Whose elegant words have the aroma of costly perfume
No, I never keep the darkness guessing
I simply praise God for His countless blessings
And then begin:
“God…move in the lives of men
Attack! Invade with Your love
Overwhelm the enemy with grace
(The thing he’s most afraid of)
Forgive…and save…now…today”
I’ll never put on Pharisee airs
For, leaving a slug-trail behind these uncomplicated prayers
(after exclaiming it)
Are several minutes of claiming it
It’s no three-point, master-stroke
“Look-at-me-on-the-street-corner” prayer
But it’s there
Cascading from a heart laid bare
No, I’m not ashamed of my simple prayers
“Sir Death”
A fiend alive, a beast I died
And no one dared to cry
Except a mother, old and frail
Who wiped a tear-dimmed eye
For she seen not the monster there
Laid cold upon the slab
Blue skin cut and bruised
18 holes jagged/ragged/stabbed
Chemicals had full eclipsed
A barren strand of joy
Pock-mark riddled from the needle
Crafted to destroy
Shining eyes within the boy
Had long-since left the man
Sickness fraught, a death brought on
By scarred, unsteady hands
The gentle woman whispered low
And tried to clean my wounds
But futile as one drop of rain
On tan and sandy dunes
My soul, a cloud of muddy grey
Trapped in a frame of bone
Stood long beside my lifeless body
Shaking and alone
I longed to hold the aging woman
‘Till her grief had faded
But Death looked on with fiery eyes
A spirit gaunt and jaded
“This is not permitted”
Said the ghost of blackened coal
“You had your chance, for God decreed
‘One life, one chance, one soul’
“Wasted ye the days of sun
So here, your Judgment Day
Look upon this scene awhile
Then we’ll be on our way”
Had my soul a beating heart
It surely would have broken
But sinners past have had their chance
So not a word was spoken
Wasted I the days of life
In drug-induced illusion
A creature of inflamed design
A victim of confusion
Myself I killed, more bitter still
One glaring truth had I:
This woman cherished her first-born
And wished me not to die
I went to speak but found no sound
To bring apology
Then Death had grinned his bitter grin
And sauntered next to me
“You have no voice,” he laughed
“No words are spoken by the dead
Your thoughts and deeds in life
Are words your wretched soul had said
“You’ve gazed upon this scene too long
And I must not be late
For many wait on Death’s grim hand
To intersect with Fate
The fright of sinner’s dying breath
My single joy afforded
I saunter in when nights of sin
Have yet one more aborted
“A sunrise for the living brings
The chance of God’s salvation
And yet upon their final moment
Sinners find damnation
Their life is gone, thus comes the dawn
The law of sin takes root
So Hell awaits with yawning gates
All dreams and schemes are moot”
So turning from my mother
With a grief no human knows
I motioned unto Death
That I was ready then to go
Beneath the ground my eyes beheld
A faint and orange glow
And suddenly I knew it was
The flames of Hell below
So while the fire takes my soul
I have one desperate plea
Embrace the Light, rebuke the night
And do not follow me!
“Soldier’s First War”
From the Desk of the President, Regarding our Dreaded Enemy:
“This leader is cunning and vile
A plague upon civilized nations
Morality has been defiled
But justice takes no vacation
You’ve heard conflicting details
But America, doubt it no more
Democracy never fails
And thus, we are going to war!”
My take:
My men have trained for this day
This glorious, battlefield morn
We must keep darkness at bay
It’s going to be quite a storm
Now we’re unleashing hell!
The echo of gunshot and screams
The fiery sky casts a spell
As one of my grandest dreams
Our attack is steady and strong
A massive weapon of war
I’m exactly where I belong
I will doubt it no more
My loved ones fade into mist
Then slip to the back of my soul
Love and war can’t co-exist
If I’m to survive the foxhole
But today I’m SUPERMAN!
A colossal destroyer of evil!
Opponents fall, man-by-man
The strong turn weak and feeble
Wait: one has broken the line!
Five years of training unleashed
This adversary is mine!
Yes, I have slain the beast!
But a man falls by my side
He shivers, winces and cries
He’s not but a frightened child
His eyes…his eyes…his eyes!
