Divine Friendship

September, 2007

She is someone with whom I see one truth,
who could be the Friend,
Or she could be one flower among
The thousand-flower rose garden
You've given me instead of a bouquet
This Valentine's Day.
This banquet is bliss, joy, happiness,
Pure and untouched by hunger.
Any suffering flies like a sled
Off an ice-jump in a cartoon,
And as I philosophize, I fly,
Animals conversing with angels.
And ignorance drops like a well-used rocket
to the ocean, as the ego dissolves
in the atmospheric fire,
And the transhumanized spirit
of the Nazarene in me continues into deep heaven,
Assuming its undisclosed identity,
Claiming the "I" for the very first time,
Swimming in bliss that is not
diminished by endurance
Not dimmed by awareness of pain in others,
Not ending or tapering,
Totally untouched by fear of loss,
Having forsaken all meanness
And limitation; having, rather
Accepted... Having finally surrendered.

There is no greater wisdom than
Cognition of divinity
In every phenomenon,
Every thought, feeling, perception
and deja vu; Every physical object
And mental Form, every principle
of logic, every proposition,
Every dream, image, illusion.
This is life as much as wisdom,
Wisdom as much as life;
Lived as much as known, known as much as lived.
They are sufficient,
Lacking no wealth, no power,
No status and prestige,
No pleasure among the myriad pleasures.
They are inseparable
And they are insuperable,
There being nothing else to be gained,
Desired, or hoped for but this,
Which is a river of knowing
(and steam of unknowing rising )
Flowing out of the Void
Of Uncreated Beyond-beingness
Through this psyche
Out, around, and back through the doorjamb
That I walked past in the hallway
Of the apartment in Huntington Beach,
Meeting itself face-to-face again
In this person's perceptive
Eyebeams. The One who has been given
This wisdom and re-cognition
Converses affably with the Angels at every turn,
Who, like honeybees, each of a different species,
Buzz melodiously in created things.
This crazy joy of waking up is the
The thing I shall like most of all.
But won't the joy of being woken up be greater?
No, being woke up, being finally awake,
Surpasses Joy like the Sunlight
Surpasses the dimmest glum and gloomy ember
In Death Valley,
When joy and self shall merge
And stillness shall reign.
Joy, while it lasts, that fine companion,
Will burn no brighter than while it is waking up.
The state of being awake
Will snuff out that candle with gratitude,
Hearing the words, "Arise, fair one,"
And coming into the joyless ground of joy
The invisible, ineffable ground of sight and speech
The non-existent Ground of Being.
I am but one man. But I am one. I am
With you, and a thousand friends,
Ten thousand sisters of bliss.

Glory to God Alone.

Believe

July 28, 2007

Do not believe everything that you see

Unless the dialog is many and one.

Do not believe the dialog is done,

Unless what you see is one and many,

Glory to God Alone.

Writer's Sphere

July 19th, 2007

In fear, writers sit blocked, and painters idly paint
Blank canvases with gesso of purest white,
Unable to think or see straight, let alone create.

Do not hold your breath tight, panic, or faint;
Do not stare and wear away the empty frame with fright;
Relax, and seek. To see is to make. First, Contemplate.

Glory to God Alone.

An Ode of Thanks to Joy

May 3, 2007

An Ode of Thanks To Joy

Sweet Joy, bitter spite's discontent,
Thou fruit of the Spirit, like Patience and Peace,
Thou for whom Christ his time on earth spent
Suffering... For whom he endured even the cross --

I address thee as a friend. With humility I ask
Thy Spirit to plant and bear in me all good fruits.
But my love for others is my part of the task
Of becoming holy, full of joy and gratitude.

To that end, O Idea of God, would it be amiss
To break silence to express, once, gratitude,
For the brief time spent; for the soul-to-soul kiss,
For that passing in the night that contributes

To my joy? That which we desire wells up
Within. (This is the secret which all wise men cry!)
And yet, drinking from this or that external cup
May stir the taste of internal reality.

Just so, then, Universal Joy, Angelic Light of God,
I praise thy daughter, one part of your Whole --
Her sweet Russian lips, her wit, her body
Smooth; her rich indwelling presence of soul,

Like a dancer, who knows and owns her home.
And I ask thee, Spiritual Gift, give yourself inwardly,
To your sweet daughter, even she without whom
I would not have felt thy light so thoroughly.

One last request, thou unmerited Grace:
Let the echoes of the silence which I herein break
Be rays of lovingkindness that fill the face
Of the beautiful soul that I herein thank.

Thank you, Joy, for being with me, for one
Sixty-second minute of Life's short Day,
Which, like all others, when Time's race is run,
Though redeemed in death, is now passed away.

Glory to God Alone

A Song to Joseph of Cupertino

February 14th, 2007

A Song to Joseph of Cupertino

Flying Joe, teach me your ways!
Teach me your humble, simple grace!
If from high heaven you can find your way,
To be with me on the ground today,
I'll thank you, Joseph, and the Spirit too
Who helps you to forget about you
So entirely that, weightless, you ascend
And float with Christ in the Empyrean!

