Parting is such sweet sorrow...

To all my faithful readers:
Well, the time has arrived.  I leave in a few days, and the hustle and bustle of packing is on.  I may not have time to post in between now and Monday when I leave, so this is good-bye.
I have thoroughly enjoyed our time together.  The fact that you are reading my blog is yet another proof that the love of poetry has not entirely left this world.  for that I am most thankful.  Thank you for reading, and for sharing in one of my great loves.
In parting, here are a few quotes on poets and their children - poems.

"He who draws noble delights from sentiments of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life."
George Sand

"The smell of ink is intoxicating to me - others may have wine, but I have poetry."
Terri Guillemets

"The poet doesn't invent.  He listens."
Jean Cocteau

"To have great poets there must be great audiences too."
Walt Whitman

"Everything in creation has its appointed painter or poet, and remains in bondage like the princess in the fairy tale 'til its appropriate liberator comes to set it free."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

"To a poet, poetry is paramount; it is to him nourishment, shelter and love: nourishment to his eternally hungering soul, shelter from the cruelties of mortality, and love when there is no other love to be found.  To him poetry is life, and life is poetry."
David Jamison

It's Christmas

Two years ago, early on Christmas morning, I was out walking in the snow.  While marveling at the beauty of Winter, and pondering the special Spirit that is present at this time of year, some lines entered into my mind.  A short while later this poem had come into the world.

I do sometimes feel as if my poems were my children, after a fashion.  I strive and labor to bring them forth, I do my best to make them as good and pure as I can, and then they go out into the world.  Will they be accepted or ridiculed, praised or ignored; will they live up to my hopes and expectations?  Only time will tell...

Somewhere in the night

the rain turned into snow

and, with bitter force,

now cruelly doth blow.

Winter has us grasped

in his icy hold,

but stop shiv’ring and you’ll find

it’s not really that cold.

The warmth in our hearts,

that comes at Christmas time,

breathes through our soul

with a peace sublime.

The peace upon the earth,

promised long ago,

starts in every heart

and then forth doth go.

Oh joy, it’s Christmas!

Wake up your sleeping heart;

God, through His Son,

His love doth now impart.

Take that love and joy

and spread it all around;

then, once more, in our hearts

we’ll hear the angel-sound.

David Jamison

My Lighthouse, Beacon and Star

I want you to think about a person who you know personally that inspires you; someone that you admire for how good they are.  If the people you are thinking of are anything like the ones I am, chances are that they don't see themselves in as high of a regard as you do.
This poem is about one of those people.  I wrote this for someone who I completely adore for their goodness, kindness and purity.  They are all I portray them as and so much more.  And you know what?  They would never even guess that people (I'm not the only one by far) see them like that.
To all the quiet, unassuming heroes in our lives, heroic just by being themselves.

A picture is worth

a thousand words,

but I’m stumbling over these few;

and even if

I could say them right,

ten thousand would never do.

A million pictures,

a billion words,

and these would come only so close;

of the praise you deserve

my paltry words

are but a shadow and a ghost.

And even if, by

some miracle,

my telling did tell it just right,

you wouldn’t believe

these words at all -

you see it in a more humble light.

What irony

that those so great,

the best that live on the earth,

should never know

nor truly see

their unsurpassable worth.

You, who sees the good

in all those around,

are blind to your own vast light;

if I could work

one miracle,

I’d give to you perfected sight.

But I cannot tell,

and you won’t believe,

the good that I see within you;

I stutter and trip

over these words,

but it’s miles from that which is due.

My one comfort is

that angels above

are recording your deeds here below

in a tongue perfect;

I hope I’m there

when you your story are shown.

The light that will shine,

the tears in your eyes,

as you realize just who you are -

the good that you did,

the souls you touched;

you’re my lighthouse, beacon and star.