Life skulks away like a thief
Horrified eyes turn to glass
And I struggle with my belief
As a dozen thoughts rise and then pass:
“Is this real?”
“What am I doing here?”
“We have to keep moving.”
“I just killed that guy.”
“Would you rather it was you, lying dead in a mangled heap?”
“Breathe, Lieutenant.”
“Of course this is real. This is as real as it gets.”
“His eyes…did’ju see his eyes?”
“You’ve got work to do.”
“Does he have a family?”
“Stop. Breathe. Think.”
“This is your job, man. Let’s go to work.”
“Stains”
By Trey Weddle, written at age 12
My son knows I am hopelessly addicted to crime shows such as “Forensic Files” and “The First 48.” I had one of these types of programs on when he came in for a moment to see what I was watching, and then walked out. Five minutes later he brought me this poem. When I asked him what it was about, he said, “I was trying to think of what a killer would say if he was sitting in prison right now.” Personally, I think the second-to-last line is pure brilliance.
Stains
Will this come out?
Red on my shirt
KNIVES KNIVES KNIVES
All I think about
“I’m sorry God!”
I cry out in my sleep
I’m sorry God!
I’m sorry God!
I cry out,
“I love you God!”
You saved me from my dark covering
I will always praise you
Titles Starting
With “T”
“Tara”
By Rob and Trey Weddle, written when Trey was 10 years old.
Trey had to go to work with me one day when he was out of school, but neither his mom nor I could take off work. He brought what we call a “fun bag” (full of books, MP3 player, comics, PSP, etc.), but even with that, he was getting bored after a couple of hours. I decided to take a break, so I bought him a Dr. Pepper and a bag of peanuts and we wrote this poem.
I recall when we were young
Our hearts were free and full of fun
Movies every Friday night
“The Mummy,” “Wolfman,” “Frankenstein”
But sister, that was long ago
And only God and you and I know
That so many tears have been shed
So many nights you have bled
So many prayers have been said
For you, Tara
To see you lying there each day
So frail, my love, what can I say?
I’ll hold you ‘til the pain is gone
And pray you live to carry on
Through all this your eyes still glow
And only God and you and I know
That so many tears have been shed
So many nights you have bled
So many prayers have been said
For you, Tara
“The Ballad of Robert Lee”
I was surfing the internet for interesting poetry and found an amazing poem, first published in 1874, called “The Ballad of Judas Iscariot” by Robert Buchanan. While I would never compare my poetry to such a work of art, it nevertheless inspired me to write the following poem (along with “The Tale of Dwight McGhee”)
There was a man named Robert Lee whose crooked spine did ache
The pain was so intense some days he felt his back would break
He carried on—despite his agony—with school and work
But in the stead of festive grins he wore a bitter smirk
Nightmare recollections seemed to haunt his fitful sleep
While emptiness from all the hurt into his mind would creep
Bitterness and sadness came together as his foes
The weight of life, a catalyst for that dark road he chose
Abhorring who he had become, he said he wanted change
But happiness seemed foreign to him; laughter felt so strange
Yet he knew he couldn’t go through life with all these feelings
So from his heart he cried to God for utter, total healing
Our days are written long before our mothers give us birth
But God created everything; the sun, the stars, the Earth
Surely He would wipe away all pain without a trace!
So Robert Lee stood patiently, a smile upon his face
But lessons learned are earned and not a gift to man that’s given
Wisdom isn’t cheap, or in a heart that isn’t driven
He read in the Bible that God’s grace would see him through
So whether healing came or not, he’d change his attitude
Maybe in the place of frowning he would smile at others
Perhaps he could love his neighbors as if they were brothers
Maybe He could laugh a little warmer and more often
Perhaps it was choice—not life—that was his spirit’s coffin
So Robert Lee on bended knee did thank his God for all
For every tiny miracle which kept his mind enthralled
But also for the gloomy times, for he discovered this:
Life’s a roller coaster ride he did not want to miss!
“The Cold”
I have a strange fascination with Norway, the birthplace of black—and unblack—metal (HUGE fan of the latter, by the way). The brutal, extended winters, from my understanding, are both mesmerizing and terrifying, and this poem, along with “The Frozen Edge of Hell,” sprang forth from my great longing to visit this beautiful land so far from my own. Perhaps someday…
It’s so bitterly cold outside
Icy roads encumbered by harsh, jagged winds
A black-ice slide on a lonely street
Somewhere a homeless child dies with a frown
This weather makes me sick!