Glory to God Alone.

One and One Makes Three

October 2, 2006

My sister just had twins. My other sister just found out she is pregnant. This poem is my response to and working out of the powerful emotions involved in being a new parent, and is written from the imaginative perspective of a new father, reflecting on the birth of his first child.


Nine years before we ever met
Were spent with loves (the puppy kind,)
And spent with parents, other friends,
Our other lives, our younger times

Nine days we spent in Waikiki
We watched the sunset every night
We ate in bed, and paid the fees
(The room service was worth it... right?)

Nine minutes from the start to stop
Exhausted, we could not go on
We laughed and tried to smoke, but dropped
The habit just as it began.

Nine seconds wondering why it was good
We broke the rules of going slow
Well, sometimes love can't wait, and should
Be master, we conclude, and glow

Nine months later, to the day
We hug... Fatigue, tranquility
Thank God, she looks like you! I say
For one and one, in love, makes three.

Glory to God Alone.

May 24, 2007

"I wiped the condensation of my 32oz., Coca-Cola.
'Hey thanks, what do I owe you?'
'Don't worry about it,' he said.
And as I smiled and said, "Thank you!" again,
the drink slipped from my hand.
The carpet flooring of the Toyota
absorbed the carbonated liquid,
and I realized how thirsty I actually l was."

"I walked into to work at 11:30, fifteen minutes late,
after dragging myself out of bed. Still groggy, I asked where I would be working today. They said, 'You're not on the schedule.'After double-checking, I saw that I was supposed to work on Tuesday,
and I had Monday off. My co-workers made fun of me, or said they were jealous, but I just laughed. I went home, watched a movie, and slept."

"For thirty-three years, we tried to make it work.
Though, you can't really try for thirty-three years...
We tried twice, maybe three times... Four at the absolute most...
No, we didn't try for thirty years, we gave up for thirty years.
By the end, I could mouth the words, "I love him," if asked by the Home School Association, or his pastor friends.
But mostly l wanted the searing pain of his presence to be removed from my flesh...
I wanted the cool air of freedom.
When he filed the papers, I told him, "I never wanted this! How can you give up on me!?'
He tried to tell me that I had requested them - demanded them! -- not six months ago.
Worthless bastard. I wouldn't have thought him capable of lying, but I suppose, at the end, he was that desperate.
That was three years ago, and I am looking for the love of my life. But, thinking back, he really was a good man."

There is no other human way
To appreciate what you have.

Lose it, by imagination, today;
And, losing, thereby love.

Glory to God Alone.

Contemplating Death

September, 2007

September, Sister death, looking at your face, I see myself
My end, fully developed, having changed its last

The darkness overwhelms all the pleasures
The silly jokes, the mirth, the parties, the cute girls
The card games, and silver medals, the ping-pong on Mondays,
The delectable desserts, Apple Cobbler and Fudge Fudge brownie,

And yet, it leaves me satisfied. You are the gateway to life.
Vainity falls away. Good riddance.
I am a marble statue, faint, indistinct, colorless,
And you teach me to be a real boy.

Glory to God Alone.

We must not complain

September 1st, 2007

I see the lofty forest foilage
And the layered city lights
Speckled across panaramic views
I see air shimmering at nightI see death,
my sweet impending doom
We must not complain about our age

Glory to God Alone

Fear of Death

December 20, 2006

For long, my fear was for nothing but death;
I looked my black end in the face.
To my disgrace,
I turned, ignored, and hid, or tried,
But could not hide
My beating pulse, and quick'ning of my breath.

Though the quiet He came to me
And offered kindly, godly hand:
"Ascend, my friend."
And to my soul, enslaved and weak,
Did he softly speak:
"Abide, abide, and I will make you free."

O death, will you approach? Immanuel
Is holding me, arms out-stretched wide,
As I abide
Upon his breast, hands, bloody, clasped...
Short, tortured gasps...
Then silence. "He descended into hell."

The cold, dark silence proves he is a fraud!
Leaving his sons, three days in fear,
He disappeared.
All but one did lie, or hid from men
And from their sin.
But one beloved stayed beside his God.

'O Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,'
But blood and dust have made thee fair!
Now who will fear
Thy sting? Where is thy victory?
No, thou, with me
Are on the cross, and raised again!

The nutshell dies; And, now alive, awakes
The tender, fresh-born center part;
Just so, my heart.
Bestirred and soft and newly-seeing,
A new-born being
Emerges, blinking, as light that early breaks.

Then I, his pupil, heard the truth, and Hark!
All times seen but go and die,
But seeing eyes
Remain to see each fresh-born time
Fall into line.
Ah! the school of life, like light, dispels the dark!

For I am I, my eye is I! I see
Therefore I am! And what am I?
His apple-eye --
He who lives and loves to revive
Our fleeting lives
'Till, dying, becoming, we come to be.

