"yielded" poems
The joyful heart is the buoyant heart—
empowered to rise above its circumstances,
unweighted, unburdened, unbound,
tied only to that which would lift it higher,
untethered from anything which would
pull it down, pull it under or suffocate it.
It's the free heart, quiet and at rest
yet jubilant and uncontained,
the celebrating heart, the praising heart,
the thankful heart, the heart set on pilgrimage,
bent on adventure, journey and romance.
All the while it's a waiting heart
because it's a yielded, led heart—
a heart which doesn't run ahead of the LORD
but willingly, quickly to the LORD—
a heart that though eagerly anticipating each
twisting turn, next horizon and changing path
keeps its eyes fixed not on the scenery
but forever on the Shepherd
because it's a heart persuaded
that He alone is the Great Reward
for which it has always been looking.
True joy is only ours when we find an endless
source of satisfaction, and of these I know only One!
The secret to all joy is to crave Him above all else.
The joyful heart is the one addicted fully to Him,
desperate for Him to the expense of all else,
willing to sacrifice everything to have that craving satisfied.
Joy and idols, I have learned,
do not easily reside together in the same heart.
So if I find that joy is chased away
the most likely culprits are my own desires.
What am I wanting more than Jesus?
For if intimacy with Him is the supreme goal of my life
then nothing can arise which I'm not enabled to bear with joy.
There is, I suppose, nothing so reliable as suffering and loss
to expose all of the hidden idols within me.
It's surely those who have suffered the greatest
and most frequent losses for Christ who are also
most capable of knowing the deepest and most abiding joy.
For it's when we've been stripped bare of everything else
that we begin to know for certain that our joy is based
not on the temporary blessings of our circumstances
but only on the presence of the Eternal Blesser Himself.
Sometimes He offers to us all that is in His right hand,
but for any with eyes truly opened to see
the most precious of times may be those
when He offers to us only the intimacy of His right hand.
Rivers of sadness can open up
into wide gulfs of endless delight and
are often the very courses needed to carry us there.
When all is lost, we find to our amazement
that, even so, we still have ALL
and no one can rob us of it.
When He takes everything from us
He proves Himself to be EVERYTHING to us.
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 4:11 PM UTC
The timeless waves, bright, sifting, broken glass,
Came dazzling around, into the rocks,
Came glinting, sifting from the Americas
To possess Aran. Or did Aran rush
to throw wide arms of rock around a tide
That yielded with an ebb, with a soft crash?
Did sea define the land or land the sea?
Each drew new meaning from the waves' collision.
Sea broke on land to full identity.
26.5k
Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds on which you lay,
but also those desires which for you
plainly glowed in the eyes,
and trembled in the voice -- and some
chance obstacle made them futile.
Now that all belongs to the past,
it is almost as if you had yielded
to those desires too -- remember,
how they glowed, in the eyes looking at you;
how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.
15.6k
**Floods of revival , Lord, let them fall;
Streams of salvation reaching to all;
Pour out Thy Spirit , great is our need;
Sweep o'er our beings, now while we plead.
Spirit Divine , O quicken us now,
While in Thy presence , humbly we bow;
Set all our hearts ablaze with Thy love
Teach as the secret of life from above.
Utterly yielded , longing to know
All the blest fulness love can bestow,
Ready and willing , eager to give;
Perfect obedience , bravely to live.
Raise up a people , holy and free;
Heart with a vision like unto Thee;
Souls that would rather die than give in --
Lives with a passion, victory to win.
O for a deluge - Holy Ghost power;
Lord we are waiting ,send it this hour
Open the windows of heaven we pray;
All on the altar gladly we lay.**
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
Who are these farmers,
And who, these fertile fields,
Verdant under native grass,
That stand un-plowed,
That shake beneath the plow,
That lie now fallow,
That bear the planted seed,
That wear the heavy grain,
That await the Harvest pain?
And who, these Harvesters,
And who, these close-shorn fields,
Desolate in short-cut stubble,
That stand, stiff in silence,
That wear the heavy tracks,
That have endured the harvest,
That yielded up their dead,
That bristle through the falling snow,
That whistle wind-song low?
And who, these merry Farmers,
And who these stubbled fields,
Glistening beneath the melting snow,
That warm beneath the glowing sun,
That host the migrants of the sky,
That tremble the biting plow,
That accept the falling seed,
That wait beneath the welcome rains,
That cycle through the seasons once again?
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
As they walked along after the matinee, the older brother teased his sister, “Hey, guess what, Frankenstein lives in the attic and he’s goin’ get you.” With a flushed face the little sister responded, "Nah-ah, besides the attic door is locked." And her brother smirked, “Think Frankenstein cares about locked doors?"
