2019

Poems

May-

August

 
 

Heart Monitor          Print this poem only

There are leads on my chest
to detect any vagaries within
but you are the best heart monitor
circulating in the deep vessels and chambers
checking what pulses and moves in me.
I trust you there
in the darkest parts of me
where life wanders.

Author's Note: In the hospital to monitor how my heart reacts to a new medication. I love writing about my “heart” issues weaving in two meanings of the word.

Written 5-1-19

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Magnolia          Print this poem only

I see you from the third floor
you there with white blossoms in your hair.
I envy the birds who fly freely
And rest in your shiny green glory.
I wish I could smell your sweet scent
Hold your soft pedals to my cheek
to heal all the blemishes
make smooth the rough spots
witness the fragrance of my serenity.

Written 5-3-19

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seen and Unseen         Print this poem only

 

A gaze upon a man’s weathered face

sees not the loves he’s embraced

churches or jails he’s dwelled

the babies or wounded he’s held.

The lines etched on his cheeks

do not speak the secrets he keeps

or the vagaries of life in his soul

he is just one man solid and whole.

 

Written 5-8-19

 
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Storm          Print this poem only

Outside another storm is waging

but inside is a symphony playing 

no hint of violence just a candle lit

flickering echoes of a story knit

in a mother’s shielding arms

freed from ugly worldly harms

and myriad soldiers of the dark

banned from this glowing loving arc.

 

Outside trees sway in wildness of wind

rain soaks Earth to the brim

present storms clutch and choke,

evil erodes the mind embattled and soaked

heart’s desire is dulled and blunt

by the grim incessant affronts.

Abroad is a yearning for that symphony in the night

of weeping, awaiting, hoping for some sweet redeeming light.

Written 5-8-19

 
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From Father to Father            Print this poem only

 

My father was a good man

he worked hard with mind and hand

was sober and at home at night

spoke and joked with friends 

showed me wrong from right

taught me to hammer a nail

level a board without fail 

build a bench and stilts to walk high.

But in spite of this Daddy had a roving eye

was prone to flirt or more to my mom's regret

and after work Dad had no time or vigor left

to play with me or throw and catch.

 

I was sad and even shed a few tears

as I thought of him over the years

recalled his absences in my life

not there to show how to sharpen a knife

to be confident to take a stand

and in other ways to become a man.

 

But today the tender love I feel 

for him gives me peace and I am healed

knowing he was just a man

doing the best he could

to be a dad

in good times and bad.

 

Now in my later years

when my resentments and fears

have faded or flown away 

I have my one true Father

always good beside me

every moment every day

and in this time, to my delight

I have one true Brother,

a man in my heart like no other

there is Jesus the very son of man 

who did and does every thing he can

to show us the way to live vitally.

And with my fellows we try mightily

to follow our Christ,

to love as he. 

And arm in arm they are pulling me 

to a new city on the hill 

to do our good Father's will.

 

Jesus, now it's with you I identify

your hand on my shoulder right by my side

I am always in your sight 

you lead me to love and fight the good fight

to be a man who takes a stand

who loves our Father with mind and heart

who brings others together and not apart.

 

Jesus my Lord you showed me true power

the strength in compassion 

the gentleness of a flower

you teach me to work and fashion

a life of kindness, to forgive and heal

even now in this world where I kneel 

you reveal to me how to reach through the clouds 

beyond the rubble and crowds 

to forgive seventy time seven

and touch the edge of heaven.

Written 5-11-19

 
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Psalm of Light          Print this poem only

 

I was headed for the meadow of green

for I knew it was there I would find peace

but on the way I had to cross difficult terrain

strewn with rocks, steep climbs with difficult footing

but you handed me a lifeline of safety to tie about my waist

to keep me from falling.  

And when I slipped and began to fall

you reached down and grasped me 

you lifted me up and I felt the soft and airy rush of angels' wings

the lightness of wind beneath me as if to usher me higher

seemingly lifting the burden of my body, aching knees and back.

 

It is this power your gentle power that rescues me without fail.

