Please be done
Please please
Won't you do these
I need three
When are you free
Can you just help me stop.
I need to slow down.
But I can't
Things to do
Time's too few
It's not a rant
Or even banter
What to do
Do
Do
Do
Do
Finding what you need?
Creating.
Rushing towards something greater,
Enlightenment through English
Empowerment
Serenity.
What do you want?
A place, a peace.
There is a peace to be found
In creation, not just a frown
That hurts the soul
Make me whole
Make me something more.
More
More
No more.
Turn towards the center,
Keep turning
That yearning will never stop
For permanence,
For a place that will accept
These poor words.
I just need to accept the rightness of a wrong phrase.
silence.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Prayer for the Rhyming Artist
Knees bent to the floor,
My thoughts are straying toward the door
And of flight, and fright.
If my works will please forevermore.
Lord above, if You exist,
Please don't make my best rhymes this.
Let me find that greatest Art
Within You, and Your divine Spark.
That majestic word of Yours,that Grace
That flings itself to and fro through space
And time, it is an age.
The reason my hands stretch for the page.
My prayer? I pray for love
Love of mine that extends far above.
I pray for wisdom, I pray for a mind
To deal with those who drag me behind.
Small words and ink are all I can do.
Above all, may my work please You.
My thoughts are straying toward the door
And of flight, and fright.
If my works will please forevermore.
Lord above, if You exist,
Please don't make my best rhymes this.
Let me find that greatest Art
Within You, and Your divine Spark.
That majestic word of Yours,that Grace
That flings itself to and fro through space
And time, it is an age.
The reason my hands stretch for the page.
My prayer? I pray for love
Love of mine that extends far above.
I pray for wisdom, I pray for a mind
To deal with those who drag me behind.
Small words and ink are all I can do.
Above all, may my work please You.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Random Poetry Drizzle: Ode to a Lonely Icicle
Hello there, little icicle,
How lovely do you sway,
My cheeks are frozen
But you were chosen
To melt my heart today.
Yes I am romantic,
Please! Stay awhile.
Won't let it go
Made it so
Frozen, my heart in your smile.
Is this the case? No.
You're cold, dank, damp
Hard, uncompromising,
Not tantalizing
Not tasty, melt too hastly
Little piece of a tiny cloud melt in the mind of a fantasizing
Writer's Cramp.
How lovely do you sway,
My cheeks are frozen
But you were chosen
To melt my heart today.
Yes I am romantic,
Please! Stay awhile.
Won't let it go
Made it so
Frozen, my heart in your smile.
Is this the case? No.
You're cold, dank, damp
Hard, uncompromising,
Not tantalizing
Not tasty, melt too hastly
Little piece of a tiny cloud melt in the mind of a fantasizing
Writer's Cramp.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Faith Is Hard
I hate the word spiritual.
That's probably the wrong word to say. Rather, I detest with every fiber of my being that degenerate word. It is not an adjective, it is not a noun, or an adverb, and it cannot even begin to describe what it is aspiring to. In fact, the only proper meaning for this word is that it gives a proper definition to those who choose to ascribe themselves to such weakness.
The spiritual person is not a person of faith. They are a person "of all faiths," never being held down to one dogma or another. They take freely from all, be it Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Islam, even Wicca and Satanism at times. Unfortunately, these spirituals have never studied the works of Paul, or the Torah. They could not define what the Qur'an means to the nations of Islam, or the multitude of gods that reside within the hearts of Hindus. There is no study, there is no deep reflection, in fact there is no true faith.
The spiritual person is one that does not offend. He is not a person of faith, and does not wish to describe himself as atheist or agnostic. Those are negative words, confrontational words, words that by definition are against religion. The spiritual person is not up against religion. The spiritual person merely wants to have nothing to do with it.
They do not see what religion means to an individual. They see conflict, they see problems without solutions, a world blind that does not want to see. But this is not what religion is.
Religion is pushing the mountains into the sea, the will of one joined by the force of millions. There is not a single voice, but a chorus of multitudes. See how the mountains tremble at this force, and the very bones of the earth are shaken from their core.
Religion is the small voice in the corner of a diner, reading texts and asking how ink can cause the mind to reel in joy. Watch that daughter, see her face as she reads. Her face is tightened, inquisitive but not fully comprehending. Then, a moment of clarity, followed by a brief instant of yet more confusion. Then a dawning, and the eyes lift off the page, and are closed in contemplation. She finishes her meal, walks out of the diner, and does not change. There is no revelation, no deep truth revealed that day in a cold diner. But she is closer. Ever closer.
Faith is hard. The mountains will not move alone, nor will the screaming hordes be silenced. But stand in the storm, see the world through a new lens. Watch it whirl without contest, and be moved. Be moved to believe.
That's probably the wrong word to say. Rather, I detest with every fiber of my being that degenerate word. It is not an adjective, it is not a noun, or an adverb, and it cannot even begin to describe what it is aspiring to. In fact, the only proper meaning for this word is that it gives a proper definition to those who choose to ascribe themselves to such weakness.
