A Keen Look at Many

A KEEN LOOK AT MANY people made poetic copyright Doug Blair, Waterloo ON, 2018

Harry's Lunch

The old man placed his order His wait in line was long And shaded specs Betrayed the fact His vision almost gone.

But smile he did As one young kid Just chattered on and on.

Each Thursday noon He took a cab And left his lonely room To join the crowd Alive and loud And tastes of life consume.

His cooking was the meagrest

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Five years the wife was gone.

But here the swirl And one young girl Gave strength to carry on.

She called him by his first name Her voice held honest care She knew on cue “his usual” She helped him to his chair.

She sounded much like “Anna” In courting days long gone And years and tears just vanished And “Harry” shuffled on.

Still In

So early again this morning Nagging lower back And she had the day off So many doctors lately Prodding, poking and scanning And then that word “Malignant…

About a quarter of it had to go.

Fifty-fifty chance of a bag.”

She sat by the dinette window

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Waiting for the kettle (Would there be a ripple from anyone If…?)

Parents both gone.

Brother moved out east To in-laws’ town.

The favourite nephew Here at the College.

Occasionally suppers for him.

There would be the girls At the Church Book Club.

Her two cousins.

Couple of fellow staff At the dollar store.

Pretty much it.

Opened the window For some kindly spring air Baby in the unit below Bawling for breakfast.

Eastern sky above the roofs Promising pink glory The kind she often treasured On her walks.

On the back lawn Two little rabbits Perched softly in the dew.

Lord has His eye on THEM. And a couple of robins Leaving off their wake-up tunes For a game of chase-and-mate.

Beautiful So beautiful, regardless.

Smiling as the kettle went off “Yes still in the Symphony, Girl.

Still in.”

Baby's Colic (1987)

He’s up again, And crying for some cause Best known to him.

His mother needs more rest.

So, it’s my turn.

And with him now

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Some midnight oil will burn.

It’s such a mess: My business gone to pot.

And awkward friends Would rather stare.

“A lawyer in a stew.”

Some of them care.

A sharp young lawyer? Not. The baby came.

And even in this squeeze There is some joy.

A bright-eyed little boy His sister takes in hand.

Yet times are rough.

It’s hard to understand.

We cuddle now.

And in the tattered sofa Find some peace.

No longer squirming for release.

His eyes fast shut.

Like some pink toy.

I’d never harm the boy.

Alone, I lounge To cadence of a clock.

But not alone.

Inside I hear Him talk.

The Holy One, Assuring me 'I’d never harm you, Son.'

Green Grocer of Rye

Sure an’ ’tis a grand day Me barrow full of goods Yes, up at five, and down the streets To ply the neighbourhoods.

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Me Father was afore me But his was fish you see.

And children and their mithers Would crowd his cart with glee.

An’ always his “God bless ya” Backed by a winsome smile And grace was the aroma.

(His back ached all the while.)

And now I hike me veggies Plucked fresh as fresh can be A simple trade And all love-made Roit down the hill to sea.

The gulls will sing my fanfare The mist no dampening snare And thoughts run wild In this stretched child An’ many a launched-up prayer.

I’m free by rights A merchant But poor of purse and board No happier lad Was ever had So thankya much me Lord.

Boys at the Beach 5

The boy and I Get down in the sand Every now and then Listen to that big ole Pacific Groan and hiss.

Barefoot.

Fishin jest an excuse.

He goin ta upper school now An doing so well The old Jewish couple Put him up close to studies.

Showin their love Teachin him household.

I wouldna done any of it Ya know...without Darryl.

Took him from the streets Carousin' and killin' Gang-bangin type Jes like I been So many years before.

Brought him to my plywood shack Lackin' til then one candle of purpose Or one reason for an honest job.

An he took the help so well Started to talk and smile Took to lovin' my two-legged dog An some responsibility.

Then come the Thinkers' Nights An a whole lotta people Trustin' in me Wantin' desperate-like to gather Talk ovah they problems An' dreams an such.

An' I's jest an ole fool With a lot of dirt and death To get over.

The System and the Law Never forgettin' who I was Lookin' an spyin' for chances To put me down agin.

