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John Watt Poem
Dwell not, O soul, on yesterday,
on sorrows past and gone -
the sketch you drew so long ago,
today may be redrawn.
Dwell not upon tomorrow's wars,
nor borrow from their pain -
that energy you need today
let not your worries drain.
Dwell not, O heart, on failures past
though each one left its scar -
rich lessons you have learned have forged
the person you now are.
Dwell not upon your victories,
for those shall also pass -
let not your pride construct a shrine
to trophies made of glass.
Dwell not, O soul, on others' gain
nor envy those with much -
contentment, paired with gratitude,
brings peace no wealth can touch.
Dwell not on anyone's downfall
as though it lifted up
your own estate; we're siblings all
and drink from the same cup.
So what is left, O soul - where does
the prudent soul pay heed?
Become less of a taker
always give to those in need.
Which seeds are we to plant
upon this plot of ground we plow?
Sow seeds of love, be brave, and dwell
in the eternal now.
Written 6 Dec 2020
Copyright © John Watt | Year Posted 2020
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John Watt Poem
Like no one before, nor since
you painted that starry night in oils
superimposing your life story.
I feel I know this idyllic village
blanketed by tranquil rolling hills
embraced by calming olive trees
their very branches a symbol of peace
the steadfast church steeple
a sacred echo of the stalwart cypress.
But never have I witnessed
hills so inflamed - burning to tell the world their history
a moon so agitated - suffering from an incurable insanity
the night sky so frenzied - seeking answers to life's suffering
such undulating indigo eddies of despondency and confusion
or stars radiating with such feverish beauty - concentric circles of passion.
That starry night
you painted stars that, like you, are light years away from anyone else
looking on the serene village scene from an insurmountable distance
for you saw things, Vincent,
like no one before, nor since.
[free verse ekphrasis of the painting "The Starry Night" by Vincent Van Gogh]
Written 5 Jul 2020
Copyright © John Watt | Year Posted 2020
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John Watt Poem
We are apples growing on our parent's tree, planted by our grandparents from the apples of our great-grandparents ~ author
October skies still reflect in your eyes
the way they once did on that day we were wed.
Autumn's bright leaves recall fond memories
of sweet days together even through stormy weather.
Once we were young, with our songs still unsung
As we wondered, "How's it feel to grow old?"
Nights fell, the months turned, new calendars came,
Now leaves in chill weather, in love, fall together
in orange, red, yellow, and gold
The sunrise has faded, our sunset is near
The springtime has passed and the winter
we once thought we'd fear
is now here,
this love we still share brings a tear.
The season's deep magic hides changes within,
A rose's young bloom that won't open again,
like children that change right in front of our eyes -
the soft painted ceiling of October skies.
// My grandparents had an October wedding. This song was a gift to them on their 60th anniversary. //
written October 1979
Copyright © John Watt | Year Posted 2020
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John Watt Poem
When I gaze into this realm, I see more than the dazzling array
of golden starbursts floating in a cosmic sea of blue-green-gray,
photoreceptors painting post-Impressionistic explosions of colors,
fibers and dilator muscles servicing your ocular aperture.
I see distinctive melanin patterns of a truly original individual -
a retinal scan of exceptional singularity,
each nebula unique, every supernova peculiar,
no quasar like any other.
I passionately absorb with one brief glance
an infinity of nuance,
an eternity of historical archives,
a heaven and earth of emotional journeys.
I am reading your autobiography, the encyclopedia of you.
I remain a student of your sclera,
a pupil of your pupils,
a Vincent of your irises,
going half-mad with the dizzying vastness
of the starry night within your eyes.
Copyright © John Watt | Year Posted 2020
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John Watt Poem
Painting by Edvard Munch, 1895: "Moon Light"
your soft hand trembles in mine
no words are spoken
we observe our ascending full moon
as we have every month for forty years
empyrean empress rises to her throne
queen regent of the night sky reigning
over brooding blue bay and melancholic mountains
as predictable as death
we again sit in our folding chairs
whispering under our favorite tree
anticipating the coming light show
enjoying her long bridal veil
shimmering in the existential ripples
a nocturne of nebulous narratives
stopping at the shore line
stopping
she inevitably will descend
the shroud of shadow will cover the land
comforted that tomorrow will awaken
to a resplendent sun
and next month will bring another full moon
the doctor said three weeks
so this will probably be our last
your soft hand trembles in mine
no words are spoken
written 11 July 2023
Copyright © John Watt | Year Posted 2023
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John Watt Poem
May be sung to the tune of It Came Upon the Midnight Clear
It came upon a prophecy
in ancient days foretold
that to the earth would come a child
fulfilling words of old.
For all the earth to be redeemed
this gift of God's great love:
a Savior, which is Christ the Lord
came down from heaven above.
As Joseph came from David's line
to Bethlehem went he,
and with him Mary, great with child,
in heeding Caesar's decree.
And so the Lord was born that night
in lowly cattle stall:
in him was life, and his bright star
would be the light of all.
The prophet Micah's words fulfilled
of which the faithful sing:
"O, Bethlehem, though small are you
from you shall come a king."
The angels joined to sing Noel
announcing God's own Son;
with shepherds, Magi bowing to
the long awaited one.
In ancient days this prophecy
Isaiah did foretell,
The virgin shall conceive a son,
His name: Immanuel.