You are determined in your divine freedom

that I am brought to your bosom

and held tight there by your strong enfolding arms

like the father of the prodigal

or a mother embracing a child

who comes to her weeping and sobbing after a painful fall.

 

Thank you father for this draft of grace

that slowly, relentlessly brings me closer to you.  

May I reach that meadow before I die

and if now, may I find it when I pass from this life

into your bright presence.  

 

Written 5-13-19

 
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Dance with the Wind          Print this poem only

 

The ceiling fan sends its emissary

to breathe upon the candle’s flame

the humble blaze enclosed but free

in the small clear glass vessel.

Silently it wiggles and swirls

asserts its freedom

responds to the breezy envoy

with light.

 

May I and you, constrained and nourished

within life’s bounds,

embrace freedom’s grace

and respond with light

as we dance with the wind.

 

Written 5-24-19

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Escape          Print this poem only

 

dings and whistles from the slot alert him escape -

sit before my image enter its wild wolf canyon escape

 

winding road in lofty forest landscape

beckon her - leave him for my green escape

 

triple x signs promise writhing bodies

heavy breathing and dark dank escape

 

the flute lay still on the silent table sparkling

sweet melodic memories of fingered escape

 

the frothy surging surf traces the seam of the sea -

bathe in my bosom; wrap your self in my fluid escape

 

locked door soft light from below, no sounds

inside, creative energy sparks a poetic escape

 

on the placid lake he casts his hopes

awaits the tug - he and his prey escape

 

she stands eyes closed, smiling face turned upward

feels the breeze in her hair thanks God for this sweet escape

 

he runs in the field of goldenrod; tears stream

and he screams a desperate entreaty for escape

 

the sylvan spirits flown from the mountain trees

into the green glen whisper as angels - escape!

 

Author’s Note: This is my first modest attempt at writing in the Ghazal poetic form.  Thanks to poet Rob Kistner whom  I met on HelloPoetry.com for the inspiration for this poem.  Rob is an extraordinary talent who writes with a free yet disciplined artistic brush.  This is the URL for his poetry on that website:  https://hellopoetry.com/Artheo/ 

Ghazal Form.

  • Pronounciation: “guzzle”

  • A traditional Ghazal consists of five to fifteen couplets, typically seven.

  • A refrain (a repeated word or phrase) appears at the end of both lines of the first couplet and at the end of the second line in each succeeding couplet.

  • One or more words before the refrain are rhymes or partial rhymes.

  • The lines should be of approximately the same length and meter.

  • The poet may use the final couplet as a signature couplet, using his or her name in first, second or third person, and giving a more direct declaration of thought or feeling to the reader.

  • Glenn: I  use more of a free verse style without much rhyme and no fixed meter.

 

Ghazal Style.

  • Each couplet should be a poem in itself, like a pearl in a necklace.

  • There should not be continuous development of a subject from one couplet to the next through the poem.

  • The refrain provides a link among the couplets, but they should be detachable, quotable, grammatical units.

  • There should be an epigrammatic terseness, yet each couplet should be lyric and evocative.

Written 5-27-19

Written 5-27-19

 
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Adventures of Old Men          Print this poem only

 

I wonder if adventures still await me

or if they are artifacts of my youth

but then I remember I’m still alive

and the realms still circulate

like eddies in the stream.

 

The candle still burns

below the tiny hot air balloon of my life

and I float with the wind

sometimes to the south of my past

or to the northwest

where my winter wolf patiently awaits

the soul-hunter in me.

 

Adventuring into their eighties

Black Elk and Geronimo spoke their wisdom

created legends, histories

and still-revered mysteries.

Can you two speak to me

across decades and miles

of triumphs and trials

fill my soul with your heart

give me hope for a splendid new start?

 

Lao Tsu, Abraham and the Apostle John

all of whom still live on in me

make their place in my history

give me hope there are yet places to go

inches and miles to grow

princes, paupers and saints to meet

calluses to make on my feet.

 

And should I die this week

maybe those further realms I seek

will speak

grab hold of my soul

and make it whole

with one more superb endless adventure.