But I got this fightin' chance Found me a true woman An' a baby girl long the way They keep me straight An' the good war continues.

(Thanks for the images in this poem must go to mystery novelist Walter Mosley and his uncommon ex-con hero Socrates Fortlow.)

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Ahab’s Troth

I stick to my purpose We swore a crew’s troth That we would use life and lung Aye use them both To follow the white whale To this eastern sea And find him and slay him Where e’er he might be.

For he is not natural A right godly steed For lords of the dark world All malice and greed His jaw a deep cavern His spray from hell’s blast His fluke a great engine His wit none surpassed.

And he has once tried me With boat and with shaft And tasted of my flesh And swallowed and laughed.

A king without rival His trophy my limb But I ply these waters To overthrow him.

Though krill swarm a warning And dolphins report And squid point to Pequod We’ll still have our sport.

The men have their eyes peeled For gold’s in good news They’ll shout out that glad day And then I can’t lose.

The smitty has armed me With steel cured by fire To seek out the White’s heart And watch Hate expire.

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(with thanks to author Herman Melville)

Matterhorn

Was it just for joy That he pulled the sleigh From the rafter of the shed that day?

Leaving wife abed Early Saturday To be on his way.

Was it just for joy That he found the track In the sagging spot in the fence out back?

Crunching hard-cap snow Past the tamarack He was going back.

Had it been this crisp In a former time?

Had the sculptured ridge been this hard to climb?

Had the cardinal sung In three-quarter time?

Then, when in his prime?

They would pick up speed As the hill drew near.

Yes, and once right there they had spotted deer.

And perhaps a crow Would announce, "They're here!"

My, the view was clear.

Then the reckless rush To the vale below; As the sleigh would hiss o'er the yielding snow.

And their breath would steam In the upward tow.

They had loved it so.

Was it just for joy He had come again?

To their Matterhorn, to their Crystal Glen?

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To rehearse a play Staged for little men, But it's half-past ten!

Was it just for joy?

Or a missing boy?

The Shantyman

It is good to toil With the men I know; And to trim the trees And to lay them low; And to haul their bulk To the stream below; I am glad that the Lord sent me here.

And from time to time When the mood is right, In the vaulted wood With its dappled light; Where the blue-jay’s flash Quickens shrill and bright; I can sense that the Lord meets me here.

There’s a constant strain From the whistle call; As we scale the heights Making giants fall; And we swing our steel And our chain and maul.

And I know that the men test me here.

But the dusk does come, And the campfires burn; And the grub is good, And our thoughts will turn To the ones at home, And for those we yearn; But for weeks we must still labour here.

Yet another time The alarm will sound;

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That a trunk has split; That a man is downed.

And like mother birds We all gather ‘round.

And I sense they are glad I am here.

Then the Sabbath day Brings some extra rest; And a few will come, And by that I’m blessed; And we search the Book, And I share Christ’s best; For the Lord of the harvest is here.

Oh shantymen sing!

In the golden field; In the fishing hull; In the mineshaft’s yield; In the factory’s pulse; Sing of grace revealed; And the joy of the Lord finds us here.

Note: Canada recalls many work situations in which humble servants of the Gospel got into the workplace, rubbed shoulders, earned trust and simply prayed and helped.

Queenie Hennessy

It began as a knee-jerk thing Unrequited love, another time A final time And leaving the job and the brewery The audit drives to hoteliers With Him Upright, blue-eyed, decent Gentle in humour and engagement.

But now simply to leave The terrible hurt like a cleaver.

His one son David...gone Brilliant, eccentric, troublesome And troubled Finally at the end of a rope.

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And I had known David Through various happenstances Fascinated with him As curious extension of his Father.

And never disclosed it Neither those tell-tale symptoms For possible rescue.

Too proud Too frightened.

Yes, to leave, bus after bus Nose pointed in a crazy Otherwise direction Til stopped by the North Sea Sand and gulls Somewhere near Newcastle-Upon-Tyne.

The beach house Down from the Main Strip And over from the golf course.

All wind-pierced, skeletal and rotting.

But project nevertheless Distracting and defending.

Locals and vacationers Curious and helpful About this crazy spinster woman Alone in the shambles cottage Crabs and terns, waves and whispers Her only apparent friends.

