Window

              The azure sky surrounds the seaside.  A slight breeze ruffles and otherwise limp flag on the mast.  I look at the sky once more:  clear as glass.  I run my hand along my ship.  The sleek wood appears as an arrow, ready to pierce the enemy of the sea.  I climb aboard and feel the questioning of my ship.  It soon decides I am no threat and returns to the toss of the water.  I peer at the sky once more.  The sky is still blue, so it’s not yet time.  Clouds gather on the horizon, wispy streaks across my view.  I ready the mast by unfurling the sail.  The large canvas lies limp; there is no breeze to fill it.  Nonetheless, I begin untying my lady.  I hoist the beast holding my still.  One more check of the sky is necessary.  The sun dips low on the horizon; it illuminates the clouds that partially block it out.  Golden lined, the clouds are curtains to the west.  My sail then catches wind.  The clouds then slide away and I’m sailing into the window of the sun. 

             The sun beats down tormenting me.  My shovel rises and falls in the now rhythmic pattern, a pattern only disrupted by the placement of a post.  I look back to the east to see how far I’ve come.  The fence is a snake, winding back in the hills.  Its fangs ready to catch any intruders.  I begin shoveling again.  “Dig a hole and place the pole,” becomes my steady rhythm once more.  The sun gives me no break.  It beats down on me, burns me.  Even my horse restlessly whinnies as she tries to evade the scorch.  I look to the hills that are my bounds, not much further.  I return to my work, a quicker tempo this time.  I notice the heat slides off a bit.  What relief!  As I place the last pole on the top of the hill, I look to the west, to my home.  The sun sparkles on the horizon.  Hills jump and trees dance.  The far away cabin sings to me.  I saddle my horse and mount her.  With a flick of the rains, we are riding toward the window of the sun.

            My feet are pounding against the road.  Thud-Thud-Thud.  The rhythm has become part of me, but it slows.  It always slows.  The cloudy sky seems oppressive, threatening.  I run on, slowing.  Thud—Thud--Thud.   Ahead is death.  It’s the hill that rises to high to quickly.  I begin climbing.  The dim sky cools me off, but it also traps me in.  No sense of movement exists, just the flat gray at the rise of death.  Thud------Thud------Thud.    My pace hesitates even more, but I surmount the first hill.  I look higher, and am devastated.  More hills arrive, some mountains come as well.  The clouds begin to part.  Something is pushing through, tearing their canvas.  White shoots forth an arrow, then another as the clouds rip.  The clouds catch fire and retreat with pain.  They glow red with soreness as the flame withdraws partially.  Thud-Thud-Thud.  My pace quickens once more as I accelerate into the window of the sun. 

Bread of Life and Living Water

            Three major ingredients wait: water, flour, yeast.  A master molds them together, forming dough.  The master kneads the dough; he shapes it.  The dough rises.  Growing with time, the dough augments.  The master returns, and he places the risen dough in the oven.  The dough bakes.   The master removes the bread.  Hungry people gather around.  The master tears the bread.  He hands the broken and bruised pieces to the people.  They eat until filled. 

            A deep well rests near the edge of town.  A thirsty wanderer searches for the well.  Being fatigued, he has some difficult coming to the well.  Upon arriving he falls, utterly wasted.  A gentle hand lifts his head; a gourd touches his lips.  He drinks, quenching his thirst.

            Each Sunday I participate in a sacred ordinance: The Sacrament.  I break and bless the bread.  I prepare and bless the water.  I hold authority from God to perform these ordinances.  Why do I dutifully perform them though?  The Sacrament focuses lives to the Savior, Jesus Christ.   Jehovah, my personal Redeemer, sacrificed His flesh and His blood for me.  Serving and praising the Messiah constitutes the center of The Sacrament and my life. 

            The water in the sacrament represents the blood of the Prince of Peace.   He atoned for the sins of the world.  He took upon Him the pains, sicknesses, sorrows, and temptations of all humankind.  He suffered so much that He bled from every pore.  By His blood, I can be redeemed from death: physically and spiritually.  Every body else can be redeemed as well.  During Christ’s ministry, He said that those that thirst should come and drink from the Fountain of Living Water.  I drink, each Sunday, the living water.  By pledging by life to Christ, I receive the promise that I shall not thirst.  I am spiritually kept alive through the Living Water, or blood, of Christ.

            The bread in the sacrament represents the body of the Savior.  After He atoned for the world, the Jews convicted Him to die on the cross.  He endured whipping, mockery, spitting, and death.  His body, laid in a sepulcher, rested beaten, bruised, and torn.  He rose three days latter with a perfect body.  The only remains of His worldly pains existed as the scars from the driven nails.  These lay in the palm of each hand and in the center of each foot.   He became whole once again.  I eat the bread each week in remembrance of this event.  I know that Christ made it possible to heal me.   Jehovah exists as the Bread of Life.  Anybody that partakes of His sacrifice can receive life to their soul. Through my Redeemer, I can become whole: physically and spiritually. 

