Fly!

I am putting together a manuscript to submit to a contest for the publication of a first book of poetry.  This has naturally put my thoughts on poetry a lot of late, which will hopefully be reflected in more frequent posts here.
While typing up my poems (I handwrite almost all of them first, it seems to help the words flow better), I found this short piece, written for a friend at a crossroads of their life.  I hope it inspires you to follow your dreams, spread your wings, and fly!

You’re questioning your hopes,
and doubting all your dreams –
for nothing is quite sure,
or ever as it seems.

But dreams were made for living,

and joy for being found,
so, amidst your giving,
keep happiness around.

You were not designed
with failure as an end;
begin the dance of faith,
and light will be your friend.
 
You can reach any goal
‘pon which you set your eye;
you were born for greatness,
so follow your dreams – and fly!

~David Jamison~

The Touch of the Master's Hand

This poem has had a great and lasting impact on my life.  Both from my love of violins, and my musings about the idea of self-worth and inherent eternal value, this poem strikes a cord anew with me every time I read it.  I invite you to read it, and open your heart to the inspired message: that your value is far above what you or others believe, and it only takes the "touch of the Master's hand" to bring that value to the surface.

’Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer

Thought it scarcely worth his while

To waste much time on the old violin,

But held it up with a smile:

“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried,

“Who’ll start the bidding for me?”

“A dollar, a dollar”; then, “Two!” “Only two?

Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?

Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;

Going for three—” But no,

From the room, far back, a gray-haired man

Came forward and picked up the bow;

Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,

And tightening the loose strings,

He played a melody pure and sweet

As a caroling angel sings.

 

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,          

With a voice that was quiet and low,

Said, “What am I bid for the old violin?”

And he held it up with the bow.

“A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?

Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?

Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice,

And going, and gone!” said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried,

“We do not quite understand

What changed its worth.” Swift came the reply:

“The touch of a master’s hand.”

 

And many a man with life out of tune,

And battered and scarred with sin,

Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,

Much like the old violin.

A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine,

A game—and he travels on.

He’s “going” once, and “going” twice,

He’s “going” and almost “gone.”

But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd

Never can quite understand

The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought

By the touch of the Master’s hand.

 

~Myra Brooks Welch~

In Memoriam: 27

A touching and true poetic statement by a wise man:

 

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

 

~Alfred Lord Tennyson~

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.