But then a miracle of sorts Food gifts and flower baskets Curtain materials and kitchenware Strewn along the path up to the porch.

Two carpenters and floor boards Other golfers trained at roofing and eaves.

The magical estate had begun The transformation.

The visits of the well-intending Those in turmoil who had heard Of one lonely, reflective woman Finding simple degrees of contentment With which to share.

Odds and sods, rocks and plantings Establishing the renowned sea garden With pools, driftwood figures Crabs, sandpipers and wildflowers.

Often reminding of acquaintances Eventualities And Him... Harold

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Beneath sea skies And the sounds of surf Or winter's howling.

This piece is a thank-offering to British novelist Rachel Joyce and her twin books, the first about Harold (1) and his unlikely walking odyssey across Britain to a dying old friend and workmate; the second about Queenie (2) awaiting his arrival at the hospice with various broken friends and caretakers, printing memoirs and remembering a curious love.

1.The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Frye 2.The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy

The Prayers Would Follow

Kathleen knew The prayers would follow Mum tucked in A bit of the Front Page discussed

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Peck on the cheek And lights out.

There were two essays downstairs Needing typing Students would drop by Tomorrow at four Little darlings are up To their eyeballs.

She had foregone three weeks Of piano lessons For the little ones McMaster University just too busy In the final term.

Kept her occupied though And left time for Mum. Six years now since Kathleen Had taught for the Separate Board But there were still visits And Holiday cards And a couple of the most promising ones Sometimes attended the Cathedral.

Mum was so confused So much unlike that stylish clerk Of the Eaton’s Women’s Department.

Working with a smile and a friendly word While Kathleen studied And started out with the classes.

(Her beloved Music and English Lit.) Yes the prayers would follow

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Students. Faces.

Now grown. Married. Some Divorced.

Her children of sorts.

Her prayer platform.

Once the glorious images Of a strengthening Saviour Moved over to one side.

And His precious whisperings concluded.

Retaliation

I would see him at three thirty On the street beneath my flat.

Kids would call him strange and dirty Like a mouse plagued by stray cats.

And with head down for the homing, He would breeze by all the jeers And the shoves that might be coming.

(He looked older than his years.)

And the three or four who trailed him Were a foul and yowling lot.

Would his fists and fire still fail him?

He was tall, and they were not.

He was dressed in robe and scull cap And some hair curled by the jaws.

And his hope, to avoid mishap; Like his people, like their laws.

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But this time I held the answer, Three strong nephews down the street.

And they knew the ones to watch for And the pounding was so sweet.

But the lad just stood there quiet, Giving out a soft complaint.

“Friends, there’s no need here for riot.

I will win them with restraint.”

Judah Ben Hur A: Vengeance

It had kept me going.

The hate.

The chance to pull through And see him again, And kill.

Had he not killed Everything I treasured Family, estate, position?

Thrusting me to slave ships, And my loved ones To ill-lit lock-ups.

He was a boyhood chum Gone from Jerusalem Thralled by Caesar And army opportunity.

He could not countenance Coldness to Roman ambition.

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I became As good as dead.

But the fates were kind.

I am here to race In Pilate’s Grand Circus.

And to humble him, Massala, master charioteer.

How is it that I sense One of us will not Walk out of this thing

Alive?

B: Release

Esther had heard Him first Through those days when I recovered from The race, the blood, The dust, adrenaline and Massala’s riddled corpse.

The hillside Teacher With strange words of peace And new beginnings.

But none of such for me.

Rome was a cancer In our land Could I be a surgeon?

A patriot Jew? And then they took Him Bogus claims of sedition And heresy.

A Cross awaiting.

Commotion drew me

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To those crowded streets, The jeering, That hill…

The intense shaking, The darkness at mid-day.

The butchering.

“Father, forgive them.”

(That face I recognized!

A cool drink and a smile On a slave’s march.)

And with His kingly demise I felt the sword leave my hand.

(with thanks to author Lew Wallace)

Loyal Subjects All

To be within a kingdom The turrets and fanfare The gallant show of horsemen The colours everywhere The thrill of throne so noble The poor remembered yet The chance to show compassion Good laws we’ll ne’er forget.

