Renovation Blues

The reno guys are here again
To fix all they’ve done wrong
They’ve been here far too many times
I hate this dance and song
Each time they come I have the hope
“This time they’ll do it right”
But have the feeling in my gut
That I’ll still have to fight
For them to paint things properly
To fix each mess they’ve made
‘Cause so far every job they’ve done
Would get a failing grade
But maybe I’m to hard on them
Perhaps I shouldn’t grouse
They’ll do it right this time, I’m sure! …
…They just blew up the house…

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An honest worship song

I cannot sing the hymns of old
with true and honest heart
the words I sing and how I feel
are paths that oft’ depart
I like to sing of rivers faced
that all’s well with my soul
“but is it well?” I have to ask
“not always” truth be told
and as for anchors holding strong
upon life’s troubled sea
it’s hard, sometimes, to trust in things
that can’t be seen by me
I must confess that I am one
whose faith is far too small
for when I’m told by God to trust
I still fear that I’ll fall
I cannot say “Lord I believe”
when doubts are still so strong
So Lord, please take my disbelief
and turn it into song:
A song of slowly growing faith
of walking with my King
Lord turn my doubting into praise
and give me faith to sing!
Yes turn my doubting into praise
and give me faith to sing!

The Peacock

the peacock struts about with tail held high
to prove his worth with ostentatious show
convincing those he can with his bold lie
that he is great, and others are below

his colors bright might seem to some to be
a thing of wondrous beauty to behold
but some who look upon him only see
an ugly thing with false veneer of gold

and those who look most closely on his form
might see that he is not, indeed, a bird
but just a donkey who, against the norm
is feathered now instead of simply furred

and though he’d have you think that he’s first class
an ass in fancy plumes is still an ass

~~

any resemblance to a particular world leader is non-coincidental and purely intended

This Poet’s Pen

one day this poet’s pen will cease to write
the well of ink within it will run dry
no more black ink upon this page of white
that day I’ll lay this pen down with a sigh

one day this pen won’t have the strength to rhyme
it won’t write metaphors or metric feet
I do not know the day nor know the time
its ink will cease to flow upon this sheet

I simply know that this is what will be:
the day will come to lay aside this pen
what lies beyond that moment, who can see?
but somehow I am sure I’ll write again

for then a pen of endless ink I’ll hold
to write my poems upon the streets of gold

Psalm of Supplication

The wicked walk with heads held high
rejoicing in the destruction of the righteous
They delight in inflicting pain
on the ones who would
do all that they can to
alleviate the pains of others
they gather in secret councils
to plot ways to do more evil

How long O LORD
will the wicked have their way?
how long will You allow them
to glut themselves
on the misery of the upright?

Come near O LORD
expose the wicked for who they are
expose their lies and bring Your divine justice

Restore the righteous
who have been unfairly trampled
for You are no lover of evil
but You take pleasure in those
who serve you

~~

written for my friends SH and DH…and for their friends KR and KR, PR, GR, and LR…and all others in their community who are suffering right now.  God knows the details better than any of us.  He holds you in his hands!

Random Poetry…”At Montana’s”

At Montana’s™,
a poem on brown
paper is rash,
for at the end
of the meal,
the poem
ends up trash

~~

a bit of “random poetry” that I wrote today at Montana’s.  I always wonder if the people who work there ever read what is written on the brown paper “table cloth”, or if it just ends up in the trash can.

A river flowed here once

A river flowed here once. Swift, some seasons
and some times more of a trickle – but yet
always it flowed. Birds came, with good reason
for it was full of fish. I’d see them get
one after another until they could
barely fly. Trees grew there too – mostly birch
with bark that would peel off – yielding a good
kindling for bonfires. And you need search
no further than that river in fall to
see the most beautiful oranges and reds
when the leaves changed colour. Each day was new:
from when we rose to when we found our beds

But dry seasons came (as dry seasons must)
Once there was a river. Now there is dust.

~~

Sharing with dVerse Poets’ Pub for Open Link Night. It’s been a while since I’ve been there…time to go back!