Twitter Poetry: Some Vain Attempt

Some vain attempt at #poetry / To gain some awkward notoriety/ Words wandering over the waste / Of the anarchy of post-modernity / Look at the Pale Blue Dot / Wandering in the vastness of space / Crawling with dust mites lost in their own vanity / Scurrying about in haste / Stop

Anarchy

As the Psalmist said,
“Why do the heathen rage,
And the peoples imagine a vain thing.”

The incessant ranting and raving,
Continuously roars out its rage and hate.
The chasms between us widen,
In the echo chambers of our separate tribes,
And their self preaching to their choir.

A confusion of tongues;
A Babel of sound.
Pressing down upon us,
Grinding us down.

No middle ground.
No place of meeting.
Left to ourselves in idolatry and pride;
Reaping what we sow.
Sowing to the wind;
Reaping the whirlwind.

We would not have Him rule over us,
So are left to rule ourselves,
In the cosmic anarchy and chaos,
Of the choices we have made;
While shaking our fists into the sky.

© May 2018, all rights reserved

Winter Slumber

Snow falls driven by bitter wind, shaking bare trees and green evergreens. Earth slumbers beneath a white blanket. The sky gray with cloud.

An Autumn Woodland Trail

Cool autumn wind blows softly
Through the bare and leafless trees.
The woodland trail now covered
By those fallen denizens;
Fallen from on high,
Leaving branches naked
Against the pale sky
Of that more distant sun
Waning in the equinoxial Fall.

Sinking slowly into anticipated slumber,
Is the woodland nodding.
Winter sleep beckons
With dreams of spring to come.

But let the autumn linger
Yet a little while,
To dream of summer past,
As I walk another mile.

J. William Newcomer (November 15, 2016; All rights reserved.)

Do Not Disturb So Easily

Do not disturb so easily
The dead who lay beneath the sod;
Unknown to those who live and breathe,
Forgotten by all is the life they trod.

Stroll reverently among the graves;
This no place for light frolic or jest.
Remember soon will come the day,
You will too lay there among the dead.

Do not disturb so easily,
Those, who in rest, await the Day.
While you walk so blithely,
Giving no thought about your way.

Do not disturb so easily
The dead who lay beneath the sod.
The day will come when you too,
Will also go to meet your God.

J. William Newcomer
September 28, 2015 © All rights reserved.

Borealis

They battled…
Flashes lit up the darkness of the night…
Howls and shrieks and the blaring trumpets shattered the stillness,
Though scarcely heard so far below.

No room or place for tactics or strategy;
No flanking movements…
No lovely high ground,
No field of advantage,
Straight out head on clash, weapon upon weapon,
Brutal frontal assault…
One upon another…

Slowly the thrust of battle shifted…
Higher, higher, higher the warring armies ascended…
The clash of and flash of light faded,
And the darkness again ruled the night.
Until dawn broke across the eastern sky…

J. William Newcomer Copyright © December, 2014

doppelgänger

 I sit there idly in the van
As it slowly moves through the brushes
And water and rub-a-dubs and soap.
So as we come off the rinse
Into the fiercely blowing drying blasts of air,
I look to my left into the wall sized mirror
In which van and I are reflected. 

Startled I am to see myself there
As if in some philotic reflection of
 Myself in another universe,
 Or non-dimension outside of any universe.
I nod greeting to myself and
Wonder in our nodding to ourself,
If we could reach across the separation,
What would we do to one another?

 Copyright © 2014 by J. William Newcomer;  All rights reserved.

Relative Time

We see time as linear;
That being how we experience time,
Though we know it is relative;
Being realized in the relation of objects
In their relative motion one to another.

We say God is outside of time,
As He would have to be; being creator of these objects
And their relative motion in relation one to another
By which time we see…

So for us who are finite, time will always be,
For only He can encompass eternity…
So be careful how you speak of time;
Of ages past or yet to come.
For one is as a thousand,
And a thousand is as one.

J. William Newcomer, November 2013, Copyright © November 2013, all rights reserved.

Why Poetry?

