Post by st1_Emrys on Aug 3, 2005 14:29:50 GMT -5
Here are two of my serious poems. Hope you like em.
The first one is in the format of a ballad i believe (if I'm remembering correctly) and the second one is a free-verse poem.
A Blessed Grace
What colored leaf descends from above,
That finds its resting place,
In places not touched by Your love,
Not seen by Your all seeing face.
What petal falls into the pool,
Of tranquil water clear,
In morning’s silent ceaseless cool,
Not heard by Your all hearing ear.
What dew alights upon a blade,
Of grass so green and bright,
No matter the secluded glade,
Not once eludes it Your sight.
Where be found that silent place,
Not known to eye nor ear,
That rests outside Your boundless grace,
No place exists so drear
Where is there a place to rest
That God has not bestowed
A blessed grace on our behest
The traveler there to rest his load.
Smoldering Coals
Upon the hearth
Sits a stand
That bears shovel tongs, and poker brand,
The utensils with which to stoke a fire.
The poker black,
Dark and dreary
Invigors the fire
From ashes clearly
Not yet cold-
But still not warm
The fire still smolders
In the morn
The ashes still
May yet grow warm
But lacking kindling
It will slow,
From smoldering ash
To blackened coal,
Then the tongs
Grasp the log
In a vise
And place it
On the smoldering coals
And as the flames grow,
The ashes die.
Taken by the shovel
Outside they blow,
Tossed by the gusts
Of biting cold.
Yet the fire burns on,
Fed by the sure hand
Of the one who holds shovel, tongs, and poker brand.
The first one is in the format of a ballad i believe (if I'm remembering correctly) and the second one is a free-verse poem.
A Blessed Grace
What colored leaf descends from above,
That finds its resting place,
In places not touched by Your love,
Not seen by Your all seeing face.
What petal falls into the pool,
Of tranquil water clear,
In morning’s silent ceaseless cool,
Not heard by Your all hearing ear.
What dew alights upon a blade,
Of grass so green and bright,
No matter the secluded glade,
Not once eludes it Your sight.
Where be found that silent place,
Not known to eye nor ear,
That rests outside Your boundless grace,
No place exists so drear
Where is there a place to rest
That God has not bestowed
A blessed grace on our behest
The traveler there to rest his load.
Smoldering Coals
Upon the hearth
Sits a stand
That bears shovel tongs, and poker brand,
The utensils with which to stoke a fire.
The poker black,
Dark and dreary
Invigors the fire
From ashes clearly
Not yet cold-
But still not warm
The fire still smolders
In the morn
The ashes still
May yet grow warm
But lacking kindling
It will slow,
From smoldering ash
To blackened coal,
Then the tongs
Grasp the log
In a vise
And place it
On the smoldering coals
And as the flames grow,
The ashes die.
Taken by the shovel
Outside they blow,
Tossed by the gusts
Of biting cold.
Yet the fire burns on,
Fed by the sure hand
Of the one who holds shovel, tongs, and poker brand.