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Man's Spirit Is The Lamp of God
Searching His Deepest Self
Prov. 20:27



The following poems in this, the most recent edition of Oil and Flame, came about as the result (I think) of contemplating the changing of the season.
Another poet once said
"The woods decay, the woods decay, and fall..."
What a way of stating the obvious. Like the woods, the grass, and all other living things, our life is as the Scripture says, "But a Vapor, that appears for a moment, then vanishes away".
Our mortality slaps us in the face around the holidays. We see our loved ones growing older. We see ourselves growing older. And it's not a pretty picture...
And then it is.
"Welcome to the human race, the glory and the sadness..."
--Geoff Mann--
Read along as I contemplate my own little slice of "the glory and the sadness"......





October Poem

dry autumn leaves
blow
brittle
orange,amber brown, yellow

see sky again
thru bark smooth limbs
and the first bald eagle
returned today
stood tall,
proud
white head shining
like a crown
in the morning sun

perched alone blowing in the brisk breeze

and in this clear
moment
life is so good
so pure
so great a gift...
I desire
writing
prodigous
chronicles of praise
that set forth
the awe,the wonder,the majesty
of this
Your
vast,golden,noble creation




Family Growing Old

all of them are aging
their faces gray and wrinkle
nearly as fast
as the passing
of my childhood

those forever days
were but an instant
christmas to christmas
seemed eternity

memories flood
then
slip my mind
forever to the slipstream of
"was" and "then"

their sweat, toil, sacrifice
now replaced by
liesure, television, medication

I feel swept in a current
toward a falls
madly paddling reverse
as I approach
their slow
certain
dying

these thoughts haunt
surreal as
the eerie drone
of a funeral parlor organ

so much to say
and I don't
so much to do
and I won't
and I don't know why...




I Must Decrease

mind aschism
a maelstrom of dichotomy
each noble reflection
and chronicle of praise
squelched at once
by the endless
black thought catalog
of violence
dope
porn....

that Beautiful Figure
sweetly
bleeding on my behalf
such hope to give
such Grace

hold attention
but a moment
thought drift to
cooling these plow blistered hands
bury my father
hoard my riches
build new barns...

bend by degrees
to the magnetic
sway
of self




Midwest Daydream

midwestern daydream....

lakeside listening as
the planes and barges motors
become lazy yachts
blackbird call
become gulls
white
light
lilting
climb, dive, climb
muddy pond wave
slap like tide against
salty
shell sand shore...

sycamores and cottonwoods
sway like palm trees
crawfish holes a gecko paradise
then this Illinois chill
and I wake




Poetry

I steal away
to write
to vent
to feel something pure
free
unencumbered
by demand or expectation

some artful thing
some muse
some slow spiritual something
that will
draw me away
from the gelled, frozen, tedium
to remind me that God exists
to help me remember I'm alive...




Invisible Funeral

sometimes feel hidden
like an onlooker
like a stealth witness
at a mass funeral
where
no one knows
they're dead...

they continue to speak
laugh
curse
smoke cigarettes
oblivious to their
slow
certain erosion
their decay
their fearful judgement

they philosophize
plagiarize
allegorize
get hypnotized
their dead souls
attached
like mold
to
their stiffening
dwellings of dust
hardening like
glue
on a mummys' wrap...




Obscured By Clouds

obscured by clouds
Your beauty
my black eyes filter out
the Light...

impenetrable
the high wall
of
mystery
the mist
that surrounds all
You are to me
a wanderer
a drifter
whose mind is
want
to stray wide
and far from home




Romans 7 Again
(Contemplating Lost)

I hate myself
my weakness
you
them
I hate sin
then I love it
I hate sin
then I do it
I hate fear, guilt
God?


yes?
no?
sometimes?


If I could tear away these shackles
these addictions
would I?
I don't know.....




Weary Woman At A Stoplight

her car is black
and her face is hard
and weathered
like a worn tire
discarded by the highway
and her mood seems gray
like the smoke she blows
out her cracked
car window...

her dreariness it seems
a symptom of this
age of
glut
and liesure....




Talking Heads

nothing real
this fluff
these smiles
these plastic pleasantries....

these cottony soft demeanors
a cloak for the barbs
the filth
the knife
so terrified of truth
that we generate images
as quickly
as we change the channels




No Silence

there must be sound
noise
distraction

within the silence terrifying
lurk ghost thoughts of
future,past
guilt,death,
God...

troubled mind craving
to be numbed by
the 24 Hour
conspiracy of information.....




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For Interesting Christian Poetry Go To The Link Below...

The New Review of Christian Poetry