Shepherd's Call (poem)

In the darkness their souls wait, longing for the herald’s call,

A man of weakness finds the lamp and swallows candle, wick and all,

A light breaks forth between his ribs, encompassing his body whole,

The sound of peace flows from his lips in language foreign to his soul,

The souls in darkness hear his news and see the shining light,

Some run to him and join his cause; to others he’s too bright,

Choirs of holy saints now sing of wonders yet to come,

 Yet souls still in the darkness flee and hate chorus sung,

Though some I weep to mention now, who thought they walked the way,

Have kept the darkness far to near, their hearts have gone astray,

Yet still there’s hope, the master’s near, His light and peace to share,

The souls in darkness can still come, and receive their Father’s care.

Poem

Darkness roaring, swirling, surrounding, but yielding to the light,

The Brilliance of the sky breaking through the sorrows of days past,

Hopeful dreams found after so many years of longing for new sight,

A joy once invisible now seen in that unbelievable contrast,

Clouds reveal what is seen by the yearning heart,

From the black fog emerging figures now appear,

What was lost can now finally restart,

A new adventure on a new frontier.

(I wrote this a bit ago inspired by this photo I took.) 

'Broken but not Destroyed'

Solitudes back breaking labour,

Meant for both prisoner and stranger,

Despised by those always together,

Has found its way to me forever?

A peace long desired, perpetually broken,

Love's poem departed, is no longer spoken,

The land bares our stories that lay in the grave,

Written like books, on forest and glade,

Etchings on oak tree, forgotten by all,

Two immortal names carved, distant and small,

Joy found in moments, destroyed by dismay,

Wind blowing memoirs, air gone astray,

Love once known despised,

Tears fall down from my eyes,

Heart once struck by an arrow,

Broken in two by new sorrow,

A Bed full of comfort, is swollen with weeping,

Solitary confinement, in captivity sleeping,

Time healer of wounds appears to be broken,

Vows vanish with death and are no longer are spoken,

Comforters come but broken like me,

Rip open wounds and gaze as I bleed,

Together we're empty alone unfilled,

Sleep now a saviour unconsciously instilled,

No sound heard in this world,

Silence deafens with screeches unfurled,

Darkness is all that I see,

Surrounding encompassing me,

My mind’s boxed in a tomb; it’s at home in this grave,

Speaking proverbs of love better lost than not braved,

But this fool in his folly found joy in that moment,

To late the fool sees his normality bent,

The morning comes slowly revealing the light,

The minute is pasted for my fears in the night,

Pictures on the wall find reality tamed,

Loved ones now separated are depicted and framed,

Light in the distance perceived,

Time’s week on vacation reprieved,

 Though the scars of the wound still remain,

Life brings contentment again,

Precious recollections now displayed in the mind,

Return unyielding hope no creature could find,

An unspoken rule is now found,

That sorrows remain in the ground.

Poem (I like this one) :)

I found this picture online and I liked it so much I wrote this poem inspired by it. Not everyone understands what the poem is about about but I liked how it came together. :)

It stands,
An old dwelling place for forgotten memories,
Tall and majestic, though frail and withered,
Seizing renewed verve as sunrise after sunset create that immortal glow,
Possessing a duplicity of strength in that light,
Elegantly presented as a jewel found on a crown of golden clouds,

Emerald fields span out surrounding it,
Immovable and unaffected by time,
Creating an environment of playful mirth,
A child, long forgotten, runs through the deep spring green,
Happiness seeks to remain there,
But time dictates something different,

He stands,
A grave faced man with that very job,
The gate keeper of that solemn splendor,
Opening beneath him it holds no hope for past joys,
A square fissure revealing the deep earth,
Yet peace can be seen pouring from it like a fountain,
An engraved stone lies at the head,
By a name once known it beckons come,

Sapphire sky now encompasses all,
Framing the land with a warm firm wind,
Bringing smells that tell stories of old,
Laughter and tears are found in those scents,
Ashes and dust rekindle the blaze,
This present was not expected so soon,

They stand,
Beautiful flowers covering soil with petals,
Mixing with sweet water falling from faces,
Whispers of loneliness flee from the panorama,
Now surrounded by familiar memories,
People of dreams, passion, and love,
Friends, both living and dead, lead the way,
A blessing given at birth now returns,

Glistening white brings all colors together,
The only path left is leading toward home,
True joy found in phantoms now solid,
An unshakable foundation,
The truth lies ahead,
Beauty and majesty encompasses all,
The beginning is here.

