God came to me in the night In a reverie glowing with love She said the anxieties of the world Are human manifested Inside a cauldron of confusion But if we move beyond The duality of black and white See the goodness amid the bad New colors burst, evoking Interpersonal landscapes Where sin is but an echo That has faded and worn And the interconnection Of all beings, flows at the core Of our weary, tired souls
The decisions we make Reverberate through time We take vows; we make promises They bind us together Life comes at us quickly Throws us off-kilter Time passes and We don’t see the hourglass empty How we live each day Is how we spend a lifetime And if the vows we make Aren’t strong enough We fortify them with new Commitments, each minute, Hour, day, and eternal now
Do the right thing, they say
It's not always the easiest thing
And those frantic days
And those homesick nights
It can wear you down
Is there a reward for this?
Love is its own reward
But is love enough?
Sometimes, not always
Let the time pass
And the days turn into dusk
Spend a lifetime doing the right things
With no heaven as a reward
But merely the assurance
Of a lifetime of hard-fought
Difficult, warm love
Once a dream did weave a shade O’er my angel-guarded bed, That an emmet lost its way Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled, wildered, and forlorn, Dark, benighted, travel-worn, Over many a tangle spray, All heart-broke, I heard her say:
“Oh my children! do they cry, Do they hear their father sigh? Now they look abroad to see, Now return and weep for me.”
Pitying, I dropped a tear: But I saw a glow-worm near, Who replied, “What wailing wight Calls the watchman of the night?
“I am set to light the ground, While the beetle goes his round: Follow now the beetle’s hum; Little wanderer, hie thee home!”
Note: This poem is in the public domain and can be found here. William Blake (1757-1827) was an English poet, painter, mystic, and printmaker. He was largely unrecognized during his life, but Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of poetry and art in the Romantic era.
Frozen hands, breath on my neck Morning fell upon her way of death Clouds and snowflake tremors She adored my footsteps through the snow Killed the last of the living angels Shivered the dark sound with a passing murmur Struck by a passion for her blue eyes
I can write a poem about love I can tell her how much I love her But can I show it? Can I be there in the dark nights? Love is more than words on paper And the vows we have shared Need to be stronger than the storms of life It is in these moments When the road is long and blurry And the weight gets heavier That the authenticity of my love Needs to go beyond mere words in a poem
Grasping in the dark and there are no meanings here I have lost all that; a door closed and trapped now What caused this to happen? When did it all get so dark? I am no different than anyone else with his share of heartache My story is not especially sad, but perhaps my brain is broken Creativity flows forth, and that’s when I sense a lightness But under the skin, all I see is the muck and grime I read about what we do to each other – all those crimes And now all I see is the grief of the world I write it down and release the bitterness But nothing seems beautiful like it used to be Only the plastic sheen of a pornographic culture Will my God turn on the light in this dark room? The only thing I do in these moments is hold on to a stupid hope Each day more of my innocence is lost Until even the most beautiful sunset seems like desktop wallpaper But the stupid hope remains, a mustard seed And I hope it will grow again one day