Sunday, November 29, 2015

Your Love 11-29-15


Frosted needles on the pine
in this, the greatest nation.
Oh, why God, did you bless us with
Your good and great creation?

Rainbow smiles on every race,
between their dimples, bends.
Oh, why God, did you bless us with
such good and priceless friends?

A cross on steeple's pinnacle,
now draws us from our search.
Oh, why God, did you bless us with
Your Son's eternal church?
---
So why, God, do you bless me so
when I'm so blindly swerving -
on and off your 'narrow road',
when I'm so undeserving?

I fall down on arthritic knees.
I bow my weary head.
I used to focus on my wants,
but now I'm Yours instead.

From frosted needles, rainbow smiles
to cross that stands above,
I know now why You've blessed me so.
May others find Your love.

©2015 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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Tuesday, November 24, 2015

When Fighting Hate 11-24-15

Picture from: https://chazzw.wordpress.com/2012/03/17/the-missing-of-the-somme-geoff-dyer/

It matters much
when two hearts touch,
yet war has its demand.
When fighting hate,
my flag is great,
but some don't understand.

Now it's a shame
some played their games
while we were undermanned.
Through heat and cold,
we all were bold,
but some don't understand.

While taking flak,
I watched his back.
We fought them man to man.
It happened fast,
that deadly blast,
but some don't understand.

With comrade dead,
sad tears I shed.
It's not what we had planned.
It makes no sense,
my guilt's immense,
but some don't understand.

Arriving home
with war syndrome,
experienced firsthand.
It all seems wrong
with heroes gone,
but some don't understand.

I'll make it though,
disfigured so.
This is my wonderland.
It's God I need,
I do indeed,
but some don't understand.

It matters much
when two hearts touch,
but war has its demand.
When fighting hate,
our cause is great.
Still, some don't understand.

©2015 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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Sunday, November 22, 2015

On Winds Of Time 11-22-15


The beauty of that place was such
that I just hadn't mattered much.
Except for me, the trees were bright
with vibrant leaves.  Oh, what a sight!
The crowds would mingle and would rest
among the brightest and the best
where thoughts and dreams together meld
in beauty so unparalleled.

Those autumn trees would grin and shout,
"Hey, look at us.  Come check us out.
We've colored leaves for you to see."
And so it was for ev'ry tree -
except for me with branches bare.
I didn't brag.  I didn't dare -
for people laughed - and newlyweds
just rolled their eyes and shook their heads.

A boy yanked off my one last leaf,
then ran away - that little thief!
So there I stood, ignored, alone.
I was a poet tree, unknown.
Exposing all my worthless whims,
the breezes weaved around my limbs.
The days were long and getting cold.
I knew that I was growing old.

A gentleman came strolling by
who paused a bit.  I don't know why.
He was a man, quite elderly
who found an old leaf under me.
He picked it up and for a while,
I thought I saw a little smile.
He contemplated for a time
and then reread my dead leaf rhyme.

I'm not a poet tree, they say
so yes, my poems blow away.
But high in humble love they sail -
across the plains and over vale,
over seas and over shores,
before they rest near Heaven's doors.
They're found by men of humble heart
whose souls are touched and set apart.

Let colored leaves not camouflage
those covered trees that sabotage
the perfect rhymes of poet's love
which blow as snow from God above.
God's love is oftentimes disguised
from people who are mesmerized
by pretty leaves that promise bliss
and worlds of joy and happiness.

But seasons come and seasons go
as brooks and streams and rivers flow.
They never stop.  They never end.
If only man could comprehend.
For sailing from the empty trees
are tears of love inside the leaves.
So leaves as these are worth the rhyme
and fly along on winds of time.

©2015 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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Sunday, November 15, 2015

Cuckoo Clock 11-15-15


The time is almost 3 AM.
but I don't really care -
except the ticking of the clock
is more than I can bear.

The pendulum swings back and forth.
It doesn't ever sleep.
And neither have I had a wink,
(though I have counted sheep).

The tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick
is all it ever does.
A cuckoo clock is all it is
and all it ever was.

It can't jump off the wall and run.
That little bird can't fly.
She hasn't helped a single soul.
She's not as good as I.

So should I take her insults too?
She makes my stomach sour.
She says that I am cuckoo ev'ry
hour on the hour...

A burst of great emotions come
whenever she pops out -
and tells me I am cuckoo 'till
it makes me want to shout.

But then she quickly sneaks back in
and shuts her little door.
If only she could stay in there,
and not pop out at 4.

Her strong opinion does not change
and I know it won't end -
but I'll forgive that little bird.
She really is my friend.

And so I pull the weights back up
to give her one more day
to tell me I am cuckoo, 'cause -
that's all that she can say.

The time is almost 4 AM.
but I don't really care -
except the ticking of the clock
is more than I can bear.

©2015 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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Sunday, November 8, 2015

Doug, the Bug 11-8-15


"If I could elevate myself
and look down from the sky,
then I could see the facts of life
and learn of truth and lie."

Now that's what Doug, the Bug had thought.
He therefore went afoot -
t'ward great gigantic tree atop
its long and bulging root.

Then finally he started up.
That trunk had massive girth.
It seemed to be as solid as
the ground upon the earth.

He climbed the largest limb he found
and then the highest branch.
It all seemed very sturdy there.
It overlooked a ranch.

Back up, Doug glanced - and then he spied
the highest leaf of all!
And so he climbed some tiny twigs
which seemed quite weak and small.

"I'm almost there," he told himself,
"I'll rest on highest leaf."
At last that bug stood right on top
his firmly held belief.

Now Doug gripped tight, that little leaf
that he, himself, had earned.
And though he thought he knew it all,
one lesson hadn't learned.

You know, the truth is not always
the things that we can see.
Invisible, those autumn winds
had yanked that leaf from tree.

So Doug, the Bug was on his own.
He feared for his own soul -
and he was at the mercy of
that wicked wind's control.

He soared there on that wayward leaf
to places yet unknown -
then settled on a foreign ground
where he was all alone.

All winter he, in circles walked
and aimlessly did roam.
He shed such long repentant tears
but couldn't find his home.

He ran and cried and cried and ran -
then fell flat on his face.
Then God reached down and picked him up.
And that's what we call grace.

©2015 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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Sunday, November 1, 2015

Seven Words 11-1-15

(based on a true story)

Her son stepped to the pulpit with
some papers in his hand.
He cleared his throat and thought a bit,
but would they understand?

Would they know who mom really was?
Would they know they had fun?
Would they know mom loved God and prayed?
Would they know all she'd done?

Would they know she was always poor,
her pain and all her crying?
Would they know she helped little ones
with smiles and hugs while dying?

He laid, then, all the papers down
and peered up into Heaven.
Inside his mind he edited
his words right down to seven.

Would seven words explain it all
and would those words prevail -
there in each heart describing mom
in intimate detail?

Now friends and fam'ly waited for
her son with eager ears -
as he concluded all his thoughts
while holding back his tears.

He took a breath and slowly spoke
until his talk was done.
"Ev'ryone loved mom, because,
[my] mom loved ev'ryone."

He noticed many sparkles flash,
in each and ev'ry eye.
He gazed down at the casket then -
and said his last goodbye.

©2015 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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God knows all corners of our minds.
He knows our subtle ways.
He knows the number of our hairs,
deceptions of our days.
But love connects both God and man -
the greatest and the last -
and son knew he would see her soon,
for time on earth flies fast.
©2015 louis gander