Great-GrandfatherI never knew the man whose book I held,Those pages filled up with his tidy scrawlAnd steady characters. The hand that heldThe pen and wrote as deep as he was tallLives on, beyond the passing time and pallOf death that he bore witness as a youthIn wartorn times, both pierced by loss and truth.They tell me that his gift, which lived in lines,Was now in me, three generations passed.Alas, would that I match his skilled designsNot forged by intellect, but heartaches past!And yet I sense his anguish did not last;His hope could not be contained in pages,But looked beyond for joy in coming ages.
MysteryOn rushing thermals hidden from the eyeThe eagle soars, and who could know its way?In circling, swooping, or in gliding high,Its sojourn stretches on throughout the day.A mystery too deep to fully say:The way an eagle flies up in the sky.In crags too cavernous to truly mapBy anything except the rattlesnake,It sidewinds til it finds a proper gapTo slither in, and gives its tail a shake.The way a snake crawls on a rock, perhaps,Is quite the mystery too hard to break.As waves rock past, and breezes high up blow,Its creaking timbers amble towards the shore.And borne by currents in their unseen flow,The wanderlust of mankind can exploreThe mystery. I cannot claim to knowThe way of ships on sea, by sail and oar.Is it in sparkling eyes that melt the heartOr grace in words that paint her fair in fair?Regardless how a romance finds its startOr end, the way two souls unite to share,The way of men and maidens, how they fareIn love or hate is mystery in art.
Sonnet LXVIIOp. 27, no. 7Poor BeautyWhy should poor beauty indirectly seekIts exaltation in the lives of men?That which is second-rate when at its peakCan hardly satisfy us, now or then.And yet it generates its own allure—A refuge near, not marked by miles nor leagues—And promises to make us feel secureIf we should dip into its base intrigues.We must resist, for these are passing pleasures,Ensnaring all who fall into its honeyed traps,Where adequacy masquerades as treasuresToo easily tumbling into waiting laps.Upon this truth, please think on it and rest:The good is oft the enemy of the best.
My Heart, Your HomeIn the weary stillness of my homeI thought of you, and found such solaceWithin your every prayer. My heart could roam,My mind could wander where a promiseBloomed on stormy waves like ocean foam.I thought of you, and found such solaceSweetly, how you soothed my suffering!My mind could wander where a promiseWaits to make my life an offering,With winter's clutches weak and clawless.Sweetly, how you soothed my sufferingBloomed on stormy waves like ocean foam!I wait to make my life an offeringIn the weary stillness of my homeTo thank you for your heartfelt comforting.
This Nagging Unrestrestless in the nightthough black fills my sightand sleepless during the daythough wearied withinwounds from closest kinburn deeper than I might say
CapstoneBuilt with power by the living stones,Stones with which His temple's strongly built.Rejected once as worthless to the worldly,Worldly standards now by God rejected.Crowned with glory, Christ the capstone stands,Stands atop the stones He newly crowned.
LaterAlthough the fleeting time is far too fastFor all but promises to tell you more,I'll hold on, that when busy days have passedI know what words to speak, those which I sworeTo tell you for our peace to be your crown.When conversations become commonplaceBetween us, then these paths we're walking downWill finally converge, and face to faceWe'll find no end to this sweet bond we tend.
Beyond WordsI'm crushed because for once in years of writingI cannot find the words to truly speakOf grief and heartbreak in the heighteningOf baseless accusations. I strive and seekFor words of comfort that might trickle outBetween the cracks of mouth and mind and heart,But wholly insufficient, sick in doubtMy inner being is, in whole and part.But in this wasteland full of pain-wrecked words,I turn to those that lived since ancient timesIn print, but in eternity are heardTo praise the One who knows the earth's design.My mouth is silenced, but His Spirit's touchWill lead my soul to songs and Scripture much.
The Looming TalkI'm walking down the hallways of my mindAnd opening each door to the beyond:Each hinge is creaky, o please be not unkind,Whatever lurks behind, let not the bondsThat tied us close be severed by this choiceI make for what the will of God commands.I pray you would not lose nor lift your voiceIn harshness; in anger do not raise your handsTo strike me, for my heart would break in twain.This heart is filial in piety,But as it is this Christ-call must be mainAnd center in my heart. O, please end quietly:I speak not of the conversation near,But of my soul to rest in God, not fear.
O Thromos Kai O VrahosΟ Δρόμος Και Ο ΒράχοςΤον Δρόμο δεν τον βλέπουνε,μα εγώ τον περπατάω,Στη σκια του σκια δεν έχουνεκι αν βάρος πώς πετάω;Δρόμοι που δεν υπάρχουνε,Βράχοι που δεν πατιούνται,Εχθροί όσοι και νά'ρθο
The Pool of LoveWe've lost the art,I do believe,Of taking to heartWhat there is to perceiveAnd contemplatingAll the greater thingsMyself, I'm beratingFor what the noise bringsBecause I let it be so;I let the noise in.To be silent, a virtue;Distraction, a sin.How silly I amTo not simply beAs much a mark of follyAs of sheer humanity.But there is more than meAnd the world that I knowMore than all reality:I feel this to be so.There is deeper than usYet so far aboveThere is smaller than sand,Yet an ocean: it's LOVE!For whatever you sayHowever you might disagreeLove is real and it's pure,Made for you and for me.But upon further thought,It is us, you see,We, foolish humans,That Love made us to be!As the clowns that you are,You may still call me a foolFor comparing humans to fishAnd Love to a pool.You see, fish make no senseWithout somewhere to swim,Whereas Love is the waterThat we must learn to swim in.As fish, so to speak,We would have no lifeWithout wat
I will Remember your Namebien.. crees tu en los deja-bu? la común adolescente Ember McLane no lo sabía.. hasta que, en su hermosa adolescencia, conoció al hombre de sus sueños... ella estaba feliz.. enamorada.. como quien no presta atención a la vida.. solo en su burbuja de dulzura con forma de corazón (que cursi :S xD) a una edad.. quizá un poco más avanzada.. habiendo pasado toda su adolescencia con el hombre que le provoca mariposas en el estómago, un oscuro septiembre la envuelve, cuando ella había entregado todo su corazón, se da cuenta que su vida se derrumba.. como un juego perdido... Ese gran hombre, la traiciona.. se da cuenta que no es ÉL... sólo una pobre imitación de hombre. Su vida cayó.. la depresión la dominó..........Ember es un fantasma... en el mundo de los humanos buscando a esa persona. Una serena noche, en el parque del mundo de los hombres, se encuentra, sentada en un fuente, Ember.. es
GGoodness is ever in your hands,God of Israel, who standsGuard to watch the watchmen byGates on earth and up on high.Grant us mercy, O my Lord,Guide us into one accord.Great is he, who constellations trace,Glory to the one who pours out grace.
Please sign up
or login to post a critique.