Oh this is Zion’s glory The world looks on amazed Though early in our fealty They thought us weak and crazed.

With peace and love prevailing And beggars warmed inside And trespass all forgotten No longer does one hide.

And God the Son is coming To host a feast so rare

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From castle to the courtyard The family gathered there.

He dons a servant’s vesture And laughs at simple fun And holds our trust large measure The praises just begun.

Psalm 48

Nine Mile Road

He had left the streetcars And the Volvo ads The smirking pan-handlers And flower ladies The smell of bagels And urine in subway corners The cadre of blue suits And padlocked briefs.

In his forty-fourth year Of mis-direction.

He bought the camp With the little green Patch out front.

Traded dictaphone For a set of carver's tools Offered by Willie For beer money.

Willie, that syllabus Of Huron lore and images Three miles down the Road And closer to Honey Harbour.

Craftsman now And woodburner Taking treasured bits Of Huronia and the bush.

To that flea market Up Highway sixty-nine.

Bringing harried holidayers A sense of land and past.

(They thought nothing Of the artisan's price.)

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Artisan Wood chopper Bay boater Walleye troller Night sky singer Campfire dancer With the west wind Partnering.

And rock gray And bush green With dapplings of birch And sky blue And on the move.

Even the driving rain Had become a welcome guest.

Gloria had balked at the idea A time apart for re-grouping They had said.

But even she had arrived Last August.

And the cabin's little kitchen Had become a sanctuary Of pots, preserves And Georgian scenes in oil.

CBC radio reminded them Of another life And sounds from across the Dominion.

And political wranglings.

But turn the page.

The music of loons outside Now the featured performance.

Rural Charge

Richard arrived ninety minutes early.

There had been some difficulty Starting up the old Chev.

First frost on the glass.

Heater rudely whining At season’s change.

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Samantha busy in the back Preparing Communion’s elements.

Pew upon pew checked For hymnals and print-outs On their mission relief challenge.

Bibles waiting, as always.

Truck noise in the lot Announcing Harry, Sam and Art. The hardware store.

The dairy farm.

The township office.

Come to welcome and worship.

Sanctuary lights left off.

The early sun brings delights, As it warms the one Stained glass, Christ With his shouldered lamb Back from its wanderings.

Another car arrives With tell-tale tic-a-tic.

The two women finally settled Upon harvest treats worthy Of the after-hour.

But this year minus Christina.

Art’s Christina…so sudden.

He at the piano Sampling a few strains: “Now thank we all our God...”

And he was thankful For rescue of friends, memories.

Richard reflects on year’s near close.

One wedding, funeral, two baby girls.

Two farm foreclosures.

The awful crash in the fog.

County hospital’s new wing.

Clothes bundles and books for Haiti.

And what of this morning?

Fifty or so would come, Harvests all in.

Lands churned, blackened, And ready for sleep.

Crows in the final clean-up

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Thanksgiving, A wonderful pause, And a weapon, wherein Folk laud their Creator Regardless.

The best yet to come.

PSALM 65 9Thou visitest the earth, and waterest it: thou greatly enrichest it with the river of God, which is full of water: thou preparest them corn, when thou hast so provided for it.

10Thou waterest the ridges thereof abundantly: thou settlest the furrows thereof: thou makest it soft with showers: thou blessest the springing thereof.

11Thou crownest the year with thy goodness; and thy paths drop fatness.

The Flyer

The postman had no kids.

He thoroughly enjoyed the ones he met on his route.

Young Chris was probably top of the list.

His Mom living single and working two part-time jobs.

Billing reminders were often in her mail.

It was a Sunday morning, off-duty, When he delivered the Red Flyer Wagon to the back door.

Their reaction brought tears to everyone.

An invitation for coffee was extended.

The young lad was out to the street, the sidewalk and the hill.

He shouted to the old neighbour three doors down, “See my wagon. What a neat gift.

From a friend. Look out hill. Here I come.�

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The leg push with the right leg was rhythm-less at first, But the stride began to lengthen As he thought more about the kindness Extended to him. His breathing became steady.

His back got into the effort.

Yes, this was one of the special days.