 

Written 6-3-19

 
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Hands Together           Print this poem only

 

Jesus, you are my left hand and I my right

when I put them together to pray

you become my guiding light

your warmth and comfort begin my day.

 

When I am still and close my eyes

your touch strengthens and lifts me up

upon the dawn and rays of sunrise

I know I’m able to drink your cup. 

 

The blood pulsing and warming there

are this day’s moment of gestation

bring possibilities without compare

make me partner in the force of creation.

 

When I end this moment of prayer

Jesus, don’t release and leave my hand

stay with me and let darkness beware

together we are light in this land.

 

Written 5-18-19

 
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When a man loves a woman         Print this poem only

 

When a man loves his wife he loves himself

I have heard it said

and I’ve read

of the interplay

of self love and love of another.

Can I love my brother, cherish my mother

if I do not accept myself? 

I’m still unclear which comes first or if this dilemma

circles and confounds

and will puzzle me forever. 

 

But I know with sureness when I love you

you soften and look at me with those big brown eyes

and sometimes I think I detect mist there

and when I run my fingers through your hair

I know your complexity and gentleness.

When I embrace you I know the fullness of your heart

that you loved me from the start

but even more now my precious one.

 

Maybe being a man this paradox of the circle of love

will never be mentally clear

but in my heart I know, my dear,

my love for you makes me me.

 

Author’s note:  Some of my reflections on Ephesians 5:28

Written 5-16-19

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Idealism          Print this poem only

 

When I was a young idealistic thinker

I took the bait hook line and sinker

now I’m an old more skeptical believer

but I hope I’m still an open receiver.

Written 6-5-19

 
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A Twilight Psalm          Print this poem only

 

Father, you fly into my soul as the birds of the air in their perfect freedom come to rest on the branches of the great Elm.  Your beauty and its sheer perfection is alive in the trees and my eyes soak up your freshness and your magnificent green glory.  I hear you whisper in the wind as if to speak softly to the quiet spaces in me, assuring me of your constancy. 

 

Your affection flows into me like the swift sparkling force of the stream.  Your love is alive all about me in the brown eyes of my wife, in the sparkling intensity of the cat’s eyes as she looks upon me entreating my soul to awaken, inquiring the gentle affection of  my heart.

 

I hear you in the sound of the piano playing, breathing the spirit of the balladeer in gentle strains that pulse and uncurl the strings of my soul.  My Father you are all about me and permeate the walls and halls of my home with your goodness.  You are a good good Father.  That’s who you are.  And I am loved by you.  That’s who I am.  You fill my spirit with your assurance and dedication.

 

This is my psalm, this is my prayer, this is me yearning for your companionship beckoning you to open the doors and windows, to rush into my soul, lift it and give me hope for a pleasant and peaceful eternity with you. 

 

Written 7-11-19

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writing is diving          Print this poem only

 

Writing is like jumping into a deep mountain lake

to find some tiny piece of my soul

submerged and floating there

an immersive brooding wistful prayer

or a flight into the blue thin air.

 

It is a cinematic journey

recording the fruits of noticing

what is right in front of the eyes

and finding what is deeper

unseen underneath.

 

Writing is looking into an old man’s eyes

and discovering the person there

just as much a spiritual venture

digging toward his center

as a physical sensation.

 

It is a magical mystery tour

taking the visible threads

in hand and feeling my way

to the roots

or pausing and squeezing the fruit

for its juice.

 

It is fun

it is a morning run

or an evening rest

pain, joy, and dreams expressed.

 

Writing is moving, grooving, including

taking a moment in time

exploding it in rhythm and rhyme

finding in the ordinary the sublime.

Written 7-13-19

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Mariners, Poets, and Seekers of Peace           Print this poem only

 

She stands at the wall reflecting

on those who were lost at sea

names and poems and words connecting

her to those poor souls and to me.

Beyond those memorial walls

the mighty Columbia into the Pacific spills

whose depth and wealth have called

so many to sail from Oregon's green hills.