The spiritual person is not a person of faith. They are a person "of all faiths," never being held down to one dogma or another. They take freely from all, be it Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Islam, even Wicca and Satanism at times. Unfortunately, these spirituals have never studied the works of Paul, or the Torah. They could not define what the Qur'an means to the nations of Islam, or the multitude of gods that reside within the hearts of Hindus. There is no study, there is no deep reflection, in fact there is no true faith.
The spiritual person is one that does not offend. He is not a person of faith, and does not wish to describe himself as atheist or agnostic. Those are negative words, confrontational words, words that by definition are against religion. The spiritual person is not up against religion. The spiritual person merely wants to have nothing to do with it.
They do not see what religion means to an individual. They see conflict, they see problems without solutions, a world blind that does not want to see. But this is not what religion is.
Religion is pushing the mountains into the sea, the will of one joined by the force of millions. There is not a single voice, but a chorus of multitudes. See how the mountains tremble at this force, and the very bones of the earth are shaken from their core.
Religion is the small voice in the corner of a diner, reading texts and asking how ink can cause the mind to reel in joy. Watch that daughter, see her face as she reads. Her face is tightened, inquisitive but not fully comprehending. Then, a moment of clarity, followed by a brief instant of yet more confusion. Then a dawning, and the eyes lift off the page, and are closed in contemplation. She finishes her meal, walks out of the diner, and does not change. There is no revelation, no deep truth revealed that day in a cold diner. But she is closer. Ever closer.
Faith is hard. The mountains will not move alone, nor will the screaming hordes be silenced. But stand in the storm, see the world through a new lens. Watch it whirl without contest, and be moved. Be moved to believe.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Random Poetry Drizzle: An Ode To Coffee
Sing, for the day has begun!
No, no no no I will not escape
This glorious trap of pillows and blankets.
I will be restrained
Til buzzing continues until I find release
And shout, angry at my freedom.
Sing for the day is dismal,
Gray and foreboding with promise.
Oh, joyous foreboding, go away
Until I hear a drip.
A drip. A slosh, a slip. That is all
I ask of this day.
Sing the song, embrace the ritual. The ritual of
cleansing.
Clean away the sacrifices of yesterday.
Today's ashen bones are ground, their scent already
Excites the mind with the promise of new life.
And O! The liquid. That ruddy muddy liquid
Pours forth from the gods. In supplication
I hold my hand forward to drink
From the cup of Today, the cup of Awakening.
Sing the Song of Glory:
Ow! Hot. Black as tar. More please.
No, no no no I will not escape
This glorious trap of pillows and blankets.
I will be restrained
Til buzzing continues until I find release
And shout, angry at my freedom.
Sing for the day is dismal,
Gray and foreboding with promise.
Oh, joyous foreboding, go away
Until I hear a drip.
A drip. A slosh, a slip. That is all
I ask of this day.
Sing the song, embrace the ritual. The ritual of
cleansing.
Clean away the sacrifices of yesterday.
Today's ashen bones are ground, their scent already
Excites the mind with the promise of new life.
And O! The liquid. That ruddy muddy liquid
Pours forth from the gods. In supplication
I hold my hand forward to drink
From the cup of Today, the cup of Awakening.
Sing the Song of Glory:
Ow! Hot. Black as tar. More please.
- Jack Holder
Saturday, December 27, 2014
Random Poetry Drizzle: You Will Fail
I will never be Good Enough.
The cold grips at my heart, my stomach,
Steals my breath as it steels my fear
Into Ice, frozen in perpetuum.
I am locked away, and alone.
But warmth comes not from within
Alone, and the hearths without can heat
The heart once lost to frost.
The heart drinks in this ice melt,
And grows strong. It is toughened by the long winter,
No longer lost on paths of ice and snow.
It has been that way before.
Tomorrow I will learn from today's chill,
Not content to simply stave off cold bones
And Icy veins.
There is more to life than Shivering.
I will Never be Good Enough. But I will Change Minds.
The cold grips at my heart, my stomach,
Steals my breath as it steels my fear
Into Ice, frozen in perpetuum.
I am locked away, and alone.
But warmth comes not from within
Alone, and the hearths without can heat
The heart once lost to frost.
The heart drinks in this ice melt,
And grows strong. It is toughened by the long winter,
No longer lost on paths of ice and snow.
It has been that way before.
Tomorrow I will learn from today's chill,
Not content to simply stave off cold bones
And Icy veins.
There is more to life than Shivering.
I will Never be Good Enough. But I will Change Minds.
- Jack Holder
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Random Poetry Drizzle: Night Mourning
In night there is Mourning.
Thrice it spins through the air
And settles in joy here.
Let me describe it.
Loss of profound nothing,
Feel the weight of obscure
Pain, what we can't describe
Since it never occurred.
As the lights flicker on
The mind turns inside out
Discovering a lack
Of new paths to turn.
Sleep comes. Sleep goes. Sleep hides.
Where do we go from here?
Right where we were going.
Tomorrow's better.
Thrice it spins through the air
And settles in joy here.
Let me describe it.
Loss of profound nothing,
Feel the weight of obscure
Pain, what we can't describe
Since it never occurred.
As the lights flicker on
The mind turns inside out
Discovering a lack
Of new paths to turn.
Sleep comes. Sleep goes. Sleep hides.
Where do we go from here?
Right where we were going.
Tomorrow's better.
-Jack Holder
December 2014
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