Painters, by the highest degree of inspiration,
And poets who with the Muse commune,
Command in their respective trades un-
Common craftmanship, exquisite creation
Of pen and brush upon the parchment
And canvass, through unfettered figment.

Gifted: poets, painters and musicians. Three
Geniuses on this terrestrial plane, with mind
As efficient as the moon in its fullest grind,
As do all artistic souls whose mastery
In finest workmanship are seen. Worship
The God of arts ye astronauts in spaceship,

For poets and painters are cardinal in artistic
Enrolment--and no less endowed are many another
Like sculptors--with thoughts solitary and cryptic.

Author. Nothing his radar
Escapes. All things he knows,
Even the wind that blows.

All gods ere him stoop, bowing
Together to the majesty in
Heaven's realm. Great his manifold
Wonders. Excellent every craft
And work of his hand. The world
Whole waltz upon his golden cart.

Man, the opus of his creation:
The only in his image cast.
Unequalled in form and fashion--
From his first to his last.

Nought exits that was uncreated;
Nonfictional be the Genesis' account.
Scores of theories scientists great invented--
All, Scripture and faith, does discount.

In awe stand: the Alpha hail; laud the Omega.

What ails the face
of the sun,
that its smiley countenance
doth suddenly change?
Why should it run
away which slays darkness' rage?

Clouds of sadness stroll
across the surface of the big ball:
dull substance of despondent sigh.

Unshealth at once
the ray of thy glittering sword, spare
nay thine eternal skill.
Contend and combat:
fight with zest and zeal

For weak and tired and weary,
at night,
shalt thou eventually be;
when with faded
you bid the day, goodbye.

If reading is dying--
of couse it's--
then, what's thriving?

In some destiny vessel sails.
Bound on a mission success to see:--
Ignore prejudice and travesty
Of critics' judgments, whether it fails
Or nay. Though my ship should wreck,
Let not my faith in Christ roam
Aimlessly on the high sea of tempestuous
Life; for I, like Paul, must get to Rome.

Twigs crackling, branches battling
against the wind
not to lose their fettle.

Leaves dry and brown
of feeble strength
away are blown.

Dangling like a thief
hung upon the gallows' cliff:

Old leaves from the tree
one by one be torn,
snapped off the boughs forcibly.

Decease by disease or sickness,
caught by misfortune or curse

Is man, unlike a gay green
leaf, in youth and in a merry gown
of life dieth; no more himself to preen.

Day and night his field he plows.
Timely his good seeds he sows
In career and business and family.
He sweats and drains his muscles
Away. In a hurry he always hustles
Here and there and there to procure prosperity;

Yet, no profit upon his dear investment
In time and energy earned. No achievement
Great to show. He thus wonders aloud
To self: what in life be wrong with him?
For his world lacks rhyme and rhythm
Of success. Soon, his heart says, ''proud

Man, plain is the answer. Be not confused.
Seeing Divine Guidance you have refused,
God also has let you alone. By power
Is not breakthrough! Yield to the Lord
Thy soul first; the wisdom in his Word
Heed--the direction to a life proper.''