From One Hundred Word 1-10-16

The picture, envisioned from one hundred word

was written with rhymes in a poem then heard,

by one lonely soul who was starving for love

from having no knowledge of God up above.

And then came another, another one too,

until it was heard by much more than a few.

When multitudes heard it, they had ne'er a choice

but hear His soft whisper, His Heavenly voice.

Unknown was the one who had written that poem

so others could hear of our Father and know Him.

And all because one little poem was heard -

and picture, envisioned from one hundred word.

©2016 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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(note:  there are one hundred words in the poem above)

Of Rocks & Truths 1-1-16

The rolling seas will rise and fall.

They call to one and all.

The waves will splash, forevermore,

those giant rocks on shore.

Emotions thoughts will come and go.

They ever tempt us so.

But lies still fail to even prod

those solid truths of God.

©2016 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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The Old and Lonely Poet 12-26-15

On edge of arid desert set

a trailer aged in rust

with tires flattened long ago

and covered thick with dust.

A friend I'd known for many years

had lived alone inside -

and if his lamp was burning, then

I knew he hadn't died.

The lamp seemed always to be lit

but never did complain.

Then sure enough, I saw him there

through dirty window pane.

The Great Depression hurt him so.

I saw it in that place.

I saw it in his lonely words.

I saw it in his face.

The mental stress that he went through

was far too much to bear -

and would have been for anyone

if they were sitting there.

But they were not.  Just he alone

survived his great ordeal.

And his reward?  An empty can,

a cold and meager meal.

The old man couldn't hear too good.

The years had quickly passed -

so catching his attention, I

tapped loudly on the glass.

It seemed to take forever, but

he made it to the door.

Black cobwebs hung from corners and -
newspapers hid the floor.

He greeted me with friendly eyes,

skin wrinkled deep from sun.

He made me feel welcome, though

his work was never done.

I visited for quite awhile

as he kept at his rhymes.

He changed his thoughts, his lines, his words

at least a thousand times.

I said, "It must be good enough."

Replied he, "Not at all.

It doesn't capture God's great love.

This needs an overhaul.

For God is love and God is grace

in absolute perfection -

so how can I write something less

to add to this collection?

"This poetry I write for God
must always be perfected -

or basket, full of waste, is filled

with poems I've rejected."

I fell asleep while sitting there.

I woke at 3 AM

and heard him mumble something like,

"...to change the hearts of them."

Observed, I did, his wise old ways.

I'd learned all that I could -

but never measured up to him -

my writing, not as good.

I saw his great intensity.
I stayed with him for days.

I watched his sacrificial work

I saw his humble ways.

He strove to write in perfect words,

expressing his rare love

for all of those who'd done him harm

from politics above.

Forgiving them of evil deeds

had given him such peace -

that each and ev'ry word he wrote

became a masterpiece.

Though sometimes folks still speak of him,

he never set his goals -

to elevate his unknown name -

but rather save the souls -

through writings that should touch the hearts

of other eager men -

who draw attention to themselves

through selfish, prideful sin.

I once decided to return -

to visit one last time.

The old and lonely poet, though,

had written his last rhyme.

The years have passed.  Such great respect

I had for that old man.

Could I improve my poetry

for God?  He proved I can!

©2015 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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Christmas Snow 12-20-15

When I was just a little lad

I heard my mother say,

"There's nothing like a Christmas snow

that falls on Christmas day."

And so one Christmas morning I

was curious to know -

if lawn would still be grassy green

or covered up with snow.

My room was dark.  My bed was warm.

Some sleep was in my eyes.

But hurried, I, to fin'lly see

my Christmas snow surprise!

I threw my blanket off my bed

and slid off to the floor.

It still was dark - so ran into

my dresser's open drawer.

I didn't cuss, but threw a fit -

and then I hurt my shin.

My attitude was sinking as

I slammed the drawer back in.

I raced up to my window where

I'd peek outside to see -

if God had sent a Christmas snow

especially for me.

I threw the curtains to the sides -

I guess a bit too hard -

because the falling curtain rod

had caught me there off-guard.

My arm still hurt from dresser drawer,

my head from curtain rod.

And when I saw no Christmas snow

I blamed both mom and God.

It seemed I didn't matter and -

God had no longer cared.

So feeling sorry for myself -

I, out the window, stared.

All morning long, I trudged along

and dragged my little feet.

It seemed that Christmas, once again,

would turn out incomplete.

My sentiment and attitude

was not a gentleman's.

The tantrums I had Christmas day

had dwarfed all other ones.

I wasted more than half that day

before mom called to me -

and said, "Come quickly.  Look at this.

There's something you should see."

To my surprise, from up above

and falling from the sky -

a Christmas snow proved God loves me,

...but now I'm not sure why.

©2015 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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From Across the Lake 12-12-15

The cabin built with sturdy logs

(that firmly stood awake)

was nestled snugly in the trees

beside this quiet lake.

A dim and amber light shone out

to greet the lonely eye -

reflecting off this tiny lake

here under cloudy sky.

Through window pane, that sorry lamp -

far off on other side -

had shone from on a tabletop

with unseen chair beside.

And faithful chair supported all

the poet's ev'ry task.

Yet that old chair is empty now,

"but why?" you maybe ask.

You wonder who that poet is

or why he is away.

You wonder if he writes at night

or all throughout the day.

But when he comes, the chair again

will groan under his weight.

And over many months and years,

his work will rhymes create.

Now you might think and may conclude

of him, you didn't hear -

but I know this, you've read his work,

at least this poem here.

A glow begins to pour across

the sky in loving fun..

It reaches out so wide and far

with nearing of the sun.

And that light now reflects off of

a paper holding rhyme -

and calls me from across the lake.

I guess it's about time...

©2015 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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