As the Tale Closes

There was a young lad, whose life in a book, was written every day, with every choice which he took. The young boy was alone, and as he walked through the world, turning aside, he knew not what to do.

"I know," he did say, "I shall find me a man who can write in this book, and can change here my stance. Not alone any longer, but with great deeds and wonders, friends, and family, and all which twas asunder." But as he searched through the land, as hard as he looked, he did not find any who could write in his book.
"Woe is me," said the boy, his frail frame all dilute, "surely never shall I see rest, I dare compute." And as he sat on a rock, melancholy and irresolute, there happened a thing which he did not portend, and it made him jump with great joy in the end. "What is this?" he said, feeling 'round in his pocket, "I do say I've found here a pen, why my rockets." And indeed it was so, twas a pen of fine make; it had a black night-like sheen, it was a brand of top rate.
"With this pen," he said, "I might write here my story, if others may help, and give me consolatory." And with that, he sat down and began to write. And as he wrote, a man came to him there, and he helped to write down all things 'twere fair. Such a great man he was, and yet more was he so; 'twas God himself, who made the ink flow. And by that man's advice, the young boy became man, and continued to write, to read and to laugh. And at the end of his life, and as his tale was to close, he put down his pen and then he arose. He thanked the great man, for all he had done, and smiling the man held him as the ink ceased to run. And thus his book was ended.

Lifewater

As the reposed water comes flowing, in blessing down
In haste from the gleaming spigot it goes, effusing itself all
around

One respites to wonder and ponder such a thing, such a splendid motif of life

And many a people do wonder at best how such a thing did arise

In the piny mountains, and in the desert bleak, there is one thing which is keen

That life abounds where the water is best, and it thrives where there's plenty to be found

Water and life, life and water, such things are quite very strange, and carefully concealed, and cloaked in mystique,
that one may not know all which is 'round

Many repine, now agin to days yonder, and attempt to dissuade one from fact

For indeed water is the best drink one could have
By all means it is life to be had.

Passing Days

As the day waxes long, and the night runs dry
There are several games with which to pass the time

And as the time goes by and it grows out long
One might even stop and sing a song

And the vicissitudes of our younger years
When they come to an end, and they pass in tears

We still have one thing with which to solace our life
We can pass on our ways, and give our respite.

Light

Light flows slowly, in the door
By the windows, through dreary floor

In by the Sun, the brightest of orbs
Down from the Savior, the Lord of lords

Liquid light, so crisp and refreshing
Streaming down, ever sweet and delicately

It cheers my heart, and it solaces my grief
Such unhallowed grief as with one is confronted by in the dark.

It may shine brightly in the sight
But it is a wondrous scintillating beacon of hope in the darkest of nights

And every man shall know it right
They shall come and seek the light.

Mirror By the Wall

Blessed mirror by the wall
Gleaming bright and standing tall

It clearly speaks and reveals in candor all
The objects of grief and things to enthrall

If there be a spot, it is clearly shown
If there be grace, it is radiantly made known

The mirror which does tell truth and droll
Blessed mirror by the wall.

Lamentation of Woe

Indeed, as in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, there are in this world much and many exorbitantly and dreary cases of melancholy and deplorable, intensely regrettable sadness in this broken world. Such as this bear. It, by its mien, its appearance, its countenance, could in the essence of its inner disposition be likened to that of the creature in Mary Shelley's well known classic. The creature, created by a man, and shunned by mankind for his antipathy which was bestowed and endowed upon him by his sinful creator. The creature longs to feel love and emotion from any soul other than his own whom he has learned so much about in his short life. But by the grotesque composure of his countenance and stature, he is expounded and expelled. There are doubtless many such "creatures" in our world. Not congruent, perhaps. By no means congruent, but similar in many ways are the creatures of our world. Men, women, children, young men and women in their youthful times who must learn the extent and throe of the perpetual and harsh reality of life. Life, in its essence, as it exists today, is filled with sorrow. There is joy. Much and exorbitant joy is to be had in one's life; however, there is painful, odious sorrow to augment such times. But it is not all bad. I lament thee sorrow, but I do not destroy it nor say that the world is better without it. For at times, the house of mourning is greatly superior to the house of mirth. For it is sorrow which inspires kindness, and compassion in our world. Thus is the great antipathy of pain, and yet also the great redemption of it--love. Shelley has not presented her readers with merely a thriller or a horror story, although her tale is both of these things, in part. She has produced a classic, in lamentation of the deplorably morose condition of woe upon the earth.

A Sapling

As the bamboo slowly grows, its verdant leaves effusing out
into the drafty room
And as it stands at angle in glass, and drinks up time and sand

The children pass it, and they smile at that,
That a shoot would grow in a jar

And as I see them with their globular eyes, with their countenances all luminous in glow

I think about the men and women which stand, just beneath the earth and stone.

For when one plants a child in fertile loam,
There is no knowing what will grow.

Be it a shoot, or be it an oak, or be it a redwood sequoia
Let us be content and nurture such folk, for it is they who shall grow in the world.

