PRECIOUS POETRY: April 2019

The Poet's Bio

I am a poet today, but I am and we are people

not needing any other labels

for labels will only divide

Poetry is the soul's language

speaking truth that won't be uttered at the family dinner table

or around the water cooler at work

We are the creation of an Alive and Adoring God

but we are also a product influenced and moulded by our time and culture

It is my dream and my hope and a promise that I would be freed

from the second and be embraced by the first

Poet's Note: Today is April 28, 2019. I am scheduled to share some of my poetry at the Edmonton Poetry Festival. I wrote this today to "define" myself...an impossible task at best, but I made the effort. Any photo shared to "define" me, needs to have water in it and moving water with the light's reflection on the ripples of the surface. And see not scum floating on top, but seeds spread on the surface of the water with the hope that one day some will find a home downstream and then give life to a beautiful array of wildflowers. This is a picture of me.

Saturday's Sunrise

Can you take a moment to imagine

What it was like that Saturday

The morning after all hell broke loose

And all their hopes had passed away

The day before they all saw him

Die on a Roman cross

The man who was God had breathed his last

And all their faith was lost

I imagine a beautiful sunrise

The birds singing a beautiful song

Do you really think creation stopped

Just because their world went wrong

I imagine the silence in the streets

Of Jerusalem that day

Just made it a lot easier

To hear God’s music play

His friends and followers may have given up

Lost hope and welcomed despair

They didn’t remember what their Master had said

They forgot the hope He shared

Sunday and it’s empty grave

Was tomorrow, a day away

How could they gather strength enough

To make it through Saturday

Holed up in their attics

For fear of begin found

They didn’t see the sunrise

Or the hope it brought around

Only when tomorrow would come

And their Friend in their midst would stand

Only on that Sunday

Would those disciples understand

Today his followers honor two days

His dying and his rising

And chose to bypass Saturday

Its value not realizing

Saturday is the place we live

After death but waiting for life

Losing hope but needing it

Trying not to drown in our strife

But in our loss and in our despair

Can we look to the morning horizon

And see there Saturday’s sunrise

And the promise of new dawn

Poet's Note: It's Easter Saturday and this is the sunrise I saw while I was in the hot tub this morning. I started to imagine a sunrise that Saturday morning. I don't want to believe that God would have waited until Sunday to pour out his beauty. I would like to believe that there was a beautiful sunrise that morning as there was every morning, giving us something to hope for.

In the Shadow of the Songs

What can I do when my heart has a verse

And I want it to be heard

But no melody, no tune comes forth

All that’s breathed is the spoken word

I’m a poet in the twenty-first century

Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong

Who takes time these days to read a poem

When it’s so much easier to key up a song

I wasn’t born in the time when great poets had voice

I was born when rock stars reigned

When keyboards, guitars and amps drowned out

The verse that the heart proclaimed

So I sit in the shadow of the songs

And give voice to the breaths in my mind

Wondering if someone will notice

Or will this poet be left behind

Some say a poem is an unfinished song

But what song is complete with no poem

Yet the world builds mansions for music and sound

And words have a hut for a home

So what if all my lyrics had music

What if all my poems could sing

Would they be worth some worldly attention

Would then every ear be listening

If I’m a poet meant to be planted here

Then let the words pour out from my brain

Can I honour the poets of centuries past

And help bring poetry to life again

Poet's Note: Written April 16, 2019. The week before the Edmonton Poetry Festival. I have never been to the Edmonton Poetry Festival, but if I get a chance to drop in on an event or two, maybe I will find that poetry is not a lost art. But I still find myself sitting in the shadows wondering where the words will take me.

The Story Teller

The evening of the day had come

The crowds were all but gone

There was no one left but Jesus

To enjoy creation’s song

The water on the lake had stilled

The birds were resting there

A smell, a sweet aroma

Had come to fill the air

He thought of how the day had been

And the stories he had shared

A heart cry to his Father came

“Abba, when do they start to care

When will their hearts be opened

To the truth You long to show

Will they see beyond the mysteries

One day, will they know

I long for them to understand

To ask me to explain

But most are stubborn, uninterested

Most just walk away

There’s more their blinded hearts can’t see

Yet they struggle not to learn

I’m here to introduce the truth

It’s me, the Living Word

Abba, not all are like that

I’m thankful for the few

That press in to know me

That want to know You too

It’s the crowds that hear the stories

But it’s the few that stayed behind

They will share with me, my wisdom

Poet's Note: Written June 25, 2008 during Adult Camp at Hastings Lake Bible Camp. Dan Berg was sharing in the service that night and asked me if I would recite the poem I wrote for my Dad “Crossing Jordan”. I didn’t want to recite the poem. It was only six months since Dad had passed away and I didn't feel like walking through the sadness again that night. I asked him that if I could write another poem before the service if I could recite that one instead. He agreed and I went to the lakeside with paper and pen and this poem is what came out. I remember a woman there that was amazed that I could come up with something so fast. Little did she know just how much I sweated to get some inspiration. I asked my Chief Source of Inspiration for help and Holy Spirit came through for me.

The picture is taken in the very spot at the camp where I composed this poem

Attitude

My day was shot when I woke up this morning

The boss called me in without a warning

My car wouldn’t start and I missed the bus

And all I could do was holler and cuss

As I walked into work, I found out today

The computers were down so I wouldn’t get paid

There’s a new guy at work that I have to train

But he can’t do a thing, and so I complain

I grab a buddy and we go for lunch

But all I do is pout while I munch

By two o’clock I’ve lost every friend

And everyone’s hoping the day will end

By five o’clock everyone’s gone

And I’m left wondering just what went wrong

Then I see a poster with an interesting fact

“It’s not what you’re given, it’s how you react.

The world around you can come crashing down

But you can face it with a smile instead of a frown

You can’t change the world when you’re in a bad mood

Poet's Note: Today I am sharing a piece I wrote over twenty years ago. I was perusing my archives today and found it and felt the message worth some megabytes on the internet. I think I wrote this during my dairy farming days It's fictional story but the message is true. I highlighted the last part in red, because I can imagine Jesus saying this to me when I get cranky.