Small Thanks

In my last post I talked about epigrams and humorous poetry.  Well I do not consider myself to be a funny poet, I have tried my hand at limericks, a sort of tongue-in-cheek stepchild among poetry.  Here is one about my day-job, locksmithing.  If nothing else, it stands to prove that I am not too mature to make a pun.

A locksmith visited a miser sour,
to make the best key in his power.
Instead of paying when done,
the miser pulled a gun!
So the locksmith made a bolt for the door.

~David Jamison~

Epigram: A Reply

I am a fond proponent of good, clean humor, and I also love poetry (or couldn't you tell?), and the two combined is a special treat.  Alas, I have found that I have very little luck in writing such myself, as so for a smile today, I thought I would share the work of a man more talented in that department.
Some of my favorite funny poems are epigrams; they are short, to the point, and often evoke, if not outright laughter, at least a chuckle.  This one is called "A Reply."  Enjoy!

Sir, I admit your general rule
that every poet is a fool;
but you yourself may serve to show it,
that every fool is not a poet.

~Matthew Prior~

To Catch a Snowflake

Here is a poem that I wrote some years back about a lost love (who shall remain anonymous).  I rediscovered it yesterday, and wanted to share it.  Sometimes, when I come across a particularly touching piece of poetry, I feel if I don't share it with another human I'll bust!  I'm not totally sure why.  Please let me know what you think about it.  I am considering putting together a book of the love poems I've written over the years... would appreciate any thoughts on the matter.

The drifting snow reminds me
of your pure, sweet innocence;
and watching it falling down
I can't help but reminisce

on all the days, now gone by,
the laughter, heartache, and tears;
and to me, looking on back,
it seems but moments, not years.

All I wanted in this world -
to love and be loved by you;
that door seems to be shutting,
a wall put between us two.

Perhaps there is a window
for us I cannot yet see,
but, amidst white reminders,
all I feel is lonely.

For the first time you hurt me,
though for sure without intent;
I just wish I knew my sin
that our friendship has now rent

into two torn, poor pieces -
mine, without you, less than whole;
the cold around sinks in me,
chilling my heart and my soul.

Yet as I beg forgiveness
I give you, unneeded, mine;
though hurt, anger won't find a place
in my heart - no, not a sign.

So I stand out in the cold,
with soft snowflakes all around -
sticking to all I see:
on trees, houses, and the ground.

But there's one place they won't stick,
and that's here within my hands;
needing something different,
each vanishes where it lands.

How alike, the snow and you,
with beauty, soft grace, and charms;
you are everywhere near me,
but you're never in my arms.

I know that I should come in,
the cold starts to make me shake,
but I can't resist trying -
trying to catch a snowflake.

~David Jamison~

Branching out

I know that this blog is dedicated to poetry, and poetry by definition has metrical form, separating it from prose.  But I want to include, on occasion, some prose musings of mine.  I hope that they touch you in some way, and that you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.

True Love

What is true love? True love is never motivated by self-fulfillment or personal satisfaction. It puts the welfare (in all senses of the word) of the other completely above its own. It isn't satisfied with cheap imitations (quick thrills or short-term gains), it seeks relationships that last. There are no endings in true love - only beginnings. It does not give up, fold in, or walk out. In all things, it isn't about the lover - it's about the loved. True love doesn't come in "instant," "pre-packaged," or "one-size-fits-all" forms. It takes work, sweat, and tears, and is not for sissies. It is hard to build, and even harder to maintain. It does not last if left uncared for, but will not buckle when it is attacked. It gives up anything and everything necessary for the loved; it asks nothing in return, but gets everything.
What is true love worth? You tell me.

The Best of Years

A couple of weeks ago I attended the 100th birthday celebration of my grandmother.  It was a wonderful experience.
Well, a few months before I had been approached by an uncle and asked if I would write a poem for her about her life, and then read it for the family at the party!  It was a wonderful honor, but, considering I hadn't written any poetry for around a year (for various reasons), it was also a little daunting.  Imagine, paying tribute to 100 years, and a mother of nearly as many descendants!
I struggled with it for quite a while, trying to find the words, trying to make it into something with feeling, meaning and love - in other words, trying to breathe a soul onto paper.  I finally finished it in the last few hours before I would get up to read it.  Here is a copy of it.

The Best of Years

O, Mother of Multitudes,
your life's a tapestry
of unbounded influence
on friend and family.

You may not know in full
what your life has meant,
or of the lives changed
for which you were sent.

Not least of these your children,
your sprouting oak-tree stem;
each in your heart found place,
each one a wanted gem.

Oh, the weaving of your life,
to touch many a thread!
A hundred little moments
with infinity ahead.

Lives have been touched,
and many will be still;
no matter where you are
this place you'll always fill.

Do not bemoan times past,
nor call them back with tears -
the legacy you've built
makes these the best of years.

~David Jamison~

Good Timber

Wow, it has been a while since I last posted!  I have had the following poem on my mind of late.  It keeps popping up at the strangest times.  For me when a poem does that, there is something that I need to learn from it.  That was certainly the case here.
Are you struggling through trials that you never wanted, and don't feel that you deserve?   Do you find yourself looking up at the stars/ceiling and asking the oldest question of all time (why)?  I do.  No poem can answer all your questions or quiet all your fears, but this one was a good start for me.

Good Timber

The tree that never had to fight
For sun and sky and air and light,
But stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forest king
But lived and died a scrubby thing.
 The man who never had to toil
To gain and farm his patch of soil,
Who never had to win his share
Of sun and sky and light and air,
Never became a manly man
But lived and died as he began. Good timber does not grow with ease:
The stronger wind, the stronger trees;
The further sky, the greater length;
The more the storm, the more the strength.
By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
In trees and men good timbers grow.
Where thickest lies the forest growth,
We find the patriarchs of both.
And they hold counsel with the stars
Whose broken branches show the scars
Of many winds and much of strife.
This is the common law of life.

~Douglas Malloch

"God's Pay" & "Father, Where Shall I Work Today?"

Greetings again to all poetry lovers!  I have just returned from my two-year mission for my Savior, and thought that I would once again post here.
I have had little time over the past two years to write (though I will be posting a poem or two from that period in the near future), but thought I would post two inspirational poems that I found.
The first speaks of how God rewards those who do His work, the second, how we should react when called to that work, no matter what the task or location may be.  I hope that you enjoy them!

Who does God's work will get God's pay,
No matter how long may seem the day,No matter how weary be the way;He does not pay as others payWith silk and gold and raiments gay,But his high wisdom knows a wayAnd this is sure, that come what may,Who does God's work will get God's pay.
~Author Unknown

“Father, where shall I work today?”

And my love flowed warm and free.

Then he pointed out a tiny spot

And said, “Tend that for me.”

I answered quickly, “Oh no, not that!

Why, no one would ever see,

No matter how well my work was done.

Not that little place for me.”

And the word he spoke, it was not stern; …

“Art thou working for them or for me?

Nazareth was a little place,

And so was Galilee.”

 

~Meade MacGuire