From the safety of their home

they left for the great unknown

where writers and poets travel

every time they pen their spirit in word

to explore what God and life has unraveled

what pain, sorrow and joy have stirred.

 

Her kindness and her reflection move me to write

my poems of wandering from a safe and tidy home

to regions of imagination’s heights

shadows, sorrows, or oceans’ foam.

She reads and lives life’s poetry

knows its canyons and desert sands

she yearns only to be free

of the noise and anger of badlands

to smell the freshness of a cool and gentle breeze

feel the air brushing her arms

to look up and see the greenness of trees

to be free from crushing and brutal harm.

 

I see her standing and watch her reflection there

with seafarers, poets and lovers at peace

where God’s creative breath stirs air

and torments, terrors, and quarrels cease.

Written 7-2-19

 

Author’s Note:  My sister Geneva visited Astoria, Oregon where the Columbia river ends in the Pacific and citizens have erected a memorial park with several walls of polished black granite display the names of mariners lost at sea.  There are also sentiments and poems about those lost souls one of which Genie photographed and sent to me.  As I examined the photo I could see her reflection on the wall as kind of a background for the poem.  That photo and my sister who loves nature and trees inspired this writing. 

 

Below is the poem on the memorial wall pictured in the above image:

 

Weep not for me that I go to sea

Weep not for me that I go to sea.
I shan’t be lonely, though vastness surround me.
The brotherhood of the sea shall be my family.
The kinship of the deep my company.

Weep not for me, nor worry over harm.
My heart stays with you, still and warm.
In sunrise and starlight my hearth and home
I carry you with me wherever I roam.

Weep not for me, whether bad luck or good.
Tossed about in a shell of steel and wood.
An ancient salt sea sails within my blood –
I but follow its tide through ebb and flood.

Weep not for me that I go to sea:
in the limitless ocean I am free.

Author’s Note: A poem on the wall of Maritime Memorial Park in Astoria, Oregon. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The hen and her egg,  the poet and his poem          Print this poem only

 

She drops the egg

fruit of her womb

formed of her food and drink

her bouncing steps and short flights

the egg with its imperfections

but perfectly shaped of her being.

Written 7-2-19

 
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The Traveling Troubadour            Print this poem only

 

He asked me, “What is your method as a poet?”  I paused, flummoxed and embarrassed, as I fumbled for an answer.  Haltingly I told him, “I write me - whatever is going on inside at the time.” It was an inadequate response. But since then I have thought about his question, even awakened with images or metaphors jabbing at a better answer. 

 

But the best one came one morning as I was close to waking for the day.  I pictured a lone traveling troubadour, singing or speaking the lyrics of his life and love. He improvises, playing in the rhythm and rhyme of his heart.  He is on the road and feels the wind, smells the trees and grass, stops for interludes with folk he encounters.  Over the years he lingers for long periods with kindred spirits who evoke something precious in his soul, make his heart race, make him certain that he is not made for this world but belongs with angels and their God.  He is someone who moves, changes, cannot be tacked down or easily charted. This frustrates many who try to make sense of or connect with him. 

 

But I have no guitar or microphone or stage. My tools are my words, my conversations with God, my frustrations, my moments of ecstasy or pain, my silences in early sleepless mornings where I sort out and make sense of my dreams and the other realms of my mind.  I do not have an instruction guide, poetic encyclopedia, or academic course, only other poets and people who are willing to talk and listen and love – on the road.

Written 7-2-19

 
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A Crossing          Print this poem only

 

I roam the roads of this land

hop the hills, read the script,

listen to the sounds of logic and consequence

feel the wind on my skin

smell the flowers and grass

in this familiar landscape.

 

But I yearn for another place

an unexplored, exotic, even eerie space

I approach and tiptoe into a foggy

twilight border devoid of signs

nobody, no memory, no lines

I try to surrender to the fog.

 

But soon I’m back in the charted

remembered current waters

picking up the day’s packets bracelets and bobbles

but my legs soon start to wobble

in this state of awake

and again I search for a crossing

 

through the foggy realm

into the sweet lost land

of sleep.

