Penned With Love 1-28-16

Back in a corner, where she hid,

I met a little child, I did.

She was a quiet, fragile child

who never laughed and seldom smiled.

Her eyes were blue, her hair light brown,

but she was hurt and feeling down.

Her clothes were tattered, filled with holes.

like many people and their souls.

I spied her tears when she had cried.

I had not known her mother died.

Her age was eight, or maybe nine.

Her troubles were much more than mine.

I knelt down close to her and said,

"Have you a home?  Have you been fed?"

Despite the crowd that gathered 'round,

our space was quiet - without sound.

I reached deep down in pocket and

I held your poem in my hand.

I opened scrap of paper proud,

then read your poem right out loud.

My eyes became a fuzzy blur.

I know you wrote it just for her.

She reached for me with all her hurt.

I hugged her back, ignoring dirt.

Words can't replace a bed and food

but fills with joy, the attitude.

I haven't seen her for awhile,

but know your poem made her smile.

Though some write many, some write few.

We've penned with love our words to view.

So write your rhymes unselfishly

with kindness, care and empathy.

And don't be hurt when I'm away

out sharing poems day to day.

Much better than some silly toy,

your words, for some, give real joy.

Back in a corner, where she hid,

I met a little child, I did...

©2016 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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My Old Hometown Church 1-16-16

There's something that perplexes me

as I, my mem'ries, search,

right here among familiar pews

in my old hometown church.

It's been so many decades now

since I have been around.

Those many years have faded fast

with oh, so little sound.

I sit a-spell and reminisce

in silence that remains,

from walnut pulpit up in front

to stained glass window panes.

The cross behind the pulpit hints

a show of halo's glow.

It seems to be inviting me.

There's much I still don't know.

My eyes drop down in front of me

upon a hymnal book.

I hesitate and ponder some

before I take a look.

Those tunes and words come quickly as

my sorry psyche swims

to words of His "Amazing Grace"

and more familiar hymns.

Familiar are both floor and walls.

Familiar are the lights.

Reflecting back to faces though,

my deepened grief ignites.

So many friends I cannot see.

They've moved or passed away.

No, time and change are not my friends!

How did I go astray?

How many times can God convict

me of my wicked ways?

How many times did I pretend

and did not give God praise?

I crave and plead that time turns back.

It rips my insides out!

It makes me blame somebody else.

It makes me want to shout.

There's something deep down in my gut

that I can't sanitize.

Confession comes, repentance looms

with something in my eyes...

As I stare squarely at myself -

and you know how it goes -

the lightning strikes and thunder roars

as levee overflows.,,

But lonely tears are wiped away,

for love will always be,

as grace holds all of Heaven up

throughout eternity.

My long, sad tears dry from my cheeks

as I, my mem'ries, search,

right here among familiar pews

in my old hometown church.

©2016 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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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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