was the greatest exertion, now I say “amen”.
my life was encompassed by the same pain she discovered,
but thank God that I was smart enough to pick up my pen.
that was my then, and my now has been perfectly recovered.
Date: January 20, 2019
Sponsor: Silent One
"True, I talk of dreams and things to be
That bemete nothing but vain fantasy
Because they lie in the child of an idled man
And yet you choose not to understand."
In all my pain and distress
Broken hearted still trying my best
I've been battered and tossed
Suffered from stiffened gains and great loss
Fictitious predicitions
Dictioning my heart beats and burns
Chizles and churns
Impatient for love's turn
Hatred halted and seized
Completely rotated 180 degrees
My spirit whines and questions me
Did my soul love til now
Foreswear it's sight
For I never appreciated true love or beauty
Until that night
Eminent details like a Siberian tiger stripe
But in my prime my love is Him
I turn to face all corners in my prism
Complexly complicated like a Sodoku rubic's cube
He calls me Juliet because he's my Montague:
My only love sprung from my only hate
Too early seen unknown and known too late
Prodigious birth of love it is to me
That I must love my loathed enemy
The lines of poetic Juliet
I guessed that would certify my destiny of a Capulet
I open my soul to greet my mind
Of what my heart chose to leave behind
The simplest situation should shield me from whats new
For your love is my strength and strength will get me through
Feasting presence of the softest music to attending ears
The silver sweet sound of a lovers tongue by night appears
And yet still, our families, they try to seize
The pure fire from our hands and don't believe
Even in vestal modesty
They attempt to steal immortal blessings I give to thee
And as the envious moon glows and tides rise
What has become true will then become wise
It is then that love lies
Not in our hearts but in the heart of our eyes
In a weightless state of tranquility,
paraphrasing relentless thoughts of motion
in my head into words, which 'til now
have laid dormant in unsung verse, waiting
for you to shine brightly upon them.
Freshly painted impressions mark
the beginning of halcyon days, where gulls
hover just above waves that barely
kiss the shoreline, burying tiny toes
beneath the coolness of wet beached sand.
To what shall we compare thee or can
your effulgent beauty be measured
by metered stanzas of verse taking form
on rice paper and egg shells so that the yolk
slips out draining lucent into the earth's core.
Your wisdom surveys the high seas,
coursing through cavernous veins that harbor
quietly in safety channels, as zephyrs
challenge moist underbrush among youthful
lips, blowing innocent kisses in playful semblance.
Oscines sway in sync beneath heaven's domain,
bathing in rays of sweet luminosity,
as sun-drenched fossils rise, reborn,
reclaiming their gaiety to shine unobstructed,
teething along crevasses of incandescence.
Embrace these Sun days, reflecting
on fireside chats and old storybooks,
reciting euphonious tales that burn mellow,
rising to greet the eyes of omnipotence
with chants of celestial song and dance.
And to this place we call rapture,
let wings of sober doctrine reveal
where grace resides within Sol's castle,
waiting for the children to come forth
with clasped hands in joyful unison.
Such days will greet warmth openly,
without hesitation, so the orbiting
star becomes ever more pliant,
allowing whatever name you choose
to objectify it, to stand always...
Bright, within itself.