There is a storm rising in the deep cauldron of the sea of humanity,
An untamed insanity, wailing louder and louder, like the wild child
Emerging from the jungle of irrationality to destroy all of banality,
To cannibalize civilization in the realization that it is but a carcass
Only to be eaten now in a free frenzied feast of half-starved beasts;
Woe be to the man of upper-clan, who but fans the flames of blame!
The storm rise is upon us, the size of which we cannot measure . . .
But there will be no pleasure, only pieces of what we now treasure
Tag: Lifestyles
Quinn Mighty in Pen
There was a man named Quinn, who was mighty with the pen
And did win the favor of all sorts of men, but he did greatly sin
Again and again till he dwelled in a den of dark so stark
That he could no longer see and words left him bereft
Of light so that try as he might Quinn could no longer write,
And he became quite the sight to behold having sold himself
To gloom and doom — so sad and utterly bad — and he cried
As he tried to fill his days in the haze that had become his life
So rife with pain and no gain and stain upon his lonely heart;
So goes the tale of Quinn who once was so mighty with the pen
Good Morning Life!
For the streams and hillocks and sweet dreams,
Fountains of water, and flowers and mountains
That rise, and blue skies, how could I despise?
For fireflies, moonlight at night, and the stars
That shine from afar; for my friends and family
So near and dear, where is there room for fear?
For perfect love from above casts out all fear!
For riverbanks and the quiet time, I give thanks;
For sunrays and bays and child’s play in the day,
And ballets and bouquets, how could I be hateful;
No! I am grateful … grateful for this and more…
And so I say, ‘Good Morning Life! Good Morning!’
Note: First published on March 12, 2017
Your Love Washes Over Me
As I bang my head against the wall in the halls
Of this home, not my own; sigh and loudly cry,
Your compassion washes over me like waves
From rich love wider and deeper than the sea,
And you had no bed, nowhere to lay your head,
But you’ve said you will take care of my needs,
Sowing seeds of faith that grow ever so slowly
As you provide my daily bread, day after day,
And remind me I do have somewhere to stay,
And so what shall I say? And how can I repay?
I say ‘thank you,’ as I bathe me in love so true,
Which canopies over me like the skies so blue!
Happier Days Are Coming
Happier days are coming, blooming within the soul
Of the one who waits expectantly with living hope
And expectation in anticipation of fresh joy untold
With bold confidence that happier days are coming,
Looming large on the horizon as prayers bear their
Weight in heaven above, from where all blessings
Flow as sacred wind blows, rushing in with answers
To supplications made in humility with the ability
To believe, relieving distress and dismay with rays
Of bright light flooding every part of the heart now
. . .
Happier days are coming, blooming within the soul
Of the one who waits expectantly with living hope
And expectation in anticipation of fresh joy untold,
So be bold! And hold on! Happier days are coming!
Such Beauty in the Dangerous Beautiful
Look up at the moon and soon you will be enthralled by her beauty,
But then imagine dying as you’re lying on her bed of cold rock . . .
Gaze upon the awesome magnificence of the lion at a safe distance,
But then consider being mauled in your insistence to draw near . . .
Mountains are majestic but also so often dangerously undomestic;
Ah! What is beautiful can be so bountiful and so very inspirational,
But dangerous to the venturous, killing those willing to draw near
To what they hold dear in that same beauty that demands no duty
To die for what they can eye safely from afar, like a star in the sky;
Some beauty is mostly ghostly and simply cannot be held closely
But only admired in an almost lonely manner like what is holy . . .
Be wise in what your eyes see and the sudden rise in your heart
To claim some prize that was never meant to be possessed by you;
Admiration and appreciation does not demand your possession;
Be discerning and ever learning to calm the burning in your heart
Note: Originally penned on December 1, 2016, now being republished due to some renewed interest as well as for the enjoyment of new reader-followers. Blessings to one and all!
Tapestry of Your Life
Threads woven together to form a beautiful tapestry,
Like streams flowing together into one majestic river,
Like myriad colors brushed on the canvas is your life
At the hand of the Artisan, dear child; you are beauty
An icon of Beauty still being sculpted so statuesque,
So fret not the unfinished work; it will be completed;
You’re an amazing creation and yet still being created
By the Hand that spread the moon ‘n stars in the sky;
You are unique and lovely, yet still an unfinished art,
But when the last note is put you will be a symphony
Sung in the heavens glorious, sung by choirs of angels!
Note: First published in January of this year, offered again now due to some renewed interest as well as for the reading pleasure (and hopefully inspiration) of new followers of this blog … and anyone else who happens to drop in. Blessings to one and all!
Perspective
From which side are you looking at the mountain?
Are you drinking water from a different fountain?
Because you and I do not quite see eye to eye,
But we both cry that we’re right (in our own sight)
And this causes quite a plight that might lead us
To fisticuffs if we persist in insisting on our way
Day after day, chiefly when there’s no diplomacy
As we boastfully continue raving to hopefully win
An argument not even worth the victory,
Which is contradictory to our deeply felt feelings,
Especially as we’re reeling from the latest punch!
Might it be possible for us to change perspective?
Just for one moment, irrespective of our feelings?
Might it be possible for us to see a different point
Of view in lieu of our own, to see the other side
Of the mountain? To drink of the other fountain?
Then we might find out it was all a matter of . . .
Perspective
Battle of Heart and Mind
Your heart leads one way and your mind another,
So you confide in father, mother, sister ‘n brother
Because you don’t know what to do, when or how,
But you want to bow to the leanings of your heart,
But the sensibility of your mind takes another part,
So you start to unravel as differing advice is given,
And you can no longer clearly see virtue and vice;
Ah! Does not the heart lead the way thru the day,
While the mind binds you to stay in the banality
Of rationality, bold but so terribly cold, unfeeling?
Yet the heart often leads astray and it’s the mind
That holds you at bay within sense and sensibility;
So what do you do? Follow the pull of your heart?
Or depart from emotion in motion with the mind?
Ah! Heart and mind at war . . . and which will win?
To Be Me
How can I be other than how I am constituted?
Am I not human and in humanity thus rooted?
And writer, speaker, poet, teacher unpolluted?
Will I deny this and be something convoluted?
But I am not a plumber, engineer or drummer;
I am not a manager or trafficker or chancellor;
And I am not a cabdriver or piper or sea diver;
But I am what I am and want to be what I am,
God help me, and to be the better of what I am!
To find my fit in this bit of this world I inhabit!
And I hear a still, soft voice saying, ‘You will. . .’
And with that I cling to a hope rooted in truth,
To be all that I am meant to be for all to see . . .
To be me
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