poem

This is a photograph by Chelsea Francis that features the lower half of a woman tying her shoes.

The Meek Shall Indulge (a poem)

She said it like I perceived what she was
talking about: “the meek shall indulge.”
She then bereaved how meek she was,
how weak she was, how unique she was.
I then conceived how chic she was,
how sleek she was, how freak she was;
I heard her – and I couldn’t believe she was
talking about another lover she’s indulged.

Advertisements
This is an image of a hollow tree.

More or Less (a poem)

Is anybody right anymore?
Can anybody say the right thing anymore?
Can anybody do the right thing anymore?
Can anybody stand up for the right thing anymore?

More or less.

Will anybody fight anymore?
Can anybody keep the fight up anymore?
Can anybody let the fight down anymore?
Can anybody stand up and fight back anymore?

More or less.

Is anybody light anymore?
Can anybody leave the light on anymore?
Can anybody turn the light out anymore?
Can anybody let their own light shine anymore?

Moral-less.

This is an image of a modern soldier's helmet.

The Helmet of Salvation

For the helmet of salvation that we don

and the trouble that we have to keep it on,

it’s no wonder that we falter

with the mind of a defaulter

when the hope to rest in Paradise is gone.

This is an image of a calendar.

I Hate The Calendar

I hate the calendar.
It hangs in the assumption
that something will happen.
not that it has to happen,
nor that it needs to happen,
          but it will happen anyway,
          no matter what I say.

I hate the calendar,
not because I fear commitment,
but I despise the thought of obliging myself
to something that doesn’t pertain
to my present state –
          tomorrow can worry about itself;
          I have enough to worry about today.

I hate the calendar.
Every day is another tilted red cross
that I bear. It’s a vibrant
intersection of lifelines
and deadlines –
          everything I can do in this life
          and how long I have to do it.

I most hate the calendar
because it answers
the question of my mortality.
It screams from every corner
YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED!
          I know I’ll die;
          I don’t need a calendar to remind me.


Here’s a poem I wrote back in 2009; it has since been revised and exists now as I believe it should.

This image features someone resting their head on a friend's soldier.

Encourager

Some people think about the Holy Spirit,

what others think about a haunting ghost – 

a soul without a body for a host

that makes you jump as soon as you can hear it;

what’s bad is when we want to follow near it,

we think of all the things we hate the most – 

and Satan uses our mistakes to boast

in that he’s used our hate to make us fear it.

 

This isn’t who the Spirit is to me.

He’s not some ghost that’s creeping from the grave

and hangs my worry o’er me like a knife;

He’s the remnant of the Trinity

that wants to quicken me and make me brave,

encourage me t’embrace eternal life.


These are just some of my thoughts of the Holy Spirit expressed in an Italian Sonnet.