If past knowledge is hidden
We joke about the forbidden
Yesterday becomes jester day
What we court is of the sort
The important is cut short
Devaluing work, overworking play
The new, not what I knew,
Attempts to override what I say.
Viewing entries in
Poetry
My Girl
It's at the age of 13 when I see
the one who is to marry me.
Was this a prophesy?
Something foretold to come to pass
that through anything would continue to last?
She was the best looking in our class
but her inward beauty is what holds me fast.
Her work in the home is beyond 1st class.
It's the Ritz, Lago Mar both made into one,
what without her could not be done.
She can take invisible lemons
cutting them squarely into,
a talent in the home I'm foreign to.
Her overlooking of "Male Refrigerator Blindness"
is just more evidence of her "sweetness and kindness".
Therefore no fear exists when I hunger and thirst
because My Lord gave me His girl of Proverbs, the 31st.
George Landolt
8/17/2005
The drawing, not the drive
Breath to thrive, not just survive
Thoughts composing into peace
The heart transforming into a fleece
Breath’s warmth as close to a fire
Dread quenched by the lips’ desire
Willing to wonder, but wandering
Stopped in stillness, now pondering
Deeper today than faster yesterday
Fostering tomorrow by learning to play
Forgotten tomorrows no longer by what I say
Sorrows grounded darkly in height
Clearer vision by decision from the living Light.
Is it really so mysterious how to take joy so serious that I can believe at length that the joy of the Lord is my strength?
Does joy mean humour or is that just a rumour?
Is there a method to this "madness" or is my humour really sadness?
The Lord puts laughter in our mouth from His "north" to our "south".
Does this cause our "south" to rise again?
Is this where our resurrection of joy begins?
Is this a question I ask of men or is this such a time
when my faith becomes kin?
Kin in such a way that I learn to hate sin?
Does hating sin remove the fun or is taking joy so serious that it's a pleasure in being a "son'?
George Landolt
10/14/2005
A failed spark
Seems still dark
Felt as stark
The closet I park
Do I read Mark?
Do I sing or bark?
Is it open, the door of the arc?
Am I drowning in good standing?
I’m doing what your commanding.
My feet are landing
Understanding is expanding
Thought it was a plan
Instead it was a Man
I was about to run
Until I heard son.
If the dark shows our heart
Where then do I start?
Is a question an important part?
Is Truth what mends or tears apart?
Is a question the horse before the cart?
I’m thinking now no question.
I’m feeling now no thinking
I’m seeing now no feeling
My prayer just rose above the ceiling.
I’m now steel into the knight.
The dance, modified by circumstance, not chance.
The lead, not Lancelot, but lanced a lot.
Well done not rare. Outlasting the unfair.
Critical thinking while criticized without blinking.
Fiercely and tenderly committed while submitted.
Taught when caught while being sought.
Awake during sleep as a sheep under His keep.
Making time for the sublime. Ready to turn on a dime.
Broken into a remake. Remarkable through heartache.
Peace as the release becoming a masterpiece.
The birth of a storm
Is it fire or is it form
Is its desire cold or is it warm
Is it delight or is it scorn
Is it a question about to be born
Is the answer seamless or torn
What does the promise warn
Oh I remember why I was born
I want to scream, make a scene,
beyond the mean, a new shot clean
where wrestling is no struggle
nor the options I juggle.
The pin of my creative pen
is power to stop, begin again.
My mind, sometimes blind,
no longer to leave me in a bind.
I’m bound to the sound
that leads me to the ground
at the cross I found, now sound
even when not strong or am wrong.
Salute to rising and improvising.
Learning as I go
to learn new ways, not ego.
Creative and combative
Ear to the ground, as a native.
Now passion to fashion a heart of compassion
Permission with condition to position the volition
that I continue in the venue of the Eye
that clears the sky that will not die
except to be with me
Either or neither?
Take a breather.
As a believer
A dream weaver.
Though an achiever
More a receiver.
What’s in your hand?
Demands are like sand.
They slip your grip
Doing only what you can.
Should I guess or bless?
Is your grip on your mess?
What if you confess
No more no less?
Challenge the stress.
Soothe by caress.
Free not to impress.
Listening more, talking less.
Stronger longer to rest in progress
Knowing the promise is always Yes.
My way has no High way
I go by the Way
A drive by so to say
Eager but not serious
Calling a calling delirious
High minded and unwinded I confess
Unbridled without brokenness
Idolizing my distress
By pressing my idle
Idolizing stress
Without a bridle.
Angry because afraid
Knowing I’m being played
Out of view of the parade
Thinking I’m self-made.
Storms of the face
Are they the storms I face
Reflected in my pace
That put me in my place
Did I respond to Grace
As a basket case
In an impossible race
Do I continue to chase
What is already in place
Can I see without a trace
A King from an ace
Can I be a broken vase
On a dusty bookcase
Time to embrace what I can’t erase
Back to the shoe lace in the foot race
Inspires before requires
On fire before in the fire
Deep passion when dire
Deep thinking on the wire
Harmony taken higher
Exhausted in the Crossfire
Rewires the quagmire
Spitfire in the wildfire
Magnifier as a rectifier
Wants less with more desire
Re-tires as a multiplier
Try Her