 

Written 6-30-19

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the Sleepy Edge          Print this poem only

 

On the sleepy edge of consciousness

I cannot decide whether it’s better

to stay and fall back into oblivion

or rise and greet the new day.

Written 7-18-19

 
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In Brief Praise of the Silverleaf Faithful                   Print this poem only

 

They gather round on Sunday

touching hands, knee to knee

Brother Fred in a taller chair

so all can see and hear him there

his words shorn from a life of fights

and struggles for what is right.

 

And these faithful Christian folk

who willingly take on Christ’s yoke

sit, listen, speak and sing

reaching for that silver string

cast by their Father into their hearts

spinning there his sacred art.

 

This small community who holds fast

to the call of love that God has asked

meet each week to seek and find

that which pulls them together and binds

them to the cross of salvation and love

pulls them from being low to a place above.

 

These faithful need one another

to gather there as sister and brother

for in a world of sin and distraction

they know the need to take action

to move from this small sacred space

into Christ’s heart of passionate, loving grace.

 

Author's Note:  This poem was written in gratitude for a gift from the small community of elders who live in a senior living housing development in east Texas.  They are led by a retired preacher spoken of in the poem.  In spite of health problems of him and his wife, as well as other obstacles, he faithfully leads the little group each Sunday morning in the community room of the headquarters building.

 

Written 7-29-19

 

 
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Mere Sin          Print this poem only

 

Your sin cannot remove you from me

for just beyond what you can see

I am there seeking your body and mind

you cannot restrict me or confine

my grace and its reach

but you must act to mend the breach.

Even though your human craving

makes you think you aren’t worth saving

if you turn back to me, stretch out your hand

take hold of the silver band

I will snatch you up to me

and here in my arms again you are new and free. 

 

Written 7-23-19

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is the morning          Print this poem only

 

This is the morning

the day of aborning

when I open my eyes

you’ll be there Lord

and with you I’ll arise.

Written 7-19-19

 
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My limping leg         Print this poem only

 

Each morning right before I rise

I open wide and raise my eyes

to find you there for me awaiting

please hear the voice I will be raising

and take my hand to be my guide

and walk this day right by my side.

 

Oh Jesus help my limping leg

and raise me up for this I beg!

 

And as the day goes on progressing

remind me Lord to be confessing

my love and need for your protection

and grant me Lord your kind affection

when I get lost in life’s distractions

please place your heart in every action.

 

Oh Jesus help my limping leg

and raise me up for this I beg!

 

I know sometimes I am mistaken

your grace is cheap and need awaken

to follow you and bear your cross

and stay with you through every loss

obey your law of love and find

regret for leaving you behind.

 

Oh Jesus help my limping leg

and raise me up for this I beg!

Written 7-15-19

 
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I hear your music          Print this poem only

 

It strums and hums who I am

finds me when I’m jammed

makes me a balloon flying

yet anchors and keeps me trying.

 

But when I hear them decry and condemn

into the camps of “us and them”

and I join them in their soundproof rooms

I can’t hear your music in the gloom.

 

Help me leave the stifling shouts

within those walls, help me out!

I want to hear your music there

breathe the freshness of your air

 

but the judgers’ stern refrains

echo too loud inside my brain

drowning music from others

who could be my sisters and brothers.

 

I feel strangely alien there

not one who’s loved and dear

I wonder if I’m being cast out

and I feel the darkness of doubt.

 

I yearn for the music of your heart

that pulls me in and not apart

I crave the touch of your gentle hand

that helps me up, helps me stand.

 

Sing to me your blessed Psalm

anoint me with your healing balm

when I feel so aggrieved,

bound up and squeezed.

 

Show me a freeing loving place

send the Spirit and your grace

from beyond confining walls

let me hear the music of your call.