David Jamison

The Gettysburg Address

I know that when I started this blog, I stated that it would be for the purpose of publishing poems and thoughts on the subject of poetry.  However, with your approval, I would like to deviate from that slightly in today's post.
This is the 148th anniversary of the giving of the Gettysburg Address by U.S. President Abraham Lincoln.  While it is not poetry by the strict sense of the word, it was and still is one of the greatest speeches of all time.  In it, a speech that lasted only two minutes, he captured the spirit of freedom, the greatness of our nation, and the courage and devotion of all honorable soldiers.to the next.
It was in his mind a simple, unimportant speech, and yet it is still remembered to this day, as well it should be.  How much we underestimate the power our words may have, for good or for ill.  How little we grasp how long our words may ring from one end of the earth
Whether you are from America or another nation, this speech captures in it the essence of liberty, a gift that is not just for one nation, but for all lands, peoples and creeds.
May his words change your life as they have mine.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Abraham Lincoln 1809-1865

The Standard Bearer

In honor of this Veterans Day, of 11-11-11, and of my 40th post on this blog, I decided I would put a poem here that is very near and dear to my heart.
This poem was one that I started more than four years ago.  Since then I've rewritten it several times, expanding and refining it, though the story and message have remained the same.  It is now my longest poem by far, with fifty stanzas of four lines each and just over one-thousand words, and holds a place in my top three favorite of any I've written.  Along the way I've had help from several friends with turning it into the piece it is now.  This post is in part dedicated to them, though I will preserve their anonymity.
It was with this poem that I won an international award last year (the same contest I finalized in this year,) and I got to perform it in front of a crowd of several hundred at the awards ceremony.  It was a very wonderful and memorable experience, one for which I am very grateful.
The story of how this allegorical poem came about is thus: I was listening to a Christian-themed song; one of the lines talked about lifting the standard when there was no one else around.  At that point I had an experience which is extremely rare for me; an image appeared in my mind of a young boy facing an opposing army, holding a tattered flag (also known as a standard.)  In an hour or so the first version was completed.
I apologize for the long introduction, but this is one poem I felt needed some preface.  I would appreciate your comments; let me know what you think and feel.  So, without further ado, here is "The Standard Bearer."

A young, unseasoned warrior
upon the field did stand;
waiting for his captain
to give his first command.

The battle hadn’t started
when the captain gave his charge.
"You're to hold this flag up steady
despite gunfire, small or large."

Then he gave o’er the battle standard
(with its colors brave and true,)
saying "Stand upon this hill, my lad,
till death or I release you."

The boy then grasped the banner
with his heart and face alight.
Though the battle hadn’t come yet,
he was sure they'd win the fight.

For theirs was a battle
for land and liberty,
guarding from invaders
from another country.

He was glad to do his part
and to cheer the soldiers on;
for as long as he stood on that hill
the enemy had not won.

With daybreak came the trumpets,
and the troops were in array.
The sun had barely risen
when all had joined the fray.

The battle still was going strong
when the sun had reached its height;
now its cruel, uncaring rays
were burning with their might.

How hot it was upon the field!
And the boy, his lips were parched.
But yet he stood steadfastly,
as the soldiers ‘round him marched.

The afternoon was wearing on.
He soon forgot his thirst;
for explosions all around him
had now begun to burst.

The fight, ‘twas going badly,
the victory switching sides.
All ‘round the boy came fleeing back
the men, in rising tides.

"Stand firm for your country!"
(He called to urge them on.)
“Yet, e’en though I stand alone,
I'll still be her true son!"

The bullets were screaming closer,
they tugged his hat and coat.
The cannons roared the louder,
‘round his feet they dug a moat.

The captain saw the danger,
and he rushed to our dear boy’s aid;
but, before he could quite reach him,
to the ground the man was laid.

The boy never saw his leader
fall onto the ground;
his eyes were on the enemy,
his ears upon their sound.

A sound, oh how frightening,
‘twas the cries of demon-men
who did the work of terror,
and found glory therein.

They drew on ever closer,
like a roaring prairie fire;
stirring in the lonely boy
a coward’s base desire;

to run like the wind,
to flee from their sight;
and yet he stood fast
and held his standard tight.

The flag was violently waving,
though there was nary a breeze;
‘twas lead shot that sent it stirring,
their buzz - like angry bees.

But still our boy stood steady;
firm and unmoving was he!
Though standard-bearers ‘round him
had long since begun to flee.

There was only one other standing;
then, with a blast, he too was gone.
Our dear boy shook with terror;
he was now the only one.

It seemed every gun was aimed at him;
oh, how he yearned to run!
Slowly he lowered his standard,
despairing "It’s over. I’m done."

Then came the words of his captain,
"Don’t fall until you die."
Up swiftly came the banner
and he screamed the battle cry!