He reached the crest of the hill And realized just how easy the thrilling run was going to be.

He continued the leg movement and the smiles.

Herein ends the lesson on the power of being thankful.

Three AM and Raining

Wash me with your rains Jehovah Take the pain away All the doubts and second-guessing Weights of yesterday How they gain an unearned stronghold Darkening the mind And their cousin, sad self-pity Him I’ll often find Robbing nights of Your refreshment Tossing to and fro’ Fearing what might come with sunrise Though You love me so.

Still the rains run down our drainpipe

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Freshening the street Others sleep and miss the moment Father’s touch so sweet.

Seems to say “I too am crying In the moment’s test.

Speak to Me, now what’s been hurting You may have My best.”

Settled now, return to sleeping Droplets bless the ground Thank you Lord, this special visit Turned my heart around.

Corregidor

Recently I was thinking about a rather strange poem by Robert Browning. It takes us to what appears to be a Spanish community at the time of the death of the town’s most notable poet. It traces his eccentricities, his travels and observations, his lonely accommodations and his impact upon the high and low. Apparently as he wandered the streets and shops of the community with his observant eye, he took on somewhat of the role of Father Confessor.

People were aware of his presence and assessment and influence. Even the Duke.

It reminds me of the role of poet as philosopher, chronicler and social commentator in many societies of the past (Ireland, Ukraine, France, Russia come to mind) .

At one point in Browning’s poem he refers to the Corregidor, a Spanish word translating high magistrate or official. Funny that a man strangely dressed and housed, and given to odd imagery and idealism, would warrant such a title.

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He's a bit off That one Writes poetry Observes the passing throng Passing judgment On what's wrong Pushing virtue And venture And all that out-dated stuff.

Isn't Wikipedia good enough?

He told a friend Sleep gets interrupted By a line Or a cadence Or an image.

Often talking to himself At work Distracted jerk.

Thinks a Heavenly input Pens the lines.

Dances with beat And rhymes And Something beyond Himself Long assigned to the shelf.

By most of us.

Browning, an old one Of like art Wrote of the passing

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Of a village bard.

Said he watched and mused At others driven, confused And passed some lines To Duke and Court.

Hurt, hope or good report.

A man thought wise To philosophize.

But we're beyond that.

No?

Church Woman (Saint in Progress)

I don’t know much theology The Rector is my source And he is oh so studied And helps me keep on course.

The Morning Prayer refreshing And oft’ the bread and wine And words rehearsed a lifetime To tend a soul like mine.

I sew and wash bazaar goods And visit frail shut-ins And gather toys and children’s books To counter-act my sins.

And Yule and Paschal colours Adorn our church quite well

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For seasons festive, Christ-filled From age to age to tell.

But much is still a mystery The saving part, I mean The bloody rites, and Paul’s insights Somehow cleaner than clean?

And scripture makes me tremble I hardly pick it up Once suffered, Confirmation I’m trusting in the Cup. It’s spiritual they tell me God’s ways above all ours But we can make it pleasant With brilliant cards and flowers.

So hopeful that I tally The sum of pardon’s price But please, someone explain to me That “finished work” of Christ?

(Hebrews chapters 9 and 10)

Thief

So glad that I could do it In fleeting gasps of pain With arms outstretched On Roman beams And clouds begun to rain.

The One beside me Shows no hate His Mother down below And eye meets eye

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As oft before They held each other so.

But this is not a common crowd The holy men preside And urge the rabble's Thirst for blood Most likely they had lied.

"A King", they mock, "And is your Court A bloodied perch and crown?"

Oh Saviour, time to save yourself Display your power Come down!

But death is part And parcel yet You have your Father's word And you beseeched the darkening sky And He most surely heard.

And I with scarce the breath to spare And justly here for crime Turn to you King And gladly sing Your pardon, Kingdom mine.

(Luke 23: 43)

Ship of Ships

It is sinking Irreversibly.

Whistles abate.

Bells diminish.

The chuggings of Lower quarters

Grind and wheeze.

Rowings are heard ‘Gainst the waves.

Tempo setting in.

Lifeboats all dispatched.

But too few.

Friends call to each other Cross the darkness.

