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

The Place that I Call Home

In my rush to prepare for my departure, I have not posted as much as I should.  I shall try to do better with what time I have left.

This poem was one I wrote some time ago about the area I grew up in, and the one I am preparing to leave for a while.  Whether you come from the heart of the United States or somewhere far removed, I hope this reminds you about all that you love about your home.

Deep in my country’s heart

is a place beloved by me;

near to my own heart

it will forever be.

Here I was born,

grew up and so

here I’d be glad

to live till I go.

I’ve been many places

and, wonderful though they be,

none is quite as home

as Missouri is to me;

A place of such beauty,

not greater - but unique;

a beauty that, oft times,

makes it hard to speak.

It steals the words from my mind

and places them in my heart,

sealing my lips so that

the words cannot them part.

Words of verdant green,

both hills and sinking dale;

words of the blue

of the sky most pale.

Mere words that cannot grasp

my love for the trees

that shelter and shade,

that sway in the breeze.

Never all silent,

this life-teeming place,

some cricket or bird

with song doth us grace.

Each and every season

a wonder to behold,

from the winter, white,

to the autumn, gold.

The glory of a sunset

and it’s waking rise,

a sight that gladdens the heart

and brightens the eyes.

On none of these we have

a monopoly,

but here they are dearer,

dearer unto me.

Here my heart is,

here it will stay

no matter where I go,

near or far away.

May all who come

share this love with me

of this chosen place,

living, fresh and free.

Newcomer, or native

who far did roam,

welcome here to

the place that I call home.

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 Love in Her Eyes

There are many different levels and shades of true love; here is a poem about one of the levels I believe to be the most sincere and enduring.
I wrote this piece a little over two years ago, and just dug it back up.  It was inspired by a young mother I know, and by watching her hold her newborn son.

In the arms of love
the mother holds her son
as close unto her
as if they still were one.

With a hush and a song
she quiets his cries;
holding him fast,
there's love in her eyes.

This is her focus,
this is her love,
to watch o'er and care
for her gift from above.

Held close and dear
in her motherly arms,
keeping him safe
from sorrows and harms.

Though others hold near,
none grasp the same
as the one who gave him
his body and name.

Encircled in
the arms of love,
a love as vast
as Heaven above,

he clings to her -
love's evidence;
he senses her care,
this babe, this prince.

His face lights with love
when their eyes meet;
the love of these two
is tender and sweet.

As I leave, I bid
reluctant good-byes.
Never have I seen love
like the love in her eyes.

David Jamison

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

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

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

Faith

I have not forgotten my promise from the last post to upload my poem, but that isn't the poem I am doing tonight. 
This evening I was looking ahead towards some big changes coming up in my life, and I realized that I was feeling just a hint of fear about the uncertainty of my future, and that that fear was quickly growing.  As soon as I noticed this, I remember something that a religious teacher of mine, and a man whom I highly respect, has often said.  To paraphrase, he says that fear and faith cannot both exist in the same body at the same time; one will expel the other. 
As I thought on this principle, a couple of lines appeared in my mind.  I was driving, and could not write them down, so I repeated them out-loud to myself until I could get a pen and paper.
Then my thoughts turned to my poor, neglected audience, whom I have not paid proper attention to, and here we are.  I know this isn't your average topic for a poem, and that my words are few and simple, but I know they are true.

Let fear not hold my heart,
nor lay claim to my soul;
faith shall be my lighthouse,
my trust in God e'er full.

I shall not e'er give way
to my soul's enemy;
faith leaves no room for fear -
my Lord my Guide shall be.

With all fear cast behind,
I shall not it recall;
my eyes look but one way -
to my Captain, my all!

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

Fire in the Sky

Here is a poem I wrote several years ago, while watching a fireworks display.  As an earlier piece of mine, it is a bit simple, but I hope you like it regardless. 
I guess what makes watching fireworks patriotic is just the fact that, noisy as it is, it gives us time to think and focus on our country, and recall all those who gave their lives so that we might live the life that we choose.
So this poem is dedicated to freedom, and all who fight in any way to preserve it.  God bless the USA!

We watch and wait
in anticipation:
it's the Fourth of July,
the birthday of our nation!

Then comes a flash,
and then a blast:
the hour-long wait
is over at last!

The fireworks carve
a path in the sky,
deafening the ear
and pleasing the eye.

Stars of light,
and circles too;
red and white
and green and blue.

Silhouetted by flame,
our banner doth fly!
The air is aglow
with fire in the sky!

David Jamison


P.S.  I have included below a link to a site with the Declaration of Independence on it.  I always include the reading of it as part of my celebration of this day.  Who knows, you might find it inspiring too.

http://www.archives.gov/exhibits/charters/declaration_transcript.html

Love

Remember the new book I'm working on?  Well, here is a preview of one of the poems, a little piece I did while sitting in a class.  I don't recall why, but for some reason I got thinking about what love really is, what true love can be defined as.  I hope you enjoy it.

Love is not just a word,
that is declaration.
Love is not a feeling,
that is but affection.
Love is not starry eyes,
that is just attraction.
Love is actions, service -
that is called devotion.

David Jamison

After the Rain

A poem from my first book, Nature's Voice.

After the rain comes
Earth is a cleaner place;
dirt, grime and stress
the waters do erase.

All about in nature
is rebirth to be seen:
birdsong sounds the sweeter,
the grass looks more green,

the temperature is more fair,
the sky is so much lighter,
more free is the air,
the Sun so much brighter.

As it is in nature,
so it is in life;
to have the greatest peace
you must know the greatest strife.

The rainstorms of life,
unpleasant though they be,
leave us the cleaner
and make us more free.

Refreshed and renewed,
washed free of sin and pain,
life is better, brighter,
after comes the rain.

David Jamison

Preconceptions

We all have preconceived ideas about different subjects, and this is especially true when it comes to poetry.  What is a poem?  What can it be about?  Who can write one?  What makes a poem good or bad?  The list could go on and on.
I won't try to answer all these questions with this post, but here is a short poem I wrote the other night that I'd like to share.  As you read it, please do so slowly, and pay attention to 1) what your thoughts are concerning it as you read; and 2) what your thoughts are after you have finished.  Did you have any inaccurate preconceptions?

'Twas a most unlikely couple,
none else could see the match;
and thought he was a daredevil
for such a plan to hatch.

But he mixed them both together,
with spice and chemistry;
and his faith, it was rewarded -
they fit so perfectly!

Sauteed zucchini and mushroom,
with garlic, butter, cheese;
he asked if they'd like seconds:
"Oh yes!  Yes, pretty please!"

David Jamison

Seize the Day!

For my first poem I will share one of mine.  I wrote this one while enjoying the weather, despite the next day's forecast.  Enjoy, and seize the day!

Oh, beauty true and deep,
resurrecting spring!
Blossoms no longer sleep,
but life God doth bring.

The very air doth hum
with warmth and color.
hope, long dead, it doth come;
each breath is full-er.

Winter's stillness blows past,
giving way to birth.
Man and Nature at last
see a reborn earth.

What tomorrow will hold,
none can fully know;
it may turn quickly cold,
it may even snow.

If we fear tomorrow,
what then of today?
We won't its pure joys know,
they will blow away.

Control weather?  We can't;
but one thing we may -
let us love each moment,
let us seize the day!

David Jamison