"Why do we have to read poetry? Why "II Penseroso"? Read it and you will know why. If you still don't know, read it again. And again. Some of them took the things she said to heart, as she had done once when they were said to her. She was helping them assume their humanity. People have always made poetry, she told them. Trust that it will matter to you..."

~ "Home" by Marilynne Robinson

"O God, our help in ages past,
our hope for years to come,
our shelter from the stormy blast,
and our eternal home.

Under the shadow of thy throne,
still may we dwell secure;
sufficient is thine arm alone,
and our defense is sure.

Before the hills in order stood,
or earth received her frame,
from everlasting, thou art God,
to endless years the same.

A thousand ages, in thy sight,
are like an evening gone;
short as the watch that ends the night,
before the rising sun.

Time, like an ever rolling stream,
bears all who breathe away;
they fly forgotten, as a dream
dies at the opening day.

O God, our help in ages past,
our hope for years to come;
be thou our guide while life shall last,
and our eternal home. "

~ Isaac Watts

This past month (December 2012) we have had occassion to bury both my mother and my father. Dad passed away two weeks and one day after mom did. As I contemplated what a major change this is going to be in my life, the above words of Isaac Watts came to mind.

(Cross posted to The Billy Goat Blog.)

HUSH’D be the camps to-day,

HUSH’D be the camps to-day,
And soldiers let us drape our war-worn weapons,
And each with musing soul retire to celebrate,
Our dear commander’s death.

No more for him life’s stormy conflicts,
Nor victory, nor defeat- no more time’s dark events,
Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky.
But sing poet in our name,

Sing of the love we bore him- because you, dweller in camps, know it truly.

As they invault the coffin there,
Sing- as they close the doors of earth upon him- one verse,
For the heavy hearts of soldiers.

Walt Whitman – May, 1865

(Acknowledgement to Cosmic America.)

memory...

As I contemplate the years;
How swiftly they flew by,
All those long gone younger days
From once upon a time.

The history we have lived,
The stories we could tell;
Lingering in our memory
Of heaven, earth, and hell.

Feeling it keener every day,
Our mortality drawing near;
Every breath and step we take;
Becomes so very much more dear.

The things we did or did not do;
All the choices we have made;
Have set the pathway of our life;
Steered the course of our life's way.

Our path entwined with many paths
Of those we knew along the way;
Shadows and ghosts in our memory,
Some forgotten, but many stayed.

Hither to the Lord has helped me
Unto this time of life I've came.
To the end He will be with me,
All praise and glory to His name.

J. Willaim Newcomer, October, 2012

Days fall shorter.Trees shed their leafy glory. An expectation in the air. Subtle changes herald Autumn's reign. It's coming! It's coming!

As clouds gather ominously. The wind in uncertain gusts makes the leaves dance on the tree. The air hangs humid and hot. A soft rain falls.

Introducing Twitter Poetry

I recently set up a Twitter account. Twitter posts are limited to 140 spaces. Tonight I "invented" Twitter Poetry. The point is to write a meaningful poetic piece using all 140 spaces. here is my first Twitter poem.

The sun has set. The air is still. Sounds of night fill the air in the gloaming of the day. The earth turns. Stars twinkle. Dawn awaits..

Among the Evergreens

Stately they rise majestically,
A top the hill along the road.
Towering on high, we see them from afar;
A landmark amidst the rolling fields.
Through the opened gate we drive
Along the attending juniper heralds;
Back into the palace court where
Stately Pine Lords hold council and watch
Over the stones neatly arrayed in rows,
Amongst both shaded grass and sunlit lawn;
As Guardians of the sacred hill,
Where laid beneath the sod,
Are the family and friends we knew.

A peaceful place this sacred court
Where from blue sky with scattered clouds
The sun shines warmly down.
So we wander through that sacred ground,
Noting a loved one there,
Or there a neighbor found,
Or ancient ancestor of a generation
Long before our life began.
Here they lay, reposed serene,
Among the evergreens.

