Everyday Angels

I'm sorry I didn't get this up yesterday, but here it is now, the poem on gratitude I mentioned in my last post.
I am thankful for unheralded miracles, the ones that come when we need them most, but come disguised as coincidence.  Today's poem is based on one of those miracles in my own life.
This poem is dedicated to JB, an everyday angel.

Swallowed in dark of night,
too discouraged to ask;
our hearts plead for angels
for a hard, looming task.

God doth hear our pleading,
and sends angels each day -
angels to comfort us
with His own shining ray.

But blind we do not see
the angels there before;
for we know their faces,
they live just right next door.

Angels are all ‘round us,
dressed just like you and me,
and in our darkest hours
they help so cheerfully.

We think ‘coincidence,’
but the odds are too great
for it to have come now,
not too soon or too late.

Coincidence is God’s
help anonymously;
a masterpiece without
a signature to see.

Everyday angels,
messengers wearing jeans,
watching o’er us in each
of life’s troubling scenes.

God is truly with us,
His hand is here to stay.
In love He doth send us
angels every day.

David Jamison

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

Finalist & Spider

This afternoon I looked in my mailbox, and lo and behold, a letter - recognizing me as a finalist in a poetry contest I had entered!  I won the award last year, and so am not at all upset to give someone else a spot in the limelight this year. 
It is always nice to have your hard work validated, and this is especially true in an art as quiet as poetry.  In the next few days I will try to get around to posting the poem that I entered.
The poem below is one (again, not my own,) that I found some time ago, and just rediscovered tonight.  It got me thinking, and I decided to post it here for you to see too.  Enjoy, apply, share!

The spider at my window
will spin her web anew
in just the same location
in just a day or two

if I should swing a towel
or thrust up with a broom
to render sweeping judgment
on her subtle loom.

This is our little pattern,
our two-step for the fates:
again I snip, demolish,
again she spins, creates.

The spider never hurt me.
She doesn’t snitch my food
since I don’t like mosquitoes—
in fact, she’d do me good

if I would just ignore her,
adore her, for the whiz
of opalescent angle
and tapestry she is.

I’ve felt the broom, and bristled;
I know how swipes can smart;
so I should be the last man
to say what isn’t art.

Michael Ferris

Mortality

Here is another poem quoted in the broadcast I mentioned in my last post.  The first stanza was all they used, but I felt the whole thing was worth sharing.

This poem is said to have been the favorite of President Abraham Lincoln, one of the greatest leaders of our country, and a personal hero of mine. 

He is said to have once remarked, "I would give all I am worth, and go in debt, to be able to write so fine a piece as I think that is."  Do not all poets feel so, when faced with such elegance?  Do we not all long to be given the power to convey that which lies in the depths of our hearts?  I know I do.

 

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,

Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around, and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high

Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.

 

The infant a mother attended and loved;

The mother that infant's affection who proved;

The husband that mother and infant who blessed,--

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by;

And the memory of those who loved her and praised

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,

Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;

The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

 

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;

The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

 

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed

That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that has often been told.

 

For we are the same our fathers have been;

We see the same sights our fathers have seen;

We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,

And run the same course our fathers have run.

 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;

To the life we are clinging they also would cling;

But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

 

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;

The scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;

They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

 

They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

 

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,

Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

 

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,

From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,--

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

William Knox

About Crows

This weekend I am doing something that I look forward to every six months, and listening to the wisest men and women I know, teaching me about how to live a better, happier life. 

They often quote poetry in these broadcasts.  As a poet, I watch for and treasure it when they do.  This morning one of them quoted this poem, and I thought I would include it here for your benefit. 

(By the way, if you wish to watch this broadcast yourself, it can be found at 

http://lds.org/general-conference?lang=eng )

The old crow is getting slow;
the young crow is not.
Of what the young crow does not know,
the old crow knows a lot.

At knowing things, the old crow is still
the young crow’s master.
What does the old crow not know?
How to go faster.

The young crow flies above, below, and rings
around the slow old crow.
What does the fast young crow not know?
WHERE TO GO.

John Ciardi

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