Deck fires paint a cracked Flash on the brine.

Great ship lists Horribly To the fore.

Stragglers and those resigned Sit at lounge chairs, Awaiting inevitability.

Hands held.

“I love you” spoken.

One baleful voice Cries through the fog (As if alone, where Crowds had just streamed, Voices discordant.)

“Herbert, dear,

I’m waiting for you.�

Atlantic cold Clarifies the strains Of small orchestra.

Dignified departure.

Debussy.

And this had been The Ship of ships.

Frigid saline fingers Thanking the ice; Grabbing more and more Of its girth.

Pulling it down.

(Titanic, April 14, 1912)

Sidewalk Cigarettes

Cold one last night But at least mostly dry The park was abandoned No cops drove on by

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But time for some new shoes These cramp me like hell Two sizes too small But I couldn’t tell Heard by the grapevine That Jimmy has passed Tough guy for the street life We thought he would last A lonely lot yassir But free of the rules That mess up the flophouse They think we’re all fools.

Once found myself working And pulling a cheque The taxes and time clocks Most left me a wreck They knew I was different And set me apart And smirked as I checked in Oh where was their heart?

The street least is neutral And offers strange fare I’ll pass by the bus hub

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There’s lotsa smokes there.

A Lake to Explore

Out on the lake You and I The water droplets From paddles The raven’s cry Above tree-line The only sounds And our occasional “Look at that”.

No hurry really Blue sky overhead The bigness of it all The freshness Our lungs enlarge Our shoulders loosen With easy swing The shore-line curves Round to an opening And mountain sights unimagined.

A place where God lives Whole-heartedly.

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Maligne Lake, Jasper National Park, Alberta

Mary of Maligne Lake

Left Pennsylvania And college ways for Rocky Mountain flowers And your first husband The Good Doctor Lake Louise railhead Eyes, pen and notebook Fixed on Alberta soils Widowed But other trips to come Many with Mollie

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And the mystery Of a turquoise lake Unspoiled stuff Of Indian maps Happy raft tours Camping out Undeterred by grizzly Wolf or isolation Thrilled by vastness Freshness, design Of God’s handiwork Alpen mists and rumblings Sketching, surveying Savouring Later Billy’s mate Wilderness woman of Maligne.

(Mary Schaffer @1908) (they found no sign of man, “just masses of flowers, the lap-lap of the waters on the shore, the occasional reverberating roar of an avalanche and our own voices stilled by a nameless Presence.”)

Drumsheugh's Secret 33

It’s you dear Margaret All these years And no man knows the tale ‘Ceptin dearest Doc Maclure He swore he’d ne’er tell.

I played the fool long years ago When we were closely housed And you so fair Beyond compare And I a timid mouse.

And just to see the harvest come And you rake swathes beside Was all of autumn’s golden warmth And I near burst inside.

But soon the news Your lease to lapse

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And William Howe to wed.

I roared a bit The pain of it And rathered I were dead.

But life moves on The moment gone And you a wee bairn held Young Geordie Hoo A bright one too Who took the cloth anon.

The pride of Domsie’s little school His Greek.beyond compare And no small joy I helped the boy With funds for college fare.

A scholar come to your proud home (A secret lover pays.

Dismiss the thought.

It ever brought me joy To pave his ways.)

And Willum, kindly Willum tried Without much luck at funds And once near lost Until the cost

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A “distant cousin” sends.

‘Twas me, Dear Heart You’ve guessed the whole And put the clues in line So long my bit to cover it And dare not pout or pine.

And folk would mock My bargains hard At Muirtown Market days: “A wifeless, cranky harvester Who groans each time he pays.”

But pay I would a thousand times To bring my Love relief And bear it all, and tow the line Yes even in your grief.

When Geordie died So young he was And barely launched apace Of times I brought him bits and books A smile back on his face.

Your hand comes close Your clear eyes plead Your visit come to this A yearning seems to beckon you To plant the forehead’s kiss.

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But pity not, you’ve made a man Who might have been a churl Who worked and saved And gossip braved To help his hallowed girl.

I have enough We know, we both And short now run our days.

We’ll ken it all At Heaven’s call.

The Lord proves all His ways.