Throughout their childhood, the brother jumped out behind closed doors, terrifying his little sister, and with each fright he gave his own fear seemed to lessen. After a startle the sister thought, ‘Does my brother love me, like I love him?’, and she concluded, “He must, why else would he try to scare me to death?’
Within the decade, a sudden brain hemorrhage took their dearly loved mother. Now, untethered in their mother’s love, the siblings changed, tightened, within, While their father, a traumatized, war veteran, swiftly fell off the wagon, and the brother and sister cast off, rudderless, uprooted into troubled waters.
And with their hearts snapped shut, immersed in relentless grief, they parted ways. Some years later, their father died, bequeathed them both his unhealed pain. The brother, the sister, slid secretively into alcoholism, conceded the family custom, invested deeply in their despair, the two went on, married, raised families, conformed.
And time went by, as alcohol soothed the pain until the brother breathed his last, his belly taut with fluid, his liver destroyed, a life sentence ended. While she, the lone survivor, mysteriously yielded unto Grace and was pardoned, recovered, she finally understood, she knew deep inside; everyone did the best they could, even her.
…and within a circle of one; I loved them all forever and ever.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
I was sure that this feeling was gone for good,
but trial and error has yielded more error than it should
and I’m beginning to think that I can’t do all the things
I’ve so resolutely sworn that I would.
I can’t blame inadequacy on those little pink pills,
Doc prescribed my anxiety for three years and still
to this day I wonder where I’d be
if side-effects hadn’t brought out the demons in me.
But now, dearest reader, I’m finally free.
But freedom, well, it’s a bitter pill to swallow,
because now, who’s to blame when that eerily hollow,
haunting feeling creeps up behind me?
When the only thing in the room is the mirror beside me,
and I’m watching me stare back at me
and I’m seeing what I’ve always seen
and I swore, christ, I swore on everything
that this would be my awakening.
But. It wasn’t.
Yeah, I swore that this feeling was gone for good,
but winter’s brought it back like part of me always knew it would.
So I’ll hide blame under the furniture, in dark the corners of this room
and hope I’ll learn what it means to let go sometime soon.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
I still remember
the drawn out afternoons,
the minutes passing without a thing to do,
the clock just a metronome
keeping us in time.
I poked fun at you without reason;
jealousy leads one into themselves it seems.
Do you recall?
We were carnal beings...
I'd apologize for my egoistic banter,
but apologies are best left to the
eulogizer,
and this may be some sort of graveside whisper;
a long-winded to-do list of idle talk.
I'd call you
"Lesbia", "Rosalind",
"my diadem stashed away",
but twenty-two months wore words away
and it would seem like frantic blandishing.
Maybe in my own life
I may be able to demonstrate
what William Yeats had meant
by a body quarreling with it's soul,
but I think -- You're delusional! --
that I could be content.
I remember everything ---
I remember the yielded heart feels a subtle sting.
The yew chattered in the wind outside your
window and I felt rooted
as I told you
I was you and would always be.
But twenty-two months is a long time.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 2:54 PM UTC
Last night I sweetly dreamt of fragrant flowers
In a changing kaleidoscope awhirl
Twirling as I yielded to their stunning presence
Thrilling as they gently swirled
I twirled and twirled inhaling the freshest heaven
I never knew could possibly exist
Lost inside an unforgettable aromatic world
My senses will never forget
A touch of satin rose petals brushed my cheek
As purple violets tickled my nose
Crimson poppies slipped though my fingers
Gently kissing the tips of my toes
I believe I found heaven in my dream last night
Twirling in an aromatic silken bliss
When I felt the touch on the tips of my toes
Of a crimson poppies kiss
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.
Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.
Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.
Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.
Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.
Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
I miss my cargo green canvas backpack
Shredded with the mass of three
science textbooks: biology,
classical history, chemistry.
Not like backpack was meant for
several colossal three hundred page
hardcover books.
When it was empty,
it was light,
barely anything, tugging
on my shoulders;
but I insisted the friend come with me.
But I used backpack
for study,
drudgery,
play.
The linen wore
with every use.
It was my safety blanket,
under loose cloth
that contained
sacarine
orange glucose
tablets that I hoped
to never need
Inside the main large pocket,
there was a secret
zipper, within held
a pack of cigarettes,
an excuse,
to pardon myself into a realm of aloneness-
with little questions asked
There were strings that adjusted
its position on my back that
I would pull down,
using tension to fling myself
terminal to terminal
More than fifteen times, I lost
count, of my partner traversing
across oceans, gently cradling my laptop and phone-
my trusted links
with the outside world
Nervousness alleviated by the tassels
in my mouth, I bite and chew
on the cloth, but it holds steadfast
as I ponder how to approach
what's next,
the bittersweet coffee they fell into
rehydrates with my salivating mouth,
hungry for adventure
but a stomach empty
knots itself
anxious
for what's to come
My backpack weighs
on my shoulders, empty or full,
but it's trained my body
to carry the load thoughts in my
head bring upon me
But it yielded to what was to come,
the seams at the bottom gave out.