"For liberty, land and family!
For all that you hold dear!
For all that is worth fighting for,
show your weapons, not your fear!"

It flew with tongues of lightning,
from one voice to the next,
stirring iron into the hearts
that by fear were vexed.

One small cry, heard by many,
did change the tides of war.
Swiftly men came flooding back,
recalling what they fought for.

And with the strength of dragons
the enemy they did beat;
back quickly fled those scoundrels,
in terror and retreat.

"Victory," thought the boy,
"I didn’t fight in vain.
It was worth the danger,
it was worth the pain."

Just then, as they surrendered,
someone fired a parting round;
it lodged deep within the heart
of our boy upon the mound.

The joyous cry of victory
was cut short from his lips.
Then slowly, but surely,
the banner began to slip.

His fading life-clock, ticking,
began to fast unwind.
A thousand, sweetest mem'ries
and thoughts flash through his mind.

‘Twas time spent with the families
that he was fighting for,
both with the one he now had,
and the one no more in store.

The wife he’d never have,
children he’d never hold;
a tear sank down his cheek
as his hands grew cold.

Now all that he can see
is the terror that he fought,
not the several men
but the evil that they sought.

An evil just as faceless
as the violent, massing hoard,
an evil that says, "Virtue,
is something you can’t afford."

Denying men the freedom
to make themselves free;
a freedom gained by living
strict lives of purity.

He looked up at the banner
and saw, not a flag much torn,
but the many virtues
the world mocks with scorn.

For oft betimes ‘tis heavy,
and oh, so cumbersome,
to carry close your honor,
despite what e'er may come.

And loyalty and truth
are then called "out of date"
by those who, forever,
the narrow path do hate,

And chastity, strength-giver,
is scorned by the weak,
who live only for themselves,
thus losing what they seek.

Patriotism grows heavy
before the firing-line,
like the standard-pole
the boy's fingers did entwine.

It would be so easy
to let go and go numb.
Oh, to just give up
and to death succumb.

No! With his dying strength
he planted it in the ground!
Then, without a single moan,
he joined the dead all ‘round.

His life ended with the day;
but, as the sun went down,
his spirit left his body
and calmly looked around.

Then steadily rose his spirit
to stand above the plain.
His captain also had perished
and now they meet again.

"Well done, my young hero,
you bravely held your station.
Before you go to your reward
I have for you one question."

"Why didn’t you run with the rest?
You didn’t have to die."
"I have no regret," the boy said,
"I held my standard high."

"I was fighting in a cause
far greater than you or me.
I stood my ground, facing fear;
I’m glad I didn’t flee. "

They found the lad upon the mound,
the flag still in its place.
A calm little smile was still upon
our good young hero’s face.

They buried him on the hill;
by his stone the flag did fly.
By his name were etched these words,
"He held his standard high!"

David Jamison

Amazing Grace

My mind has been much caught up with the subject of Grace this past week, what it means and how far it reaches.  I am in the process of writing a piece about grace in my life, but since it isn't finished yet, I thought I'd post my favorite poem on the subject.
This poem/hymn was written by John Newton, a slave merchant of the 1700's, and a self-described "wretch."  His was a life filled with sin and mistreatment of others.  Then, while caught in a storm at sea, his eyes were opened to the Grace that had always been there for him.  From that day on he continually worked to turn his life around, eventually becoming a well-respected preacher and hymn writer.
Here are the original words of this best known hymn of his, since heard around the world.

Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound)
That sav’d a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears reliev’d;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believ’d!

Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promis’d good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who call’d me here below,
Will be forever mine.

John Newton, 1725-1807

Steadfast and Immovable

As I promised, here is the poem that was chosen as a finalist in the international contest I entered.  It's one I wrote some years ago, thinking about the strength today's younger generation holds, and the power that they have to change the world for the better.

I am a rock in the midst of the sea,

with waves crashing all around.

But I will stand firm in the face of those swells,

no matter how long they sound.

I am a tree with roots so deep,

that hold me steady and still.

Let the storm blow its worst, I’ll be strong

and hold fast to this hill.

I am the mountain that parts the skies,

that’s stood here fore’er and anon.

I was here before you were born,

and I’ll be here long after you’re gone.

I am a youth, and young though I am,

something of these three lies in me.