 

Author’s Note:  This is written while reflecting on the intense polarization I observe in society and social groups.  I wish I could say I never partake in this thinking, but sadly, I cannot.  In this piece I try to reflect on what it does to me when I fail to see individual human beings as such, when I fail to make an effort to respect them and love them as whole persons (as God does) rather than categorizing them as being in this camp or the other. I think of an individual whom I judges based on a statement he made that triggered a knee-jerk reaction in me.  But when I spoke to a person close to him and discovered more about him, his loves, values, and experiences, it changed my whole attitude toward him and softened my heart.     

Revised  7-28-19

 
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Speck          Print this poem only

 

I open the big glossy book

full of beautiful illustrations

galaxies, nebulae, moons and stars

cross into my view

as I travel its pages

I’m awe-struck.

 

In the black background

clusters of color and light

in this page-turning cosmic flight

humble me

a tiny speck

in the expanding universe.

 

Dark matter

dark energy

dot this inner space

wasted moments

in scattered remnants

undetectable by astronomy

or particle physics

in this collapsing sun.

 

Thank God for the stars

in my universe

who need no telescope

or cosmic observatory

to enter the inner space

to trace and find the heart

and grace

in this still expanding speck.

 

Written 7-31-19

 
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These Old Shoes          Print this poem only

 

Back in the corner of the closet

they rest covered in layers of dust

so thick I can barely see their color

but I remember the days of trust

 

I placed in them on ladders

dragging the hose through mud

standing before the radial saw

cutting with fear of drawing blood

 

Yes they are quite ugly

scuffed and parting at seams

soles worn and getting holey

walked through broken dreams

 

But I’ve got more work to do

I shake off the past with their dust

put on these old shoes cozy and true

and step into another future with trust.

 

Written 7-31-19

 
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Hold Me          Print this poem only

 

Hold me in your arms

fold me into your heart

touch me and let me feel your softness

take me away from me

help me to see

through your big brown eyes

drench me in your light

for I am down

and in the dark

remind me to laugh

and lift me with your wings of hope

smile me that last mile

before I am too tired.

 

Written 8-1-19

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The River          Print this poem only

 

The River flows

moves steady relentless

wind-inspired ripples ruffle the surface

waves make their way to the far shore

to the distant landing I cannot see

to a place of the great mystery.

 

I have joined the deeper currents

unseen by this sun-drenched day

or the small vessels

of genius gathered

of a pounding past

where in our youth we cast

our simple handmade lures

hoping to hook and set

something, someone in the rolling caravan

of gypsies making their way

with story and song

ballads of valiant endeavor

sometimes weak sometimes strong

dotted with groans and sighs of love

the small sounds of stringing beads

drops of trust and hope

to sell other searchers

on the way. 

 

Written 8-20-19

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Testament          Print this poem only

 

What did Marcia Lister leave?

What was her testament old and new?

What did her life help us believe?

What was her witness to me and you?

 

She taught us the art of flight

to hold fast but remain unchained

faithful friend, mom, and cousin in both darkness and light

a woman standing in the respect she gained.

 

Her old testament rooted near Bayou Teche

its brown water, crawfish, and family ties

yet she wanted a life forward and fresh

where loyalty and hard work helped her rise.

 

Her life helped us believe in gentleness and sweetness

generosity and industry in a world of men

where women struggled for a life of completeness

she had to pull herself up again and again.

 

She was a seamstress and bore witness to pulling together

resources, energy and a hard working crew

she sewed cotton and nylon and even leather

creating things useful to help us get through.

 

Her enduring will was her generosity and love

faith in God to take her that last extra mile

she wouldn’t stay stuck; she raised her head and looked above

and her always new testament was that ready smile.

 

These are just a few things that Marcia Lister left

to us whom she loved that she humbly bequeathed

she would not want us to stay sad and bereft

so let us take flight in her relentless love and belief.

Author's Note: Dedicated to my cousin Marcia Lister who passed away August 9, 2019.  She and I were simpatico and kept up with each other.  My life has a void in it now that she is gone.  The reason this poem is similar to the next one, "She Has Wings" is because I thought I had lost the latter and wanted to write a poem to read at Marcia's memorial service. Then Marcia's daughter, Mardell found the earlier poem and I was able to revise it.  That revision is what follows. 

