Sometimes more ought be reduced –
A selection of Best be made

For “many” and “much” make not a man,
Nor more of things the same

But something Good, and something True,
And frequent to it go

It’ll make a wise and learned man –
Devout and humble too

The News had then
Come by that day,
That there was cause
To sing

And sing, we did,
The Song of Life,
Like winter’s turn
To spring

The Song did never
Change a rhyme;
Its melody's still
The same…

And, daily, I will
Hear its tune,
Again, and
Then, proclaim

---

Because those things
Of cause to sing
Are News for
Every day

Like morning’s dawn,
When light returns,
And drives the
Clouds away

I sing Today
Of hope Tomorrow,
And joy for
Yesterday…

Though most of my
Old memories fade,
This Song is here
To stay

.

Two Cities, bitter enemies;
Two Cities, truest foes

The First was from eternity,
The Other from the shadow

The First descended from the sky,
The Other from the ground

The First had but a King on high,
The Other Creation crowned

Both Cities do contain the whole
But One contains it all

Both Cities do contain the whole
But One contains it all…

.

Listen, my son…

From the womb every man
Builds his cities and towers
From the strength of his hand
And a will that devours

But his kingdom’s a breath,
And his rule, an illusion,
Disappearing in death –
The revealing conclusion...

Man is "king" of a land
Between his right and left ears!
He thinks: "my throne is grand!"
But his decrees, no one hears!

He will gather great treasures,
But will never have any;
Will pursue many pleasures,
But will always feel empty…

Always longing for more,
Never having enough;
He’s a slave and a *****
To his master: his stuff

---

Oh, may The King set him free!
He alone holds the power!
And may all bend the knee,
For, we need Him each hour!

.

I don't even know your name,
But I think I know something of
The state of your soul,
My Dear Poet Friend...

For, we're all stricken with
The same disease

A poisonous venom
Which courses,
This very moment,
Through all our veins

A disease for which I have found
But One Cure

---

And I must warn you,
My Dear Poet Friend,
Not to look so long
Into your own heart

For, there you will only find
The disease

.

In the Garden, by the Creek,
Stands a Tree –
A Weary Willow, weeping, in
A prayerful plea:

“The scoffing Oaks hold
All their leaves,
But mine wither in this winter;
Don’t You see?!”

But, oh, what She
Doesn’t yet know
Is that, now, below the ground,
Growing down, and reaching out –

Hidden to sight or sound –
Are her Roots, preparing Her
To bear a thing no Oak has ever known:
Fruit.

---

So, may Her weeping turn to singing
For spring is bringing
A New Beginning
…In the Garden, by the Creek.

.

Once, when I looked
At “Things Unseen”
I saw Them not –
No in-between

For things that They
Said "stood in Light"
Were just as they
Had been to sight

And time and time,
And time again:
No, nothing new,
That had not been…

I felt the Sun
Upon my back,
But couldn’t turn
Away from black

---

But when I turned
(So unforeseen!),
I saw Him there!
And what a scene!

For things that They
Said "stood in Light"
Were just as they
Now were to sight!

Oh, time and time,
And time again,
My eyes had hid
In darkness’ dim…

I'd felt the Sun
Upon my back,
But now I’m turned
Away from black.

.