J. William Newcomer, March 2012, Copyright © March 2012, all rights reserved.

Death, be not proud (Holy Sonnet 10) by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Excerpt from The Aeneid (1)

Oh friends, who greater sufferings still have borne,
(For not unknown to us are former griefs,)
The deity will also give an end,
To These, You have approached the furious rage
Of Scylla and her hoarse resounding cliffs.
You the Cyclopean rocks have known full well.
Recall your courage; banish gloomy fears.
Someday perhaps the memory of these things
Shall yield delight. Through various accidents,
Through many a strait of fortune, we are bound
For Latium, where our fates point out to us
A quiet resting place. There its decreed
Troy's kingdom shall rise again. Be firm,
And keep your hearts in hope of brighter days.

(The Aeneid, Virgil, Book I)

This quote is from the speech of Aeneas to his companions after being swept by a storm upon the coast of Africa near the city of Carthage.

(Quotes from Virgil's Aeneid are from the translation by Christopher Pearse Cranch, 1872)

Of The Father's Love Begotten

Of the Father’s love begotten, ere the worlds began to be,
He is Alpha and Omega, He the source, the ending He,
Of the things that are, that have been,
And that future years shall see, evermore and evermore!

At His Word the worlds were framèd; He commanded; it was done:
Heaven and earth and depths of ocean in their threefold order one;
All that grows beneath the shining
Of the moon and burning sun, evermore and evermore!

He is found in human fashion, death and sorrow here to know,
That the race of Adam’s children doomed by law to endless woe,
May not henceforth die and perish
In the dreadful gulf below, evermore and evermore!

O that birth forever blessèd, when the virgin, full of grace,
By the Holy Ghost conceiving, bare the Savior of our race;
And the Babe, the world’s Redeemer,
First revealed His sacred face, evermore and evermore!

This is He Whom seers in old time chanted of with one accord;
Whom the voices of the prophets promised in their faithful word;
Now He shines, the long expected,
Let creation praise its Lord, evermore and evermore!

O ye heights of heaven adore Him; angel hosts, His praises sing;
Powers, dominions, bow before Him, and extol our God and King!
Let no tongue on earth be silent,
Every voice in concert sing, evermore and evermore!

Righteous judge of souls departed, righteous King of them that live,
On the Father’s throne exalted none in might with Thee may strive;
Who at last in vengeance coming
Sinners from Thy face shalt drive, evermore and evermore!

Thee let old men, thee let young men, thee let boys in chorus sing;
Matrons, virgins, little maidens, with glad voices answering:
Let their guileless songs re-echo,
And the heart its music bring, evermore and evermore!

Christ, to Thee with God the Father, and, O Holy Ghost, to Thee,
Hymn and chant with high thanksgiving, and unwearied praises be:
Honor, glory, and dominion,
And eternal victory, evermore and evermore!

Au­rel­i­us Pru­den­ti­us, 5th Cen­tu­ry (Corde na­tus ex pa­ren­tis); trans­lat­ed from La­tin to Eng­lish by John M. Neale, 1854, and Hen­ry W. Bak­er, 1859.

"The Alchemist" by Patricia St. John

My Master an elixer hath that turns
All base and worthless substances to gold.
From rubble stones He fashions palaces
Most beautiful and stately to behold.
He garners with a craftsman's skillful care
All that we break and weeping cast away.
His eyes see uncut opals in the rock
And shapely vessels in our trampled clay.
The sum of life's lost opportunities,
The broken friendships, and the wasted years,
These are His raw materials;
His hands rest on fragments, weld them with His tears.
A patient Alchemist! --He bides His time,
Broods while the south winds breathe, the
North winds blow,
And weary self, at enmity with self,
Works out its own destruction, bitter slow,
Our gallant highways petered out in mire,
Our airy castles crumbled into dust,
Leaving us stripped of all save firece desire,
He comes, with feet deliberate and slow,
Who counts a contrite heart His sacrifice.
(No other bidders rise to stake their claims,
He only on our ruins sets a price.)
And stooping very low engraves with care
His name, indelible, upon our dust;
And from the ashes of our self-despair
Kindles a flame of hope and humble trust.
He seeks no second site on which to build,
But on the old foundation, stone by stone,
Cementing sad experiance with grace,
Fashions a stronger temple of His own.

An Ordinary Woman’s Extraordinary Faith - The Autobiography of Patricia St. John; Harold Shaw Publishers, Wheaton, IL; (1993) pgs. 297-298