Our God has loved us oh so so much
He sent his son to die.
His children live eternally...
I need to ask him why.
How I have claimed:
"This life is unfair!"
The ugliest part was his to bear, not mine!
My life he gave freely to me.
He'd done nothing wrong, but died for me
Anyway.
His calling, I could not ignore.
Salvation's not a game
A rotten core, did that fruit contain
(The one from which they ate)?
No, not so.
But oh what a price to be paid!
How could they know?
How God must have wept then!
(Knowing we'd be apart).
A perfect creation falls victim to sin??
But how?
There was one way out...
And easy, it was not.
It is written: "Many are called, but
Few will listen".
Or, few find the road.
The Lord waits...
Wanting so much to Christen all
Of us
With his love
All must grab the reins on their
Journey of chance...
But our lives are not merely circumstance!
Never.
We are not just amoebas, who suddenly were souls.
Perhaps some won't admit it...but all surely know.
Your IQ? College degree? Does it matter?
Head knowledge abounds, but do you believe?
You can't pull him down from the sky.
Nice try, but no cigar!
Will you let him meet you where you are?
CES (C) 1997.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
The Protector
Today you're tossed in the corner;
Thrown in the closet under jackets and sweaters.
Sometimes, I'll pick you up, and try to straighten out
Your crooked shape
But then, back in the corner you go, to get lost
In the inertia of a child, all grown up...
Your place
Was always at the foot of my bed
Two feet of reddish brown shag
Black, felt eyes pressed stiff with dried glue
But what did that matter?
As long as I could hug your neck
When the lights were off
You were perfect...
No matter how much you were re-stuffed
Or sewn up.
Sometimes, I'll pick you up and try to
straighten out your crooked shape.
But then, back in the corner you go!
Look at you...
A piece of my history
In the form of a lopsided bear
Full of foam, with dingy, yellow ears.
They used to be white, you know?
The years have eaten away some of your
Red coat, allowing cris-cross patterns of thread
To emerge.
Remember when my teacher let you sit
Next to me in class?
I was the envy of everyone that show and tell day!
My Nana had bought you for me...
Brand new from the store.
She said I kept looking at you
So what could she do but bring you home?
A great-grandmother's wisdom should be listened to
Yes? Of course!
Course, back then, I fit on YOUR lap: my little
Balled head against your chest.
Look at you:
You lopsided form of a bear, with
Dingy, yellow ears.
Two feet of reddish-brown shag
Black, felt eyes, pressed stiff with dried glue.
You've known more about me than anyone:
If I didn't like the way mom combed my hair,
You knew.
When I was punished for coloring my walls,
You knew.
When I had a cast put on, or scraped my knee,
You got hugs and kisses and tears.
When I had my first broken heart and each
One after that... You heard all about it.
You're perfect, no matter how much you're
Re-stuffed, or sewn up.
How many times have you seen me sitting
At my desk?
Writing, editing...reading
about another historical figure?
Making appointments and talking with friends--
And lost in the inertia of a child all grown up.
A lopsided form of a bear, with dingy, yellow ears--
Foam filling spilling through holes in your neck.
Poor thing!
I cried the day your black nose was eaten by
A curious puppy.
It exists now only in pictures.
But what does that matter?
As long as I can hug you still, who cares?
You're perfect...no matter how much you're re-stuffed
Or sewn up
CES (C) 1997.
Thrown in the closet under jackets and sweaters.
Sometimes, I'll pick you up, and try to straighten out
Your crooked shape
But then, back in the corner you go, to get lost
In the inertia of a child, all grown up...
Your place
Was always at the foot of my bed
Two feet of reddish brown shag
Black, felt eyes pressed stiff with dried glue
But what did that matter?
As long as I could hug your neck
When the lights were off
You were perfect...
No matter how much you were re-stuffed
Or sewn up.
Sometimes, I'll pick you up and try to
straighten out your crooked shape.
But then, back in the corner you go!
Look at you...
A piece of my history
In the form of a lopsided bear
Full of foam, with dingy, yellow ears.
They used to be white, you know?
The years have eaten away some of your
Red coat, allowing cris-cross patterns of thread
To emerge.
Remember when my teacher let you sit
Next to me in class?
I was the envy of everyone that show and tell day!
My Nana had bought you for me...
Brand new from the store.
She said I kept looking at you
So what could she do but bring you home?
A great-grandmother's wisdom should be listened to
Yes? Of course!
Course, back then, I fit on YOUR lap: my little
Balled head against your chest.
Look at you:
You lopsided form of a bear, with
Dingy, yellow ears.
Two feet of reddish-brown shag
Black, felt eyes, pressed stiff with dried glue.
You've known more about me than anyone:
If I didn't like the way mom combed my hair,
You knew.
When I was punished for coloring my walls,
You knew.
When I had a cast put on, or scraped my knee,
You got hugs and kisses and tears.
When I had my first broken heart and each
One after that... You heard all about it.
You're perfect, no matter how much you're
Re-stuffed, or sewn up.
How many times have you seen me sitting
At my desk?
Writing, editing...reading
about another historical figure?
Making appointments and talking with friends--
And lost in the inertia of a child all grown up.
A lopsided form of a bear, with dingy, yellow ears--
Foam filling spilling through holes in your neck.
Poor thing!
I cried the day your black nose was eaten by
A curious puppy.
It exists now only in pictures.
But what does that matter?
As long as I can hug you still, who cares?