Backpack let me know: I needed to
learn to carry on
without reliance.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
A mystery to solve in a famous frame
Smiling from canvas a story to tell
Oh lady of the portrait oh lady of fame
The painter captured your face so well
Those who study art ponder and ruminate
The enigmatic pose that doth beguile
No brush strokes convey your mind state
All angels inspected of daubed smile
Yet the secret stays ever concealed
Baffling them all lady you assuredly do
Nothing of the puzzle is revealed
So well hidden and never in view
Leonardo da Vinci yielded not a clue
When he masterfully conceived of you
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 7:16 AM UTC
They were like two satellites,
Orbiting the same heavenly body.
The perpetual rhythm of the universe,
Always moving forward.
Black holes in the back of their minds,
Far off, yet consuming.
Invisible appendages, pulling at the surface.
Dark forces reeling them in,
Gently
Deep craters gouged their exterior.
Ages of abuse yielded hardened hollows.
One more revolution.
How long until the inward force is too much to bear?
A rogue nebula.
An imploded core...
One more revolution.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 1:16 AM UTC
This small green bear,
your name embroidered on its chest,
was never yours. It would have been
our Christmas gift to you,
had you lived a month longer.
The ones you would give
you had already bought,
wrapped, labelled -
thoughtful, organised
to the end,
to the bitter end.
We unwrapped them on the day,
smiled at your kindness,
wept at our loss.
Early Christmas gifts
that you had not organised,
that nobody could have anticipated,
went to strangers: your pancreas,
a life free from daily injections;
your kidneys, two lives free from dialysis;
your liver, divided, to a young girl
and an older lady, who would
quite simply have a life
they had almost given up hoping for.
Your heart, damaged by extended life-support,
not suitable for transplantation,
yielded its valves
to repair the damaged hearts of others.
Even bone and skin were harvested
for people you never knew.
That Christmas you gave hope
to so many people,
and to us the consolation
that they live on because of you,
and that you live on in them.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
Another beautiful, colorful day ended favorably,
Gave happiness in jests, kindness, laments.
Morning's new orientation provided quick reassurance,
Supporting the universal view,
While xenophobia yielded zilch.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
Righteous men cannot rest
Cannot laugh in light no more
Burdened by that shameful crest
Who yielded from the corps
The spy for two sides
With two separate cause
And even now he is uncertain
Who’s spy he really was
He wished they’d heed
To what he feared
But none so deaf
As men who won’t hear
Shut upon himself
Sowing not upon harm
Though for simple whiles
For lost kisses and smiles
He layed his weapon to arms
Though never to learn
Their power burned
Forgetting the peace he brung
Be thy sleep
Calm and deep
Such weight on a mind so young
Innocent hands
Spread like disease
Though the resting land
Was put at ease
Tragedy not heard
With each bellow and wail
Though through this sight
Peace did prevail
And with this night
His strife began
No longer a child
Though no longer a man
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
Spanish
Su idilio fue una larga sonrisa a cuatro labios…
En el regazo cálido de rubia primavera
Amáronse talmente que entre sus dedos sabios
Palpitó la divina forma de la Quimera.
En los palacios fúlgidos de las tardes en calma
Hablábanse un lenguaje sentido como un lloro,
Y se besaban hondo hasta morderse el alma!…
Las horas deshojáronse como flores de oro,
Y el Destino interpuso sus dos manos heladas…
Ah! los cuerpos cedieron, mas las almas trenzadas
Son el más intrincado nudo que nunca fue…
En lucha con sus locos enredos sobrehumanos
Las Furias de la vida se rompieron las manos
Y fatigó sus dedos supremos Ananké…
English
Their idyll was a smile of four lips…
In the warm lap of blond spring
They loved such that between their wise fingers
the divine form of Chimera trembled.
In the glimmering palaces of quiet afternoons
They spoke in a language heartfelt as weeping,
And they kissed each other deeply, biting the soul!
The hours fluttered away like petals of gold,
Then Fate interposed its two icy hands…
Ah! the bodies yielded, but tangled souls
Are the most intricate knot that never unfolds…
In strife with its mad superhuman entanglements,
Life’s Furies rent their coupled hands
And wearied your powerful fingers, Ananké*…
*Ananké: Goddess (Greek) of Unalterable Necessity
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Illustrious queen, set me free
from the chains of my desire
Though mere form, an eternal dream
relieved by bursts of white fire
A primordial odyssey
from ocean's novel progeny
Crawled out of Cambrian waters,
fish who yielded the first daughters
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 3:49 AM UTC
#*Through drift of days
comes rest in space and silence.
What’s past is ours to release,
God’s to redeem.