            I testify the Christ lives!  He loves me.  Christ is the Fountain of Living Water and the Bread of Life.  He lives so that I can receive eternal life.  He lives so that I can be joyful forever.  I rely on Christ.  Without bread and water, I would die…

Truth

Einstein said quite well,

“Relative all must be.”

Reasons now, I will tell,

How simply this is to see.

Wait! ‘see’ I said?  I surely meant sight.

Or are eyes for hearing and wisdom for might.

Nor for if that were smell would be for soul,

And how awful! Some must smell like a porcelain bowl.

The senses are all just jumble,

No truth in them is found.

The mind catches the senses’ fumble,

And is confused as Rubik’s Mound.

Shut the senses, close the door.

You’ll see the truth once more.

Quiet, reflective thought,

Minus the world’s noise,

Will give thee truth, not fraught,

It gives excellence and joys. 

" A process cannot be understood by stopping it. Understanding must move with the flow of the process, must join it and flow with it."

Time. Love. Life.

An eternal circuit

Travelling around.

Repeating the rises of Sol,

Cycling the falls of Luna.

Rotations and cycles

All intertwined.

Understanding will

Always fall behind.

Unless a thought

Can grab firm hold,

Joining the flow,

Finding the fold.

As the mind accompanies

The process of life

It’s secrets are torn;

The tapestry cut by knife.



Time

The scared, the brave,

The knight, the knave,

All have a common flaw.

No matter how hard they try

They fall to this dragon claw!

Getting Lost in the future,

Forgetting the past,

Time has them trapped

In its deathly grasp.

A Free Man's Injury

Prison is like fear

With walls made of steel.

Surrender is near

But not your next meal.

Starved and locked in

Looking to see

If in this cell of tin

Could be hidden a key.

Searching up, down, middle too

There has to be something

Some liberating clue.

In due time unlocked was the door

And I was out like the eagles that soar.

Finally free from my oppressed stage

I was off for adventure and to use my young age.

I sought for excitement, and journeys with thrill.

Nothing was imaginary, it was tangible, real!

Exciting turns, sharp twists, with heart stopping speed.

Adrenaline was my desire, my drug, my need.

It was all so quick

I didn’t see it come.

With one touch to the wick

My flame was done…

My fear dissipated, my burning gone out,

I’ve found a truer prison lying about.

“It’s better to have loved and lost, then to have not loved at all.”

“Try saying that world, after, the fall!”

I sit here, pondering, what caused this pain.

My injury, I realize, was my living for vain.

No meaning or purpose was behind my drive,

Just a tank full of gas and a gorgeous sunrise.

I’ll pick myself up, and dust off my feet.

I know life is to be lived, but freedom isn’t free.

All may be well for a second or two,

But to avoid the injury, I’ll use caution too.

Hey everybody! Now that you’ve finished reading my poem, you are now required to comment with your thoughts and feelings on it. My theory is that if you had the spare time to waste with such a trivial matter, then you can waste some more by commenting.

Oh, I will also explain my reasoning for writing this poem, just so that you know my though process. This cross-country season has been a little strange for me. At the beginning of the season I was scared to start running. I hadn’t run all summer, and I knew my legs and my lungs were not in shape. Also, two weeks before the season I bought a new pair of shoes: toe-style shoes. These shoes were supposed to help with my running form, and increase my speed, but I did have my doubts. I began to run with these new shoes. I loved them! They helped me fully rekindle my lost love of running. After three weeks of using these shoes I developed an injury. During one of my training runs, my foot began to throb with pain. I finished the run, and then I stretched it out. I though that it was a minor muscle problem. I raced on it the next day and could barely walk after. I haven’t run since then. Upon visiting a doctor, I learned that my injury is a weak type of stress fracture. I was devastated when he gave the news that I would be out for up to eight weeks if my case was bad. He said that I started training too hard too quickly in the new running style. He said when I start running again; I need to move at a much slower slope of increase with my foot just healing. This is the story behind my poem. However, as I was writing it I drew upon other experiences in my past that are not sport related. Please, tell me what you think when you read this poem.

The Debate

This subject’s one that I’ve mused.
In my mind I’m very confused.

Summer was great,

But now to debate,

Was it worth all the bad news?

Chaotic, summer has been.

Traveling round, again and again.

It was quite a rush,

Now I must hush,

For school, I’m now trapped in!

The text in my books is alive,

Even mathematics makes me jive.
School is fun,

I’m the lone one

Who thinks this way. Hope I survive…

School and summer, summer and school.

Days filled with books, days at the pool.

Which is best?

My case must rest

In the backbreaking regime of school.