I’m ready for Spring…
I’m so bitter and cold inside
Icy stares made worse by jagged, harsh words
Foggy mind horizons
Arthritis screaming through every bone
Somewhere, like a homeless child, I die inside
This Winter makes me sick!
I’m ready for…
I don’t know
Something
"The Crimson Pen"
Oh scarlet pen!
Lead me where too few have been
Salvage nests of heinous men
Dance near enough to smell their sin
Oh mighty gift/curse!
Monkey-blood us like a nurse
Crush devilry with winged bursts
May purity craft Satan’s hearse
Oh great harbinger of soul!
When wickedness exacts a toll
Your gentle spirit plays a roll
When sonnets expeditiously extol
Oh crimson sword!
Be the flawed hand of the Lord
Where demons leave their stalls untoward
Let cadence rage against the hoard!
“The Frozen Edge of Hell”
The Dark
The Cold
If given the chance, they devour you
It’s not a season or an event
For us, it is Earth and life
Winter seeps in every pore like oxygen
We can’t escape it – have no desire to
The cold is my mother
The snow, my brother
Here we sport icicle beards and wooly parkas
As gracious words and laughter are enveloped in speak-fog
Thirty-three below zero this morning when I rose from slumber
Everyone in town knows someone who has succumbed
“My cousin” or “aunt” or “friend’s son froze to death”
“Crazy,” you mutter, shaking your Arizona head
Perhaps
But Winter is magic
Rainbow prisms reflecting off pointed, crystal trees
Reaching for the sky like pallid fire
Our world is enveloped by jagged, glacial mountains
Painting the backdrop with a majestic splendor you will never know
Like a stunningly beautiful demon
Dancing gracefully on the frozen edge of Hell
Yeah
Well
I guess if I have to explain it,
You wouldn’t understand anyway
“The House of Angelee”
I really hate writing poems like this, since I’m a father of two beautiful children, but as all artists know, when the muse begins to whisper in your creative ear, ya gotta do what’cha gotta do.
Here lies our precious Angelee
A broken, lonely girl
Buried in a summer dress
And worthless string of pearls
Her days had all been spring time
But her nights were frightened prayers
Her grandpa had abused her
Till no life in her was there
What spirit could possess a man
To do a thing as this?
Abandon sense for lunacy?
Grace evil with a kiss?
Angelee on bended knee
Would cry out to the sky
“God if you’re there, let me escape
Or please just let me die”
The old man stunk of whiskey when
His toothless grin he’d shine
“Angelee,” he’d whisper low
“Sweet darlin’ baby mine
Come give grandpa sugar” he’d slur
In his drunken state
By the time her mother found this out
<
br /> It was too late
He walked into the courtroom
Stoic, lifeless eyes of glass
Her mother thought dear Angelee
Might rest in peace at last
But the judge released him
On a technicality
The paper read, “There’ll Be
No Justice For Sweet Angelee!”
Hoping liquor would expunge
The memory of his crimes
He’d drink himself to sleep each night
To sounds of old wind chimes
In fear of coming retribution
Madness scuttled deep
Like spiders in his mind
Slow thoughts of suicide would creep
Her mother’s grief almost destroyed
A life of dreams and plans
Countless nights she’d fantasize
Of murdering that man
But when she went to kill
The architect of her nightmares
She found his body swinging
Underneath the basement stairs
At last it was her mother’s turn
To cry out to the sky
“How could God allow my precious
Angelee to die?”
Then in a dream she heard a voice
Which brought her heart to tears
It stole away her anger and it
Calmed her deepest fears
“Mama,” Angelee said to her
“God did not do this”
And then she felt a breeze
As gentle as her daughter’s kiss
“Hidden sickness drove grandpa
To do it” she explained
“Heaven cried that day –
Do you remember how it rained?
“I’m with Jesus,” Angelee said
In her angel voice
“You can die or make the most
Of life…it is your choice
Thousands more there are like me
Who die in fearful silence
I can’t die in vain!” she cried
“Stand up against the violence!”