Note: Inspired by a most touching section of the Scots book “The Days of Auld Lang Syne” (1895) by Ian Maclaren. My poem here is a tribute to his matchless, memorable fiction from a gentler era. (A misunderstood farmer does all he can over the years to bless unrecognized the life and household of the only woman he ever loved, the one who married another man...)

Though He Slay Me

Three men talking over lunch What gives with Brad His situation just goes from bad to worse.

Lay-off. Eldest kid caught in a gas-bar heist Possible mortgage foreclosure. Too bad He has always been a great help at the Church when asked Yeah, but there must be some inner darkness

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Or rebellion or ignorance He needs to take a tougher look at himself Just the other day I gave him a copy of that DVD series Confess Into Favour Wonderful teaching. Helped get me through the sale of my business last year ...Six blocks from the Diner Brad was taking a walk in the park to clear his head.

Sun was starting to peek through the clouds.

Sat down on a wooden bench Watching Moms and kids over on the swings Little blonde one leaves her perch and runs over to him Hiya Mister. Did you see me on that swing This park is great, isn't it? You can join us, if you want Sun comes out now full blast Brad notes a spiritual significance God is close. God knows, and He is Father

Selkirk Alone

Marooned the word Waves hiss at this dilemma And palms caress The trade winds brought me here.

Sad flotsam serves The stuff of my crude cabin And jungle goop A remedy

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For skitters quite severe.

The hardy gulls Companions each blue morning Who show me shells For boiled meat, tasty too.

And wood stocked high For bonfires In the darkness Bringing hope And maybe glad rescue.

I lift myself With songs once learned In childhood And written thoughts penned On a sun-dried leaf.

But none to hear Or offer back Rich comment To bring this castaway relief.

Dear God I know your care And closeness ever And see your Hand In gripping starlit sky.

But strength is sparse And months expired Beyond all number But still tomorrow I will try.

A Thirsty Woman

Each noon for the water When others were gone And Jacob’s well good all these years.

Their gossip was hurtful Could not get along Alone I addressed all my fears.

The men had been many Not all had been wed To me, or to those gone before.

The present one helpful Perhaps there was love Provided I cooked, swept the floor.

But here sat a man

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And waiting it seemed And asking me for a cool drink.

And I of Samaria And he quite the Jew Oh what would the gossipers think?

He spoke of a water That never ran dry That tasted as fresh as the dew.

A strange living water Relieving all thirst As if all my past life He knew.

But no condemnation Just hope in His eyes And gentle words thrilling my soul I must tell the others Could this be the One? Long pledged to make broken hearts whole?

(John 4)

Back to the Well

Much has been said And hearts have been edified Often you sent me A season's good word People were hungry To raise their horizons Looking for life power And thus saith the Lord.

How I would thrill As you took up the keyboard Filling the blanks In this newsboy's rough start.

I the chief student Transcribing dictation Probing the depths As you offered your heart.

Now I am thirsty Your Word at a distance Busy with business So little of worth Come to me Father

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And re-light the candle Moisten these lips To establish True North.

It will take time That to some appears idle Time for the trimming And time for the food Desperate am I For the soul's re-creation Come to me Jesus The message renewed. ( the prayer of many a tired, preoccupied preacher)

Remitted in Full Free forgiveness offered A heartfelt plea will do But if the heart's iniquitous The prayers will not get through But if the slight is hidden But if the stance askew Our Father waits for tears and change Ere He will wash anew.

And love must be the North Star That draws from us reform A dread of letting Mercy down Felt only by twice-born Felt only by the captives To Jesus' winsome ways Our sighs complete the victory Full well His shed blood pays.

Psalm 66: 18 If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me:

Fellow Travelers

The years have gone

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Yet still you smile And rush to hold me tight The common paths We shared so oft Now shine with special light And there were hurts And there were hopes We shared as comrades bold And I still see Your face of youth Now even when we're old And others came And others went And insincere their touch But you would share Your last resource You love me just that much And now sun fades And colder climes Would hint we're near the end But o'er that hill Of faith's traverse I'm sure to meet you Friend.

Yet all would not Be as we trust Beyond our reach the price Had we not shared That precious gold A dauntless hope in Christ.