A Poets World

Behold Eden, the emerald gem poured in the hands of Adam;
The beauty unspoiled; the pearl of God’s perfect creation.
Behold now the cancer of man; a tear shed by the Ancient of Days.
How deeply your Creator is grieved and forever saddened.

Behold Eden, the garden of everlasting fruit.
From the fountains of Pison and Gihon, the water of life you draw.
Have I not given my creation even the gold of Havilah?
Can my perfect provision you ever refute?

Behold Eden, the crown of God’s glory and the birth of man’s shame.
You curse with the name Mother Earth and defile the soil with your brother’s blood.
The stain of sin could not be washed even in the waters of Noah’s flood.
Through the serpent’s words you trusted deceit and forever cursed my name.

Where is your Eden today? Where did your Paradise go?
You’ve covered the light of day in a haze of filth and your towers of urban blight.
From the light of my eternal glory you hide in the shadows of coming night.
The waters of life turned toxic waste from your rivers now churn and flow.

Behold Eden, the gates now closed. Do you wonder may I ever return?
Through the canon of ancient text my words can light your path.
The time is now to acknowledge my Son and avoid the coming wrath.
Behold Eden, the path is narrow but the way clear to discern.

A summer sun sets the end of September,
on days most people will never remember.
An old man broken and bent,
kneels and ponders what his life has meant.

His cane helps him rise on crippled limbs,
as the setting sun begins to dim.
For him there are few tomorrows;
only Summer’s end and yesterday’s sorrows.

His days are often filled with pain.
As the sun goes down he stretches his cane
to walk along the Autumn trees
with withered limbs and falling leaves.

Eighty summers have long since past
and this final summer will be his last.
Yet he has no regrets as he walks this path.
Up toward Heaven his eyes are cast.

Things unseen and hoped for
is where he has placed his trust.
I ask…are we prepared as he
to walk along those autumn trees?

The brewer stokes a coal fire on a cold and wet winter day.
Where  better to gather and solve the world’s woes,
than that old stone inn by the bay?

A foreigner in circumstance, yet this place says “welcome home”.
We were young in a place of ages past.
Outside the window snowflakes danced,
from a long barren Alder shadows cast.

The heart of poets and Cymric pride belongs to this ancient land
of rolling brooks, hills so green and castles oh so grand.

Yards away a white sea churns as it crashes against the rocks.
White gale warning, sailors mourning, storm clouds forming so black and gray.

Yet here in the inn the hearth is warm,
the bitter smooth, the clock seems naught to tick.
Winter’s blast in that time long past seems as yesterday.

From the kings keep along the hills our quiet village lay.
Cymru I shall ne’er forget that old stone inn by the bay.

At the edge of a quiet village lay
an old stone church left to decay.
No stained glass or pews left to remind
of Sabbath hymns and prayers divine.

Memories linger in the rising mist…

A lonely oak reaches out to the sky
through a steeple crumbled over years gone by.
Thorn and weed nearly obscure
moss covered stones where spirits lure.

Memories linger in the rising mist…

Engraved remembrance now faded and worn
mark the place where beloved wept and mourned.
It seems so lonely on this moonlit night
the sky so black; the stars so bright.

Memories linger in the rising mist…

Nearly 200 and fourscore years past
a soldier came home from war at last
to marry his cherished fiancée
At the alter where crumbled stones now lay

Memories linger in the rising mist…

Among those stones which weeds now hide
the soldier and bride lay side by side.

Memories linger in the rising mist…

On this journey I’ve feared my brother’s wrath.
I’ve earned it; a son of deceit, a son of scorn.

Has the almighty favored this wayward child?
Will my brother slay me in this eastern wild?
I pray for my brother’s mercy.
I pray for my master’s grace.
I feel His presence and seek His face.
A face no mortal can ever see.

My servants I’ve sent on missions of fear.
Now I wait for my end to draw near.
I am fearful and sorely lost.
I have gained my inheritance at a terrible cost.
Only my Father can heal this loss.

Your brother is coming wretched man. He is coming for you.
My camp is divided and my beloved waits across the brook.
I return to take my last stand. This is my battle.
A battle in time at Mahanaim, the camp of the host.

In the darkness of night I awoke in a fog.
Powerful hands clutch me, mocking my fear.
Could one so weak and wretched presume survival?
Stand and face me deceiver! Acknowledge my arrival!
Why the Almighty should favor you is a mystery to man.
If you survive this battle you may understand.

Throughout the night in the cold sweat of fear, I wrestled this man.
I wrestled with the truth of my pitiful existence.
I wrestled against His power as surely I wrestled with the will of my Lord.

In the mocking light of dawn this stranger touched my hip.
I felt the pain as I sensed the end and slowly began to slip.

But as I fought, I clung with determination. This will not be for naught. Who are you and what has this battle brought?

Could this pitiful soul gain your blessing in this?

Seek your brother, seek your Lord, for you oh Israel have found favor with God and reconciliation with your brother.

From armchairs in the shade of day old warriors pine their youth
But young men bear the toil and fear of defending hope and truth.

When foolish leaders go to war on issues not so clear,
It’s those so young who pay the price
The price of death, pain and fear.

For what? Blood, death, revenge…

These are the ways of evil men still living in centuries past.
They fear the growing blackness of the shadow that truth will cast.

When the tortured victims of needless war lay dead in foreign streets
Who is the victor that can declare we’ve suffered no defeat?

For what? Vengeance, peace, justice…

Only when men will turn to truth will wars begin to fade.
Then our young can share the joy in the world which we have made.

On northern shores on blackest nights
In ages long since past
There were sentinels watching, with their lights
Waiting, warning standing fast

Many sailors gave their lives
In their folly not to heed
There were widows made from loving wives
Charts of shoals they did not read

I’m here, I’ve warned you. Turn back to sea
I’ve shone my light I’m here
It’s cold, it’s dark, it’s death or me
Off this course you now must veer.

For Centuries I have stood here true
faithful strong and seasoned
For this I now receive my due
An empty cold museum.

Don’t turn out the lights…