Poet's thought

Everyone needs a little irony in their diet, and this poem is chock-full of it. I was very frustrated at not being able to think of anything to write, so I wrote this.


I never could see a poet's thought;
I read little in his face --
just the bright, piercing eyes, squinting
as if looking from a distance at the word, coaxing
to light willfully its shiest secrets for men
who see naught in aught at the last.

His distant smile seems to boast that it understands
the spells his pen incants, while wrinkles
gather about these soft invocations, curious,
straining like children listening
for what old eyes have learned.

I never could read a poet's thought;
I see little in his words --
just the rough texture of sandpaper-syllables,
dots and commas poised to pierce the skin
and spill forth a pain called thought and my wish
that just once I could bend far enough over
to drip onto eloquent paper
an original verse.

Day at the Beach

Here I tried to capture a typical day at the beach for me when I was a kid. The preparation and the drive there seemed to take so long because we were excited. We'd spend all day there, leaving only at dusk, and I'd always get a sunburn even though my mom slathered sunscreen on me.


Morning started slowly,
as we threw yesterday's potato salad
in a red Igloo cooler, cramming
bags of towels and swimsuits
into the green '66 Volvo station wagon.
Roads like time stretched
through watermelon fields and cabbage rows
that met in the distance,
and we watched for white dunes
until salt burned in our nostrils and we swore
we heard the rush of waves
above the engine's roar.
Gray castles ruled coquina kingdoms,
but we ate cold fried chicken
and greasy orange soda,
faithful subjects in a fiddler-crab's demesne.
Treasures lived in warm tide-pools
when the sun dipped low,
and we hunted crawling stars
and followed the shallow, rippling seas
until they dried up,
and red coals burned across our backs
from the West,
and we went home.

Commonly misunderstood fundamentals of orthodox Christianity

I was planning to write on the most widely held *incorrect* beliefs about Christianity, but I don't like to "reinvent the wheel", so a little research was in order first, which turned up this web page. I have not yet read other pages in the site, and this page references those extensively, but the theology is sound, and the teaching is clear.

Misconceptions include:
* We get to heaven based on how good we are here on earth.
* Once we become a Christian, being saved by God’s gift of grace, it does not matter what we do.
* The New Testament was written long after the events took place and are thus subject to legends being inserted into the text.
* The God of the Bible is immoral.

I recommend this page for anyone, believer or non-believer. Test yourself on these points. If you disagree with the author, pray to God and search the Bible. It is there so that we do not have to depend exclusively on other men's word.

Poem: Haunted House

When I was ten, my folks helped a young couple move into this old house that had a history of tenants suddenly leaving for various reasons. The most recent tenants had left a lot of stuff behind, as if they'd been in a terrible hurry, so that had to be moved out first. In addition, a large nest of hornets had made their home near the top of the stairs, so they had to be sprayed.

My brother and I were not as a rule afraid of old structures, but this place terrified us -- especially upstairs, and particularly the third bedroom; even in full daylight it took everything in me to stand in the doorway and not run away.

Years later I wrote this poem, then drove out to find the old house and take some pictures with my mom's old Brownie camera. She'd taken a few pictures on the roll; I took several of the house to illustrate my poem. Then I gave the camera back and she finished the roll. When she got the pictures developed, hers turned out fine, but mine looked like I'd left the lens cap on, completely black. Except, Brownie cameras don't have lens caps.

Oh, and that couple didn't stay long in the house. I didn't find out why.


Haunted House

Those live who scoff at dreary haunts and laugh when others' eyes grow wide,
but no man knows a haunted house, or not, unless he's been inside --
and yes, I have, once or twice, and dared myself through darkened rooms,
whose seeping silence sapped a thrill unmatched by any carnival ride.

Cadav'rous it was, cold-gray from neglect, two stories and eerily haunting to see,
inside: a plethora of corners and halls, and even a narrow, walled staircase, and bees.
Yes, hornets haunted the upper rooms and begrudged the movement of any who called,
and even the Windows glared in at the gloom and despaired at the state they did not want to be.

In rooms there dwelt a chilly Fear that dully clothed itself in dust,
and hugged in-comers for their warmth, 'til they grew numb, as all men must.
But up the stairs and down the hall resided a Dread most cold of all,
which begged me please, good sir, to leave, and let the creaky doors to rust.

The House could tell its own brief tales of tenants come and quickly moved on,
and long years left between the days, when darkness slept past outside's dawn.
But charity brought me to ready this house, to rake back the age from the dead, leafy lawn
and dispose of the last tenants' worldly effects for a couple who nervously came, then were gone.

Poem: Dead Man Mountain

Here is another poem I wrote after hearing a sad story of a sharecropper in the Ouachita mountains of western Arkansas. I tried to be true to the story as I heard it.


Dead Man Mountain

Once, through my youth, a poor man passed and travell'd by a lonely path
that oft' I wander in my thoughts to grieve for prey of Fortune's wrath.
The trav'ler left a shadowed past and in the valleys fell at last
to strike a deal to rent the land a failing farmer leased too fast.

'Twas sixty acres that he planted, cotton that he quickly sowed,
yet carefully, lest any foot yield less than that he thought it owed.
And then he waited for the harvest, waited while Job with him watched --
he watched the cotton grow and ripen: dress and shirt and rag and swatch.

At last there came the day when oven-sun and earth had done their work,
and cotton burst like downy popcorn -- long-awaited harvest work.
Then frantic'ly he reaped the cotton, labored on the mountainside
and filled his wagon, yoked his horses, whipped them t'ward a two-day ride.

And in the farmer's name (by law) the poor man sold his cotton crop,
but cash-rain fell to credit's claws and to his hands fell not a drop.
Then, as he climbed into the wagon, empty now of all but pride,
his head held high, his rough face stern, he closed his eyes to life and cried.

At journey's end he found himself, and so he stepped down from his life,
hung up the reins with weary hands, now spent and cotton callouse-rife,
and shook his lowered, thinning head -- he moved his lips as if to pray --
"A pair of shoes was all I wanted. . ." that was all he found to say.

And then he left us, wending up a mountain man had yet to name,
but as he went, we each looked down to see his feet (though more for shame)
were bare as newborn babes', but rough from years of toil and war with sod --
then he was gone, adopted by the nameless mountain near to God.

A few years later on that mount, a skeleton men sadly found
and gave a long-deserved fun'ral -- buried it in hallowed ground.
And then and there they named that mountain, named it Dead Man for the soul
whom Fate had found her finest fool, whom life could torment, death, console.

Welcome!

Welcome to my new blog. If you are interested in science fiction, poetry, Christianity, or my opinion and revelations in general, you will find them here, updated at least weekly I hope. As for poetry, I haven't written since college, so my own is limited; I may link to others I like when that runs out. For now, I will start with one I wrote that others have enjoyed.


Thunder Clouds

Swift, gray children run laughing past growling winds,
scattering their footsteps in puddles and rivulets.
Dizzily, they dance among shaded daisies and pounce on angry tin roofs
until Prettiness catches their dark, excited eyes,
and they shout their delight as they gaily stoop to touch their fancy
with electric fingers.