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

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

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