Scattered seeds of truth,
once sown in love or violence,
when yielded to His hands
may bloom in glorious gleam.*#
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 7:46 PM UTC
To ghosts which walk about our imagination,
we have surrendered counsel, yielded consolation.
They are the souls of the might-have-been,
kindred brethren yoked to our liquid center,
who've never endured the pain of intelligence,
never walked the bed-of-coals of perception,
yet, they have wisdom nestled on ethereal neurons.
To semaphores which count a poet's unused resources,
written in the higher code of life's metaphor,
iteratively substituting words to distill a truth,
a single universal life experience upon which to dwell,
all taken from myriad axioms of cerebral ecstasy.
This is writing, confrere, and you have tasted it, as well.
We are craftsmen in the medium of language,
poets following the involuntary way.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
It closes
The surrounding darkness is somehow contracting
Though it was always equally lacking in light, the walls approach on the edges of your vision.
The jagged edges that hold a promise of riches never yielded their prize.
They fall and crush, snapping your vertebrae without thought.
Pinned to the damp floor, your skeletal remains give up their fight.
It has won.
Not daggers, no, far less civilised, far more brutal shards pierce roughly through your chest.
The sound of your screams is replaced with silence
The battle is over.
Yet still the blows crash against your skull, the pounding on the inside of your head starts to break out.
Perspectives reverse
Not dark, sunrise, not rocks, a quilt, not screams, but beeps.
A day begins
It
Was
All
In
Your
Head
Does that make it alright?
Do you feel better for that truth?
Your mind tricked you, is that what you want?
Which restricts more, a prison of rock or thoughts?
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
You wait on the smooth and shiny floor
of the arrival area with mixed feelings,
you're a groom expecting his bride
to be led to him slowly and unscathed
on the sliding plastic pieces of carousel.
You think about how relieved you are
for making it out of the plane,
how you managed to mumble
an indistinct farewell to
the pretty flight attendants
that filled your in-flight fantasies.
Then you also think about
the last time you came through this airport
and your luggage did not arrive;
how the uncountable footsteps
and phone calls yielded nothing.
That's when little beads of sweat
begin to flock on your brow.
The first few luggage are discharged
through the small opening in the wall,
arriving with subdued fanfare on the carousel.
An all black Samsonite cruises by,
followed closely by a blue Nike sports bag
that puffs out its chest as if in a military parade.
Then a green and white plaid bag drifts by
and you wonder if the owner is from Ghana
or perhaps a proud Nigerian.
The plastic draped Travelpro catches your eye,
half torn to shreds - a good reminder
of the hazards of cargo handling.
Four minutes go by
and you've become a detective
swiftly and skilfully scanning the bags
as they drive by in their solemn procession.
Then you spot that red and black duffel bag
wearing your Mum's purple ribbon
and your eyes instantly light up.
Your cheeks push up in delight
and your lips become glued
in a perpetual clown smile.
As it moves close and you pick it up,
you notice the early rays of light
that have begun to filter in
through the concrete slits in the wall.
Suddenly you realize:
what a great day it is!
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 8:11 AM UTC
Into the deep, God’s calling me nearer.
Eyes set on Jesus, I feel less afraid
to plumb His holy mysteries, to trade
the shoreline’s shallow surf for currents dearer.
Immersed within God’s Word, He meets me there
with treasures buried underneath the ink,
invites me of His grace-filled seas to drink,
pledging His own inheritance to share.
The love of God! How could thoughts e’er capture
Christ’s boundless waters of sublime delight?
(unmarred, untainted, free from guile or blight)
Yielded, though, heart bathes in, tastes Love’s rapture.
In worship soul can reach to highest bliss
when Jesus is the King that soul doth ‘kiss.’
May 16, 2022
May 16, 2022 at 2:19 PM UTC
You live on the canal,
by the little swan
that whittles the sun.
A sudden rush of clouds,
a clatter of sandals -
caprice of Dublin.
I knew of Dublin
and its grand canal
from old books tan as sandals.
I read Yeats for a swan,
Joyce for castle clouds
that yielded little sun.
But you, you were the sun!
You lit green Dublin
from within. Clouds
fled from the canals
of your eye. "Swansies."
And summer's far sandals
were today's sandals:
time shifted in the sun,
took flight like the night swan
through ancient Dublin.
You sent letters from the canal,
letters that divided clouds,
only to calve new clouds.
I've never worn sandals,
not ever, but when the canal
danced in my dreams, the sun
pierced my foot in Dublin.
You were my swan,
my elegant swansie,
killer of cloud,
conquistador of Dublin
in gladiatorial sandal,
herald and avatar of sun,
romantic of the grand canal.
Let me taste unclouded sun -
let sandals upend the canal -
send swans by the dozen into Dublin.
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 10:19 PM UTC