"To us a child is born this day,
to us a son is giv'n" -
He reigns on David's throne on earth,
and God's right hand in heav'n.
Copyright © John Watt | Year Posted 2021
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John Watt Poem
Paint me blue like the sky
rainbow's smile; thunder's cry
clouded curtains rife with rain
till shroud is lanced and bluebirds fly again
Wistful moods in mahogany frames
melancholy painters with undiscovered names
rearrange reveries in pastel hues
decorating lonely walls with brooding blues
Paint me emerald like the sea
feeling caged; rolling free
stormy rage; morning calm
who knows where swelling waves come from?
Which shades best record a personality?
Which side of the coin is preserved for history?
Shall I smile or appear dignified?
Do I show my true self, or try to hide?
Paint me tawny like a lark
as the sky dissolves to dark
flying free but not for long
a gloomy gloaming swallows up its song
What do you see as I hold this pose?
Will you reveal or conceal my imperfect nose?
Will you paint scars and wrinkles or leave no trace?
Will your biography in oils show lines on my face?
Paint me crystalline like a wine glass
for you somehow see right through
the paintbrush captures the epidermis
but the painter overlays the spirit
Superimposing your style, passions, heartbreaks, joie de vivre
onto my facets, form, features, and flaws
with love, you labor on
transforming my brief life into a lasting work of art
Paint me gold like a sunrise
as it marks the dark's demise
background wash of faith, hope, love;
the colors life's palette is made of.
When bones are one with graveyard soils
these memories preserved in oils
are saved for those who later come
that they may know where they've come from
written 1 Sep 2022
...with gratitude for all the inspired artists who
carry forward the grand tradition of portraiture.
Copyright © John Watt | Year Posted 2022
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John Watt Poem
I cannot comprehend our great Creator’s mind,
how every galaxy he perfectly designed -
how every atom in the universe is his,
ordered and known by him, as all creation is.
No eye has ever seen, no ear has ever heard,
no mind ever conceived the secrets known
to him alone.
No mind can fully grasp the myst'ry of your ways -
joyful the heart that trusts and gladly renders praise
for such an awesome love that sent your Son to die.
How could that love extend to sinners such as I?
I may not ever know why you would choose to show
your grace to sinful man – though once concealed,
through Christ revealed.
Unworthy are my words your glory to express;
loosen my tongue O Lord, your praises to profess.
Though we don’t know in full, we know enough to trust
that you are perfect, wise, all-loving, good, and just.
No eye has ever seen, no ear has ever heard,
no mind ever conceived the secrets known
to you alone.
"...as it is written, no eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him - but God has revealed it to us by his Spirit"
~ I Corinthians 2:9-10
Written 7 Nov 2005
Copyright © John Watt | Year Posted 2020
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John Watt Poem
In November I write of winter
for I am weary of the old year and tired bones
I visualize all hardships blanketed with fresh snowfall
geese in a "V" as they flee on trade winds to the south
season's celebrations, toasting in the new year
senior couples delighting in a luminous sunset
knowing it might be their last together
In February I write of spring
for I am weary of the bone-chilling cold
I envision the circle of life resurrecting dormant earth and tired souls
zephyr winds teasing nascent flower petals and young hummingbirds
mayday flower crowns adorning laughing children
young lovers sharing kisses, dreaming dreams of
infinite possibilities
In May I write of summer
for I am weary of the bone-soaking rain
I forecast cloudless skies and longer days
Santa Ana winds dismissing every chill
a lark's lilting lullaby lulling loons on the lake
vacationing families basking in the warm outdoors
brides and grooms viewing limitless horizons
In August I write of autumn
for I am weary of the bone-dry heat
I anticipate bewitching fall winds tantalizing neon maple leaves
turkeys gobbling, ducks wobbling, thrushes warbling
harvest home throbbing with the aroma of fresh pie
middle age couples cuddling by the fireplace
giving thanks for all that lies behind and ahead
Lord, help me to view the past with grace,
the future with hope,
the present with contentment,
and to write of November
in November.
written 25 October 2021
Copyright © John Watt | Year Posted 2021
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John Watt Poem
To do justly in a world of injustice,
to love mercy though wanting revenge,
to walk humbly through forests of arrogance,
to speak softly and not to avenge.
To give kindly to any with physical needs,
to comfort the lonely in spirit,
to hold trembling hands of those grieving a loss
and hear hope sing although they can't hear it.
To locate the beauty in chaos,
to craft the humane out of tragedy,
to respond to tornado by building a home,
or to fire by planting a tree.
To never lash out at the ignorant,
to not ignore homeless or hungry,
to not grow impatient with those who are young,
to not be angry at the angry.
For I was once hungry and grieving,
I was once lonely and ignorant,
I was once vengeful and too blind to see
that I too was young and still arrogant.
But somebody wise came beside me,
saying, "Life isn't fair... but you can be -
live simply and give from abundance,
do the good that you're wanting to see.
Follow the Golden Rule always,
work hard - don't expect to be served,
be humble, treat others with kindness,
give honor wherever deserved."
These were the words of my parents,
who through War and Depression grew strong,
so whenever I make resolutions
their wisdom helps sort right from wrong.
written 15 Dec 2022
Copyright © John Watt | Year Posted 2022
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