You're perfect...no matter how much you're re-stuffed
Or sewn up
CES (C) 1997.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Longing to Meet Daddy
What can one expect
When the Beekeeper seemed cut out of her life
Like a paper doll?
She had no memories of him beyond the age of eight.
No hugs or kisses. No hello's or goodbyes.
Just the cold stone of his grave
No pats on the back for a job well done.
What can one expect when her mother had done
The best she could?
Did she reason that to see such grief
Would've made things worse?
She hid it, I believe; expecting the same
Of her children.
What can one expect when such a young child
Was denied the opportunity to say goodbye?
So, what is a funeral?
How could she have understood?
All she had was the stone, where he lay;
Kissed by her tears on a rainy day.
There were no memories of him beyond
The age of eight, so she excelled in
Academic achievement; wining every honor
She could...
Writing and writing one gorgeous poem
After the other might have helped her
Bereavement... I don't know.
Exhausting every ounce of creativity
From each word?
Sure! Haven't you read them?
Doctors told her everything would be alright.
Electricity shot through to that brilliant
Intellect, and she just kept writing and writing.
One elaborate poem after the other.
What can one expect, when she'd been intrigued
By the man who tried to jump off his balcony?
She admitted she must find a less painful way
To succeed; but secretly, she cheered him on...
Ted came along and took her to Spain.
"You hated Spain,' he would later write.
She taught school after that...always writing
And writing...
Exhausting every ounce of creativity from each word!
One gut-wrenching poem after another...
Haven't you read them?
Did these help in her process of bereavement?
I don't know...
Freda soon arrived, and also Nick, steering attention
Elsewhere.
Did her carefully nourished craft suffer neglect?
I would say no.
She still kept writing and writing...
One thought provoking poem after the other...
Every ounce of creativity exhausted from each word!
You bet! Haven't you read them??
So what can one expect once Ted had left her,
Leaving an infant, a toddler, and a struggle to
Make it alone in his place?
Still, she kept writing and writing...
One flamboyant poem after the other; all creativity
Exhausted from each word.
Absolutely! Haven't you read them??
Did this help in her bereavement?
I would say no.
Was her desire to stand at Heaven's gate?
I don't know, but her works couldn't compensate, it seems.
The Beekeeper was waiting; and her hope was dried up,
I think.
What can one expect?
Her memories of him only went
To age eight.
What was conjured up that night, Lord only knows!
But as night became day, it was clear:
What fear gripped her mind as the gas stole her conscience
Away?! We don't know!
I wonder, now does she have him pieced, glued and properly jointed?
We will never know.
We just keep reading and reading;
Finding out one curious detail after another--
Exhausting every ounce of explanation from each word.
What can one expect with such evidence of longing woven
Into page after page?
All she had was that salmon colored stone on Azalea Path.
Is her longing now fulfilled?
How can we know, with her voice forever stilled?
--CES. (C) 1998.
When the Beekeeper seemed cut out of her life
Like a paper doll?
She had no memories of him beyond the age of eight.
No hugs or kisses. No hello's or goodbyes.
Just the cold stone of his grave
No pats on the back for a job well done.
What can one expect when her mother had done
The best she could?
Did she reason that to see such grief
Would've made things worse?
She hid it, I believe; expecting the same
Of her children.
What can one expect when such a young child
Was denied the opportunity to say goodbye?
So, what is a funeral?
How could she have understood?
All she had was the stone, where he lay;
Kissed by her tears on a rainy day.
There were no memories of him beyond
The age of eight, so she excelled in
Academic achievement; wining every honor
She could...
Writing and writing one gorgeous poem
After the other might have helped her
Bereavement... I don't know.
Exhausting every ounce of creativity
From each word?
Sure! Haven't you read them?
Doctors told her everything would be alright.
Electricity shot through to that brilliant
Intellect, and she just kept writing and writing.
One elaborate poem after the other.
What can one expect, when she'd been intrigued
By the man who tried to jump off his balcony?
She admitted she must find a less painful way
To succeed; but secretly, she cheered him on...
Ted came along and took her to Spain.
"You hated Spain,' he would later write.
She taught school after that...always writing
And writing...
Exhausting every ounce of creativity from each word!
One gut-wrenching poem after another...
Haven't you read them?
Did these help in her process of bereavement?
I don't know...
Freda soon arrived, and also Nick, steering attention
Elsewhere.
Did her carefully nourished craft suffer neglect?
I would say no.
She still kept writing and writing...
One thought provoking poem after the other...
Every ounce of creativity exhausted from each word!
You bet! Haven't you read them??
So what can one expect once Ted had left her,
Leaving an infant, a toddler, and a struggle to
Make it alone in his place?
Still, she kept writing and writing...
One flamboyant poem after the other; all creativity
Exhausted from each word.
Absolutely! Haven't you read them??
Did this help in her bereavement?
I would say no.
Was her desire to stand at Heaven's gate?
I don't know, but her works couldn't compensate, it seems.
The Beekeeper was waiting; and her hope was dried up,
I think.
What can one expect?
Her memories of him only went
To age eight.
What was conjured up that night, Lord only knows!
But as night became day, it was clear:
What fear gripped her mind as the gas stole her conscience
Away?! We don't know!
I wonder, now does she have him pieced, glued and properly jointed?
We will never know.
We just keep reading and reading;
Finding out one curious detail after another--
Exhausting every ounce of explanation from each word.
What can one expect with such evidence of longing woven
Into page after page?
All she had was that salmon colored stone on Azalea Path.
Is her longing now fulfilled?
How can we know, with her voice forever stilled?
--CES. (C) 1998.
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