 

Written 8-9-19

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She Has Wings          Print this poem only

She has wings

her woman life sings

of mystery and strength

for she went to any length

to work, practice, and learn

to make her mark and to earn

a place of respect and trust.

She did what she must

to fashion, create and complete

without regret or retreat.

 

She has wings

not satisfied with the things

that most in her hometown

did to make themselves renown

she’d not embrace what was “normal”

stay in the confines of the formal,

she was willing to swim upstream

refusing to let go of her dream.

 

The Air Force opened doors wide

to a place she could achieve with pride

where she earned her bosses’ trust.

She succeeded when tested and thrust

where women had been forbidden

she excelled with the talents she was given.

She spread her wings to cross the sea

where she made her mark in Germany

discovering again that she could fly

conquering fear, piercing the sky.

 

She became a seamstress

delighted with the seamless

she used the fabric she was given,

determined and vitally driven

to take each irregular piece

smooth each stubborn crease

take threads of discord and dark

get from the dull and lifeless a spark

turn all the pieces in her control

into a rare and graceful whole.

 

In the seismic world of oil

she learned to pierce the soil

go down deeper, probe and measure

the truth - that rare and precious treasure

just as valuable as her common sense

and she had integrity without pretense.

They called her Mother Superior

for her standards forbade the inferior

she persevered with her given task.

Quit before done? Don’t even ask!

 

Through many trials and tribulations

she rose above expectations.

From injuries and harm endured

she thrived, survived and matured.

She married and had a little girl

raised and nurtured her like a pearl.

A loyal and faithful friend,

she was good to young and older kin

through storms and tears and awful things

beyond this life’s years, Marcia has wings.

 

Author's Note: Revised from previous 2015 version - also please see author's note in the poem immediately above this one.]

Revised and rewritten 8-29-19

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finding Victory          Print this poem only

 

They vote for different sides

opposing thoughts sometimes divide

but both hold fast to the same Ark

pulling them together and not apart

they’re in the same Vessel of salvation

drink deeply the same Libation

go to a common place

to be filled with His grace

at the foot of the same cross

where they get victory, not loss.

 

Author's Note: Dedicated to Glenn Stromquist.

 

Written  August 4, 2019

 

 

 

Revenge

by Manuel Hutchinson and Glenn Currier

Print this poem only

 

My politics on a Facebook page

her reply with such rage

I sat in shock

for we’d held her at baptism

kept her overnight tucked her in

like good godparents do

all the tender moments we knew

but now a pinch in my soul

my heart’s racing pace

felt like a flight from grace.

 

I didn’t expect the monster to rise.
The taste of bell flowers is so sweet,
Even the devil smiled at me.
He caught my soul asleep,
As he picked up the double edge sword.
I should have never turned my back that day,
I made a commit to walk on heaven’s grace
But chains on my feet prevented me to walk towards faith.
I’m living with my eyes closed.
Is this what happens when you embrace the pain?
Someone explain!

Rolling along singing a song

it felt so good to be high in joy

not since I was a little boy

was the air so free

but then the email dripping with sarcasm

cut me deep with its slice of sad

like dad used to do when he was mad.

I thought I’d forgiven the cuts

but now I’m in their clutch

the cape of this demon covers me

I’m bound in anger without a key.

I got the whole wide world, in his hands
I got the whole wide world, in his hands.
I got his tears weeping in my hands.

I finally understood
vengeance doesn't make you a man.
Now I reaped what I sow,
loved how he burned my soul.
He said is it too late to confess my sins?

"God let me be free! I'll never meet Lucifer again."
The truth is unfortunate,
because only the creatures of my past life answered him.

sins of a little boy
clipping the wings of toys was the joy
watched angels descend
they never knew
I was the one who poured that bleach at her baptism.
This is only one monster under my bed.
All my life, I never chose to open my eyes
when I did, I saw the devil
as he came for his

Revenge.

“Revenge,” Copyright 2019 by Manuel Hutchinson and Glenn Currier

Written 6-4-19

 
2020 Copyright by Glenn Currier