The Beauty of the Art

The Beauty of the Art

As the young boy sat bemoaning, and repining in his repose, he chanced a glance upon the shelf. Upon the shelf, so drab and dreary, there sat a sculpture, all bright and glittery. It illuminated the entire abode, it gave him ideas and it gave him hope. It was a dolphin of crystal make, and it lay in mid flight, as on a fiery azure lake of sea. It was a jewel full of light, and a fresh start for the lad, a radiant sight for all who beheld. And as he looked upon its wondrous face, he pondered the beauty of art, and with all of its ways.

The Steps Near the Mountain of Life

The steps of life run endlessly 'round
Up into the mountains does the staircase resound

And when one aptly marks his place,
And observes his lot down by the gate

It may seem as though stairs and mountain shall not move
For any campaign or endeavors with tools

But Christ has said to his Disciples and men
That if in faith and by God they say
To the monstrous mounts to get hence from a place
That indeed the mountains shall rise and leave

So when you come by the Steps of life, and you gaze at the mountains, majestic in sky

Know that in Christ such mountains shall hence,
If in faith you say it, It surely shall commence.

Checkmate

Checkmate

The King had tried, but to vain, his every trick
He had but nothing left. Though deftly swung in blow and parry
Doughty King, Valiant King--He now could make no gain.

The battle was lost, he was much hard pressed
Enemy like rats amassed on every side
The King, his passion and ardor spent, he knew 'twas time to die.

The war had been arduous, and lengthy to say least
But throughout every battle, the King had met the time
But the noble King, indefatigable though he was
'Twas not omnipotent, there's only One who is such.

But here at the end of his long and chivalrous life
His kingdom gone, and at the end of the knife

He knew that he had been but a few steps too late
And now he accepted it--for it 'twas now Checkmate.

The Sleeping Dusk

As the Sun brightly sails down agin the West
I can hear the lark, sweetly singing light

And as the amber gold of dawn effuses to night
I can see picturesquely to days beyond.

And this brightness which is sailing out a fore me It portends to me that vicissitudes are not so rash
It portrays to me the wondrous scintillations
That only spring from God's omniscient hands.




And as the fiery Sprite doth luminate the heavens
And as it exhorts us one and all to look above

One cannot help but wonder at its beauty
And think of its Creator and His love.

The Vicissitudinal Direction of Time

Often times, in multifarious boughts of reverie, as often as when one dreams great dreams, quite certainly many an individual has come to the point where if one could take hold of the forthcoming hours of their lives, and keep them fast, and catch each moment firmly in their grasp so as to allay the ruefulness of their woefully lamentable and laborious states of mind and toil, it is portendable that there would be no minutes or hours left free of any person's hands, no matter how inadvertent or unattentive they may be. For while in theory many would ardently deny such a proposition, it remains easily within the disposition of the general population that they are much inclined to acquire better use of their time. For the doughty, valient worker who desires to exceed and excel in the various facets of life set agin to them, time is the chief plenipotentiary in which they use and invest most of their resources.
Time. Such a thing as one might wish all too vainly to be a thing consisting of static matter, of most predictable substance as which one might be able to receive ample remuneration for all their traversing and ungenial labor.
But such a concept of the object of time is obstinantly and painfully ridiculous, for indeed one of the forefront and perpetual motifs which describe it is the vicussitudinal nature of the passage thereof.
No man or woman by simple guesses or calculation can portend with absolute irrevocability or infallibility what shall ever come to pass. For because of the vicissitudinal nature of time, what may seem likely or imperative to occur may be exactly unequivocal to the actual event in time.
One would be well counseled and would be advantageous in retaining a sound composure in refraining from boasting from the scintillation of any day which has not yet passed the horizon.
For indeed, though poignant, it is that very fact which we must capitulate ourselves to:
The Vicissitudinal Direction of Time.

The Windows

Windows are a peculiar case

A pane of glass, it makes one think.

If one could ever understand, the way the skies do leap and span

Then maybe we might know our part, and think more often and ponder with spark.

As I sit and watch the daylight shine, as it rolls in to merrily chase away the night, I sit and wonder if all my days, I ever truly knew the day.

Have I known this archaic land? Can one ever understand?

The eyes are luminous, and through their whole,

They form a window to the soul.

And in this window, you see our land. You see the trees and skies and hand

The hand of God has been placed here

It's clearly seen, in the window there.

The windows of our land.

The Globe

The Globe

As I ponder, as I wait, and consider every scale with every weight, I peruse often times upon the idea, of what our world might be, if every day as we lived our ways, we would think beyond our dreams.

If we thought of the globe, such a timeless classic, and understood truly one tiny fact; if we clearly knew how incredibly insignificant we were, and how great our vast world was at that.

If only we saw how little we looked, from up beyond skies high above; if we saw all our lives as they genuinely were lived, then perhaps we might know how to die.

Snow

Snow falling
Drifting out
Drifting swiftly
Scintillating and stout

Frangible, wet
Unobtainable; Hard
The Fire sits and wonders

Quiet now
Obscure;
Coldly Dark
Mourning as a Winter Lark

The Snow has Fallen