Life in the Mist (a short story)

So many voices, whispering murmurs surround me in this fog. The path splits before me, but the haze blocks out all knowledge of which pathway I should take, and so I listen. The voices on the left path draw my attention at once. They speak words that I’ve come to know well, in a language I clearly understand. Most all of them are glad and full of rejoicing, they don’t sound lost or full of longing like mine. I hear laughter, and dancing, and cheers and applause, voices that encourage and praise human cause. Perhaps the fog is clearer there; maybe they understand where my happiness can be found. Already the fog on that trail looks less sinister and more inviting than the way to the right, yet…. I will listen to both sides. It was, after all, my quick and reckless decision making that got me here in the first place, so I will endeavor to be wise and listen again.
That’s strange, voices I heard from the path to the right seem quieter, barely a whisper now, and those to the left, are they louder and closer? Are they coming to save me from this deep haze that surrounds me? I prayed that someone would. A voice from the right path now beckons, in a language I’ve never heard before, yet I understand it says "come, this is the way." 'Way to what?' I ask myself, more loneliness. Beyond the whispers all I hear are deep groaning and yearning from the right path, I’ve got enough of that already. No, that’s not all, I also hear weeping, and yet… in the stillness behind it all… a joyful praise. Surely that path is full of crazies, nut jobs and “hard workers" who foolishly chase after impossible dreams. That path to the right definitely sounds more difficult, a hard and rocky path, not near as inviting. Is it my imagination? In this fog do my eyes speak the truth, is this fog finally lifting? On the right path I can now see a man; he stands and calls to a crowd on the left. Both are now barely visible. His voice is not a weak whisper anymore, but a bold message full of power and hope. Perhaps he is right, and his path is the way I should take, but just then my thoughts of peace were snatched quickly away by what I saw next. That happy-go-lucky crowd on the left path had been, in their merriment, laughing at the man on the right path, but that only lasted for a minute, and then out of nowhere without reason or cause they started assaulting him. At first verbally, but then as hatred filled their eyes they all, with their hands joined as one, threw a great massive stone, quickly killing the man on the right. And then as if nothing had happened they returned to their gaiety. Brutally slaughtered, the man on the right paths blood soaked into the ground, as tears from the horror and injustice of what I'd just witnessed, fell from my eyes. And yet those on the left seemed unaffected by it all, and their good times continued as if nothing had happened. It was getting dark now and the mist seemed a bit thicker again, but I’m sure that I saw, before all went black, the man on the right being buried by his loved ones, and to my amazement another took his place, looking different yet strangely the same, 'both fools no doubt' I thought as the darkness now encompassed me, nothing more to see until morning.

NOT FINISHED JUST HAVEN”T GOTTEN BACK TO THIS ONE YET.

A Pagan Christmas?

Don't really have a title for this one yet.

Disclaimer: This one is a little morbid (not meant for little kids), but at the time I thought it was silly/stupidish :-) LOL I was just kinda writing it because of how the world now seems to have missed the point of Christmas, and how so many teach children not only a falsehood, but how to cast off there faith as they grow into adults. God says we should have faith like a child and yet by teaching them false faith we're setting up their future selves to quickly disbelieve in truth leading them to assume it too is just childish fairytales. Such things like Santa, the Easter bunny, tooth fairy etc. which may seem harmless but may ultimatly harm their faith in God. So this is kind of a satire loosely based on "the night before Christmas." inspired by my frustration in giving children false faith. Hope it doesn't offend or cause trauma. 

In the winter as the cold winds blow,

Atop my roof on ice and snow,

No sound is heard, no hooves, no bells,

For Santa is dead, our town crier yells,

At half past eleven this Christmas eve night,

The town gasps and weeps at that terrible sight,

A once jolly fat man with red cheeks, suit, and hat,

Freshly gored by a reindeer is lying down flat,

The sirened cars come, the policemen get out,

They question if anyone’s seen Rudolf about,

A little plump boy with a tear in his eye,

States that he saw that villain, just this moment fly by,

The police call a hunter renowned for his aim,

Quite ironically Chris Kringle the third was his name,

He got out his rifle with a scope he called Mark,

They looked to the sky but the sky was too dark,

That same chubby boy, snot running down on his clothes,

Cried out "That monster can't hide, cause he’s got a red nose!"

They looked for that red glow, surveying the night,

Yet no one could see Rudolf’s red nose’s bright light,

Just then "Not my Johnny!" a mother was crying,

Rudolf’s struck again, a fresh body was lying,

This time it was Johnny that same pumpkin shaped boy,

With this message in blood "Snitches die with no toy!"

The message was, without a doubt scribed,

By the tip of an antler, as the little boy died,

"That's gone too far!" roared Chris Kringle in thund’rous tones,

"By dawn Rudolf's pelt will be mine, I shall grind up his bones!"

Chris then picked up his gun and was gone on his mission,

The town mourned dear Johnny and sent for the mortician,

As for the two bodies, the town did agree,

They were boxed up like presents, buried under a tree,

Then at about dawn, there arose such a racket,

Chris Kringle returned in a new reindeer jacket,

You could hear Him cry out, with a deep, "HOHOHO!"

As Rudolf’s ground bones, fell to earth like fresh snow,

That Christmas held sorrows yet joy was still found,

For we had a great feast and roast reindeer abound.

A lesson was learned by the children that day,

That the one who’s a snitch, will most certainly pay.