Equine Courage

He strides it out the stretch

And looks toward the line

The other beasts of kick and froth

Know not his pace sublime.

The Rider trusted yet

The two as one for sure.

Faith marking out the time.

The lungs have lots in store.

His heart is rich with love

Fine effort gains the lead

To please his Lord above.

A rival seeks to wound

Ans frustrate such bold quest

But still we laud the Runner

Whose heart beats for the best.

His line, his form hold true

We hear the crowd, their cheers.

And beautifully, the Goal is passed

Worth all the trials and tears.

In Five…

If I had about five minutes

And your thoughts would stay with me

I would paint a grizzly picture

Of a Hill and shameful Tree.

Of a Man who did no wrong

But was punished just the same.

Holding court in righteous posture

While His judges were to blame.

He had been the Healing Traveler

And the Teller of grand Tales.

He had given time to lonely

And so gently cured their ails.

But they worried about upset

And the sham to be exposed

So they labeled Him a blasphemer

And this King they quick deposed.

In five minutes I could not drum up

Thoughts that captivate the Heart

But the Holy Ghost could use such

And a brand New Life impart.

Wordless Music to the King

My wife is in the parlour

Some music has her soul

Some online blessed compendium

That feeds the person whole

From where I sit

No words to it

But tones and groans and joy

The place is rendered

Sanctuary

If we, the mood employ

If we the Christ

Rehearse in it

The Adoration comes

Oh might this sound

Bring Holy Ground

To other searching Homes.

Rumblings

Thundering, hours after Canada Day

The relaxed, festive spirit fleeting

Power suggesting from the clouds

The potential to destroy

To twist trees and neighbourhoods

Terribly.

To loosen floodwaters of awesome change.

But does the damage come?

Or does our merciful God hold back?

Are there suggestions in it

Of please more mercy, more compassion

More listening to the marginalized

More respect for failing elderly

For untended wee ones

More thankfulness for employments

More sensitive caution with tongue or pen.

Pioneers whimsically told stories

Of bowling in the mountains

As the sport of elfish rogues.

We think that it will all

Just pass away…once again.

Sun returning, birds again evident.

But…

It is of the Lord’s mercies

That we are not consumed. (Lamentations 3 or perhaps Amos 4)

Poems: So Much Said, So Briefly

No man takes the farm

by John Masefield

No man takes the farm,
Nothing grows there;
The ivy’s arm
Strangles the rose there.

Old Farmer Kyrle
Farmed there the last;
He beat his girl
(It ‘s seven years past).

After market it was
He beat his girl;
He liked his glass,
Old Farmer Kyrle.

Old Kyrle’s son
Said to his father:
“Now, dad, you ha’ done,
I’ll kill you rather!

“Stop beating sister,
Or by God I’ll kill you!”
Kyrle was full of liquor—
Old Kyrle said: “Will you?”

Kyrle took his cobb’d stick
And beat his daughter;
He said: “I’ll teach my chick
As a father oughter.”

Young Will, the son,
Heard his sister shriek;
He took his gun
Quick as a streak.

He said: “Now, dad,
Stop, once for all!”
He was a good lad,
Good at kicking the ball.

His father clubbed
The girl on the head.
Young Will upped
And shot him dead.

“Now, sister,” said Will,
“I’ve a-killed father:
As I said I’d kill.
O my love, I’d rather

“A-kill him again
Than see you suffer.
O my little Jane,
Kiss good-bye to your brother.

“I won’t see you again,
Nor the cows homing,
Nor the mice in the grain,
Nor the primrose coming,

“Nor the fair, nor folk,
Nor the summer flowers
Growing on the wold,
Nor ought that ‘s ours.

“Not Tib the cat,
Not Stub the mare,
Nor old dog Pat,
Never anywhere.

“For I’ll be hung
In Gloucester prison
When the bell ‘s rung
And the sun ‘s risen.”

They hanged Will
As Will said;
With one thrill
They choked him dead.

Jane walked the wold
Like a grey gander;
All grown old
She would wander.

She died soon:
At high-tide,
At full moon,
Jane died.

The brook chatters
As at first;
The farm it waters
Is accurst.

No man takes it,
Nothing grows there;
Blood straiks it,
A ghost goes there.

For a time John Masefield was Britain’s poet Laureate with such exquisite stories as The Everlasting Mercy, Dauber. Good Friday and The Widow in the Bye Street. Received an old book from Mike Steubing, formerly a factory workmate. The poems have been read and read again.