Who is holy?
He who emulates God
For God is Holy
And how to do so?
Do what He does
Visit the sick, comfort the bereaved
Lift up the downtrodden, free the captive
Take in the orphan, the widow,
the poor and the stranger
Shun life in cloistered ivory towers
Holiness demands our God-given powers
And when my body tires of me
I lie beneath a chestnut tree,
rolling among the broken burrs
where solid sleep rarely occurs
Waking up is the toughest part
when I've never slept to start.
I fear no place except the bed;
where pillows weigh upon my head
Memory foam gives no assistance;
insomnia thrives on resistance
It waits til eyes are almost closed,
never unconscious, then reloads
'Neath the tree is more appealing
than tracing welts upon my ceiling;
each one reflects a calloused lie,
the burrs tattooed on my naked eye
drilling dread into tomorrow night,
a future where there's no respite
This bed has worn me to the bone,
or have I worn its frame alone?
No dreams arrive; the lucid stays,
a consciousness that only strays
far from the tree l'm primed to be-
or not to be, ‘mid autumn debris.
# # #
I’m tired of the chestnut tree’s shade ~
being gentler than the bed I’ve made
We can rest in our God
who never rests
We can trust in our God
in all life's tests
We rest in His presence
He's by our side
His promise, the essence,
come any tide
Rest in His protection
He will take care
Rest in His provision
He's always there
We rest in His prowess
In Him, we're blest
In His praiseworthiness
Father knows best
In predestination
we rest, we're His
His predomination
provides true bliss
In His proficiency,
strivings will cease
In His sufficiency,
we find true peace.
My soul lies down in silence,calm at ease,
and leaves me here to listen and feel,
a breathless future and a haunted past.
So,heart, I'll speak to you,a gentle guide,
while shadows lengthen and the light begins,
a quiet space where tender truths can hide.
You feel the weight of countless,petty sins,
the heavy moments that the day imparts,
the hidden battles that the spirit wins.
How does it feel within these fragile parts?
To hold the rhythm steady and the flow,
a quiet keeper of a life that starts
anew each morning,letting old things go?
My soul will stir and find this steady beat,
a silent strength that helps the spirit grow
As I held him close aboard this morning's earliest train,
I had an epiphany that my love for him will never wane
And I will be with him through all of life's pleasure and pain.
Do you delight in exaltation?
In those neon bright lights
I’ve been mesmerized before
You are in the breathless highs
But best in the captivating lows
Exquisitely in temptations
Divinely in the mundane
How long will I deny you?
Seeking your high like a drug
I forsake you on the cross
Run to sin city with a die
High on my own ego, I go
But you are easy in the lows
Cloistered in empty times
Chastened by old high times
I make dull your ordinary
Keep me sharp as your tool
Or stalwart as a boring tree
If only I have faith in cycles
Not flickering with exaltation
Not dulled by the doldrums
Then I will praise you
In the dying of my highs
Down in the ordinary life
The Old Farmer Rests Warm In His Snug House
Within green grass in fields in Minnesota
an early Fall, a flaming sword to swing
no horses galloping in Dakota
yes, that damn lying woman lost her ring.
a rotten world dying flecked with you
your broken left wrist eating its sweet pain
winter dares to swing whilst snowing its glue
and life's splitting heartache rides its black train.
green glows and races the old crying clock
its dying spirit cursing winter's breath
angry sailors pray their ships finds the dock
for vehement sea has gifted cold death.
Within green grass a wet trembling mouse.
The old farmer rests warm in his snug house.
[B]Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
October 13th 1972[/B]
Salvations Rests Behind True Faith's Gold Door
Heart mourning under the cold starry night
O' tis the pain cloaked and frigid cold
And yes, it is far from the ravens' flight
The aching years, before the sun burnt old
Midnight cocks are out jumping and crowing
They walk about as if skating on ice
Yet we living still pray for the knowing
Between evil blackness and being nice
The spinning night sky, stars hang by long threads
They give off unreasonable, gallant light
We soothe our vanities by silken beds
And massage guilt by less than holy sight.
Dare we this, tell our brothers the true score.
Salvation rests behind true faith's gold door.
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
Nov. 1 1973
Note: This poem was composed from a very vivid dream that I had last night.
The hours always running
Now creating illusions
or healing reveries...
No day have I ever work with the clock,
Come sun; come moon to running time's relay...
There- my upright stand rests on solid rock.
While sun shines; upon my sweats, my hands knock...
Wealth's door at health's risk- foot bills I delay.
No day have I ever work with the clock.
Boys are not stones; men are not rock to mock,
If demands can't be met despite survey,
There- my upright stand rest on solid rock.
Honor men: burden carriers that unlock,
Scary box of obligation's dismay...
No day have I ever work with the clock.
Appreciate strength, will and pain men block.
Happy world international men's day!
There- my upright stand rest on solid rock.
With hope to meet up everyday's house stock,
And wish peace and health not be led astray.
No day have I ever work with the clock,
There- my upright stand rests on solid rock.
“Bless this place where I stand
Above this earth He Once stood
Now He rests in the heavenly”
Epitaph
10/23/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2021©
cardinal rests
in a dogwood
red tulips
mockingbird sings
from a willow branch
alto
sparrow hatchlings
chirping for breakfast
golden sky
a dove coos
to her mate from pine branch
soft interlude
trickling brook
on the mountainside
duck chatter
2-26-2021
Spring Birds Poetry Contest
Constance La France
While looking for a bridge
to cross over tonight
Connecting time honored values
to internet blight
I thought and I pondered,
as I surfed on the net
But the things that it offered
were sadly abject
Where is the laughter,
the thrill of the chase
Through forest and meadow,
with all of your mates
Gone is the connection,
looking eye into eye
Replaced with an I-pad,
and virtual lies
The children are programmed,
their bits and their bytes
With screens the new playgrounds,
their couches—their life
Where all of this leads,
I’m fearful to know
As I look for that bridge,
where our youth can still go
To return from the chaos,
to a welcoming time
Where friendships were made,
in a tree you just climbed
But the harder I search,
the dimmer it gets
Quicksand reinvented,
their minds it besets
Though cards stack against me,
I remain on my quest
The young are still worth it
—and hope never rests
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2017)
Where have you gone to
Somewhere I cannot follow
But one day I will
Furrows End is where he rests,
Beneath the moonlight in his vest,
Eyes sewn shut so he never sees,
Mouth taped shut so no one can here his pleas.
Mumbling bag of bones is he,
Once lived by the raging sea,
A hermit of the oldish days,
Now lays in this coffin where he decays.
He once had a heart,
But it was so violently torn apart,
His soul long since taken away,
Leaving nothing inside on that cold Novemeber day.
He sleeps now beneath the dead moon,
Hoping to be awoken someday soon,
Awoken by the breath of life,
Before he loses his sanity,
To the reapers scythe.
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