In the face of life’s storm I’ll stay true -

steadfast and immovable I’ll be.

David Jamison

Don't Look Back

So here it is; after almost three months, here is another one of my own poems.  I like sharing the work of those whom I admire, but there is something unique in putting my own work out here.  Now it is yours to praise or criticize, to laud or to decry.
This is a piece I saw unfolding and wrote down, shortly after the New Year.  I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.  Tell me, can you see it?  Does it take shape before you?  If the answer is yes, than I have succeeded.

Fiery little redhead,
squirrel in the tree;
treading her high tight-rope
oh so carefully.

She holds sumptuous cargo,
a giant, luscious nut,
to put away within
her cold weather hut.

She's miles off the ground,
on a slender twig,
reaching for another
almost just as big.

She slips, and almost falls;
she and I both gasp!
yet somehow she retains
the nut in her grasp.

She seems to gain right then
a dread fear of heights;
she heads back where she came,
safety in her sights.

But then she finds her nerve
and she turns about;
she takes the leap of faith
with her paws stretched out!

Where the treetops reach out,
as if to shake hands,
our squirrel leaps the gap
and safely she lands.

Safe on the other side,
with her winter snack,
she heads along her way -
not once looking back.

David Jamison

Nearer, my God to Thee

This well-known Christian hymn is one of my favorites.  I find great solace in its words, and wished to share them with you tonight.  I will be conducting a church choir in singing this in a few weeks, and that brought it back to the forefront of my mind. 
A famous, favored piece for over a century-and-a-half, it is thought that the music for this poem was played as the RMS Titanic sank beneath the ocean waves. 
In living or dying, these words bring peace, as it assures us of the truth that God is always there for us, stretching out His hand for us to come nearer, nearer to Him.

Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!
E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me,
still all my song shall be,
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,
darkness be over me, my rest a stone;
yet in my dreams I'd be
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

There let the way appear, steps unto heaven;
all that thou sendest me, in mercy given;
angels to beckon me
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Then, with my waking thoughts bright with thy praise,
out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise;
so by my woes to be
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Or if, on joyful wing cleaving the sky,
sun, moon, and stars forgot, upward I fly,
still all my song shall be,
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Sarah F. Adams

Opportunity

Once again, it has been some time since I last posted.  But here I am, back online and writing. 
Here is a poem I have been trying to re-locate for a while now.  It is another piece by Edward Sill, the writer of "The Fool's Prayer" (see the post for 6-25-2011.) 
This poem is non-rhyming, yet it is a rarity of its kind: it is one that I still find to be poetic; something that reaches past the eye and touches the heart.  I hope it inspires you as it has me.


This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle's edge,
And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-
That blue blade that the king's son bears,-but this
Blunt thing-!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.

Edward Rowland Sill

If

So, it has been a while since I last posted.  Summer-life with two jobs has a way of eating up your time.  Poetry is one of my greatest passions, but it even slips to my back-burner at times.
Here is a poem I find to be very inspiring, so much so that I wrote one myself with it as a guide.  Perhaps someday I'll share "There Is A Man Who Lived" (the piece I wrote,) with you, but for now enjoy the work of the great Rudyard Kipling; and then let me know what you think of it, and how it inspires you.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;
 
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
 
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Rudyard Kipling

Psalm 23

As I have said before, death makes you look at things from a different perspective.  And a funeral does that even more; for then the news of the person's death is real, then it really means that they've gone from this life into another.
For this post I am including a passage from the Holy Bible.  While it doesn't follow the usual rules of poetry that I apply to my writing, it is as touching as anything written by modern poets.
I know that somewhere out there, on the other side of my computer screen, there is someone going through the same thing I am at this very moment.  If you are that person, I hope that this helps you find comfort, as it has me.

The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil:
For thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
Thou anointest my head with oil;
My cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

King David, the Psalmist

Don't Quit

We've all had those days when we just want to quit.  I've had quite a few myself, some more recent than others.  If today is one of those days for you, here is a poem to help pick you back up.  It is by that remarkably prolific poet, Anonymous.

When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh;
When care is pressing you down a bit;
Rest, if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns
As every one of us sometimes learns;
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out:
Don't give up though the pace seems slow -
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out -
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt.
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far.
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit -
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.

Anonymous