Thursday, October 30, 2014

THE SEARCH FOR PEACE

If peace should come as Death would prey,
It’s peace I’d beg to come my way;
Silent walks the hungered thing
With scythe in hand and peace to bring.
And now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray that peace leaves not to weep
A saddened lover in the mist
With sobs to lend a heaving chest. . .

But God would say who dies or lives
And almost all, my God forgives,
But it’s that one dark sin, you see—
The urge to run, the want to flee,
The giving up and giving in
When life’s hard times would seem to win—
That even God would ne’er forgive.

For 'tis His gift, the want to live.
Father, take me as I am;
I’d ask to be but one more lamb
Tended by The Shepherd’s care
Through darkest times and pure despair;
Hold my spirit in your hand
Until I walk in Heaven’s Land.

Amen.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

THE CHALICE

If ere there were an empty chalice,
If substance ere were formed of malice,
If will were ill and easy poured,
Then ever shall I pray, “My Lord,
“Never let me be that vessel
“That’s malice filled, but be my trestle
“Across a deep and dark crevasse
“Of hate. . .don’t let me be that glass.

“And never let me harbor that
“Christened ship Resentment at
“My port and dock of future’s dreams.”
(It’s devil’s cargo, so it seems.)
And should thee waltz along the deck
Of Resentment, ye’d best check
For bodies of that ghost ship’s mates
Strewn ‘crossed the deck like empty crates.

“Come walk with me along the path
“Of sweet, self-righteous wrath,”
The devil croons in listening ear,
And such a tempting song to hear.
 
Black’s the rose of ill repose
That Forever—laughing—chose,
To lay me to rest in that rose garden;
God shan’t offer Holy Pardon.

So naught remains that I might do
If I’m to see His Light shine through
But lay myself at My Savior’s feet
As did Ruth pull back the sheet
Of her redeemer way back then
And ask he take her wholly in.

Jesus, Savior, take my soul
In broken shards and make me whole!
I’d walk with you, and by your hand,
Lead me to The Father’s Land.
If ere I were an empty chalice,
Please fill me with the Holy Ghost;
For all I’d pray, I crave that most. 

Amen.

WHEN HARD'S THE HEART

Forgiveness from a heart of stone takes flight,
And ne’er will peace find lasting home unless
Somewhere along the way a wrong’s made right.

As man would stand to fellow man in fight,
The hardened heart can’t see the uselessness,
When forgiveness from a heart of stone takes flight.

Sore wounded pride ne’er heals inside despite
Time passed, as man seems ne’er to learn or guess
Somewhere along the way the wrong’s made right.

How long’s the day and long’s the callused night!
As deeper into self man will regress,
When forgiveness from a heart of stone takes flight.

If man should keep forgiveness in his sight,
And man would but to ask his Lord to bless,
Somewhere along the way a wrong’s made right.

If God would live in man and shine His light,
And in a whispered prayer, man would confess,
“Forgiveness from a heart of stone takes flight;”
Somewhere along the way, a wrong’s made right.

                               --Monty Wheeler

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

The Chair (flash fiction)

100 words of flash fiction that plays to two hearts, that of a prose poem and the heart of fiction

The Chair
by Monty Wheeler

The Chair

The Chair sat there, and so did he, the little boy lost in a world no man called free.  The Chair consumed—so small was he; not bad to be swallowed by The Chair.  He hid his tears with little boy pride, for boys don’t cry, he’d heard that lie.  He curled himself into a ball and prayed to God and Grandpa too.  What else could any little boy do when God takes Mom and Dad from you?  God and Grandpa both reached down to touch the boy whose tears would drown.  Sorrow’s pain stabs again.

Monday, October 6, 2014

There Really Is a Gifthorse

The Horse
By Monty Wheeler

          Melinda stood outside the barn, just where her daddy said, and waited with one part hope and three parts of pure dread.  She hated surprises for too many times her hopes had been shattered and scattered like shiny bright dimes.  The worst was when Daddy took Mama to that big, germ free place; she didn’t come back to wipe the tears from a scared little girl’s face; they said she was dead and gone to God’s grace.   But she knew better; her mama was there, right with her always to hold her and care. 

         Her daddy led him out; and right away, she loved him of course.  Not just any giant horse; the big dappled gray had some special sway and swagger to his gait.  the gleam in his eye gave Melinda to cry; but oh, such happy tears she spilled.  Her uncle asked, “how many hands?”  All she could muster was clapping with joy; her hands were for petting, not measuring that boy.

         She’d never been of lace or yarn, no pearl one, knit two, she’d urge to learn.  She loved the farm and barnyard scents at dawn.  But how they laughed at her in school; they always said, “Your daddy dresses you funny!” when she wore her little girl Roper boots and Wrangler jeans and snaps on shirts.  Some days she cried and others denied her wounded, hurting heart. 

     Out came the tack; Melinda stepped back and screamed, “No!  Don’t want that stuff, Daddy; it hurts him!”

     “Without the saddle you can not ride,” her daddy said in voice as soft and gentle as goose down bed. 

     “And without this bridle, you sure can’t guide.”

     “I don’t care, Daddy,” Melinda pouted.  “Don’t want that awful shiny thing in his teeth, and don’t want those real tight strap things underneath his big, soft tummy.”

     “But, Melinda, you can’t ride—“

     “Just watch me, Daddy,” Melinda cried.  She led the large steed to the old well, climbed the rock wall, and with handful of golden mane, she went for it all.

     The big, gentle breed of remarkable steed—as if he knew the little girl’s need—walked to the fence and set to return to the bucket of corn Melinda’s daddy rattled.  But Melinda had none of that corn-spoiled fun.  A cowgirl’s instinct tugged at his mane; he turned down the fencerow as if it were plain the big, ol’ horse the little girl wanted the same thing.

     “Melinda!” her daddy called and started their way.  She set him to trot; it bounced her a lot, but with both hands deep in his natural mane, she stayed on his back, ne’er noticed the pain of bouncing on his hard knobbed spine.  At canter he smoothed the rough-on-her ride, and more she urged by rubbing his side.  His gallop was smooth as riding on air; Melinda clung tight to his neck and cackled, for freedom was hers, a cowgirl unshackled.

     She failed to see, even with her wide-eyed stare the far north fence way out there.  But oh, how her horse could set a girl free; ne’er had she run as fast as he.  And bigger he grew in her mind’s eye until he loomed large as big ol’ blue sky.  And nearer the fence, but still they’d not slow, and nearer the fence at full gallop they’d go.  

      “Now Dasher!  Now Dancer!  Now Prancer and Vixen!”  She called reindeers’ names but none seemed to fit her horse was a dasher, but that name was not it.  She felt her steed tense and finally she sensed the dangerous barbs of the five stranded fence.  As he drew his legs under and gathered his force, t’was naught she could do but hold fast to her course.   Behind Melinda, she heard Daddy scream, “Hold on to him, Baby!”  Daddy’s voice seemed extreme, for ne’er had she felt so lighter than air, as the horse cleared the fence with inches to spare. 

     As Pegasus rose, they caught an updraft, and far below was her daddy waving arms to his girl.  Melinda waved “bye” and called “I love you!   I’m going to see Mama!  I’ll tell you love her and miss her lots too!”

      Pegasus flew into the bright sun.  One horse.  One cowgirl.  One dream of forever and two friends hath begun.

Friday, January 17, 2014

THE ROMANTIC DARK - Writing.Com

what takes place on long days when not much is happening around home or net.  sensless drivel in meter and rhyme, but. . .perhaps not so senseless

THE ROMANTIC DARK - Writing.Com