Gazebo Poetry

Godzebo

2007-06-19T02:28:00.000-05:00

Beneath the rolling waves and sweeping sands
Hides a bunker, nestled in the depths
Hard as tempered steel, cold as winter's night
Jonah's refuge from a God who cares.

Cumulative effect of sin and sin and sin
My God, my God, O why have you abandoned me?
He is so far, for I have not moved...
Sin and sin and sin...

Crippling stalagmite of residual self-lust
Pins me down, not sudden, yet immediate
One moment I could bolt, another,
I could not.

Stuck in this bunker, hiding from God...
If I close my eyes, you can't see me!

Sigh. Enough.

You're here for a reason.

Do your thing. Help me.

Blecth

2006-08-23T22:34:00.000-05:00

Wild horses are a draggin'
And I'm kicking and screaming.
Tears, pleading, begging, moaning:
And that's just the horses.

There's nothing sadder than a crying horse.

So I stop resisting - externally, at least,
And go along, submissive.

Here I am.
What now?
I don't want to be here.
When will this be over? Ah, finally.
Slip away quietly,
No good-byes, no hugs, just polite smiles and an icy aura saying,
"If you're between me and the door, you'll be flattened."

Going. Gone.
The crying horse is silent
And that silence is worse than sadness.
A beautiful mare, still sleek with sweat,
Waiting in the fresh meadow -
But I like the smelly barn.

BASIC

2006-08-07T00:57:00.000-05:00

10 He let go.
20 His rage spewed out like a cosmic volcano.
30 He didn't care who saw.
40 He didn't care what they thought.
50 He uncaged his primal animal and surrendered to its passions.
60 He burst, like a balloon over-injected with shaving cream.
70 He made a huge mess.
80 He wept bitterly.
90 He got up and dried his face.
100 He cleaned up his mess.
110 He apologized to the right people.
120 He confessed his sins, and was absolved.
130 He pretended like it never happened.
140 He waited for it to happen again.
150 GOTO 10

Relief

2006-07-25T22:40:00.000-05:00

A sudden dagger stab and a twist: I wince
As a new wound is gouged.
I pluck out the offending instrument,
Press hard on the bloody rag that used to be my shirt.

My attacker - a dear friend - is crippled with grief,
Seeming more wounded than I.

The blade in my hand gleams with crimson light
And I think how just it would be
To use it in revenge...

...Yet, no.

I raise the knife and the rag to the heavens
Where they are caught up and vanish in the clouds.

Oh Lord, please help my friend be happy again.

Kreig

2006-06-18T21:08:00.000-05:00

The rockets roar, the shells and bombs descend,
I cower in a structure all too frail.
I've had it with this war without an end.
My spirit weeps, my soul begins to fail.

An artificial silence plugs my ears,
I curl beneath a bench, devoid of nerve.
I should have known my peace was in arrears.
I should have kept my bunker in reserve.

For concrete is so mighty, and so strong!
It always kept me safe when bullets flew.
My bunker was my friend, it did no wrong.
Why did I break it down for something new?

But as I start to fall into the brink,
"This battle could be self-induced," I think.

The King

2006-06-12T00:21:00.000-05:00

The king came to town on one warm autumn day
And looked for a lodging in which he could stay.
The haughty and proud made many an offer
But his choice, I recall, earned him many a scoffer.

He could have elected to rest in a castle,
Or a fine room all curtained with velvet and tassle,
But he looked all around for the lowliest bed
And finding it, slept there, no pillow for head.

On the morrow he woke and decreed to the city,
"I chose for my friend the man you won't pity.
So to all who would scorn him, remember my visit,
And ask yourselves, what good are lodgings exquisite?"

Then off the king went, and the city was bitter.
So many spurned nobles! And how they did flitter!
But one man was left with a peace so complete
That their anger was sour, so he rose to his feet.

He cried, "Rich men of honour, do not mock his name.
He gave me such treasure, despite all my shame.
O how can it be that the mightiest one
Has made me an heir, and has called me his son?"

The rest of the tale is still yet to be known,
As the flower is hid when the seed is just sown.
For I am that man who was blessed by the king.
And he bid me to offer, to all, the same thing.

Rest

2006-06-11T00:09:00.000-05:00

I am a child, alone and afraid
Of worries and woes that around me are laid.
I cry to the heavens, "Oh, why should I bother?"
But comfort comes quick when I'm touched by the Father.

I am a traveller, wearied and worn,
Trapped on a path lined with hatred and scorn.
Pleading for help, as despair starts to smother
But help comes at last in the arms of my Mother.

I am a liar, a scoundrel, a thief.
Ensared by my sin, and a slave to my grief.
Written off by my friends and my foes as a loss,
But salvation is mine by the blood on the cross.

I am at rest, full of hope, full of peace.
He wanted my burden; I wanted release.
Surrounded by love, by joy I'm enticed.
Wrapped up in the arms of my saviour, the Christ.