For he does not his precious pupils leave,
Those black and fresh-born center parts
Within his heart;
But plucks a plank out his own eye
Blood-tears to cry
To vivify and heal by blood and grief.

My breath becalms, as does my beating pulse,
And now my black end I may face,
Thanks to his grace!
For fear has been cast out by love.
A gentle dove
Descends to coo, and woo my fresh-washed soul.

And though his deepest brilliance is concealed
From my weak eyes, I climb each rung
Like those among
The cloud of seers beyond the grave
Who sing his praise
With me, 'till I'm in him revealed.

O Life, who made this dust alive with breath,
Please show me through, from black to black,
Not looking back
But facing you, who are so bright
That I am blind
'Till I, by grace, am joined with you in death.


Glory to God Alone.

Babel

Text erects a flexible tower, stretching to the heavens.
Ancient armies spread their shields and arms in lines.
Kings and queens gather greed like sheep-shorn bundles,
Make plans, stake out land, do what they can to win, but then:

Self-lies and pride wreck what's left of their pitiful tries,
And this leftover mess is the best men hope for;
For the less men hope for, the better,
For this fetter attacks the jugular,

And this treasure attracts only burglars and moths,
This crucible tacks nails into the faithful like a hateful Centurian within
This thorn in our side may be worn with pride, for pride's sake,
But the bride's safety depends on who wins, and who dies,
And for whose sake who dies when they die,

Words outstretched like arms,
That fly where the never expected the text to fly.

Elemental Songs

The man of earth, from dusty ground
Is body, filled with breath
In eighty years, or therearound
He'll lose his dust to death.
The man of God must learn from dirt
Which comes and goes to earth
His spirit must to God return
And, dying, find new birth

As water lifts from deep blue sea
To misty clouds, which rain
The selfsame drop eternally
Flies home and dies again.
Just so must he who loves his God
Being born of Spirit and Father
Float up, and be poured into, God
Becoming living water

Air flows with an easy grace
Back and forth and back
Torn throughout the West and East
It yet remains intact
Just so does he who loves his God
Wander without a care
Until he's called back unto God
Becoming purest air

Flame alights an arrow's head
Before it quickly flies
To flaming fields of burning dead
Where it, too, quickly dies.
Just so does he loves his God
Emerge and move the same,
Until he lands and lives in God,
Becoming burning flame

Quiet Star

A book in hand, a friend or three..
A quiet, undistracted place:
A recipe for quiet glee,
A meal of simple, common grace.

We ate this meal, one evening clear,
As she first shone, that Evening Star
who first in blue-black sky appears...
In fact, she joined us from, afar,

She sat down right there in between
My friends, as if 'twere no big deal,
And mused about philosophy
To us while we enjoyed our meal:

"Have you ever noticed, friends,
That, though it's quiet when you're alone,
When silent, and with several friends,
The silence is of a deeper tone?

Prayer for Interior Martyrdom

I want you, Christ, in me to raise anew
I do not want the holy God to spurn,
I want to be on fire with love for you,
But, Lord, I do not want my heart to burn!
Since servants are no better than their guide,
Young Stephen died upon a cross, like Christ.
For "greater things" does greater deaths imply,
Thus Christians do; thus, too, they sacrafice.
As Stephen did not only die of piercing nail
But burning flame that licked his flesh to coal,
So let me be a martyr, drawn and pale,
But caught with fire that rather kills the soul.
The burning bush was burned and not consumed
So let me burn and live, in You exhumed.

I Am Small and But a Man

I am small, and but a man, my heart in twain
A house divided cannot stand, nor vice
Win the pearly circle: white-virtue's crown;
That vast, spectacular seat, with Christ.

But small although, though small I go, I go,
Down the middle, down the spiral deep'ning
Where all specks, electrons, and young mites grow
Hidden, all in invisible light circl'ing

Glory-fire flashes in the recess!
And from that single spout the black surge flows
And bubbling up, draws me back to vastness
He, shrinking, grows; unknowing, finally knows.

Stirring From a Dreary Sleep, and Dreaming

Stirring from a dreary sleep, and dreaming,
I rolled from comfort into chilly air.
The cold did not dispel my mental slumb'ring,
Nor remove sleep's lazy tendrils, unclear,
But braided in mind with divine half-truths.

In this state I saw a statue of my being,
(So to speak...) An image, cloudy in the mental eye...
Armoured and naked, large and small... My seeing
Flitted 'round and changed like Northern skies,
Taunting me, an eager and curious youth.

I believe it was a picture of my self;
A picture-prophet... Or rather, prophetess,
A servant of God, like those at Delphi
Who whirled and sang and showed their inward breast,
To Greece, like mothers who love, but stay aloof.

Wisps and shoots of falsehood still remaining,
She spoke and built a statue with her words;
Enigmas, jokes, and falsehoods intertwining
With chirps and melodies, like that of birds,
Her twinkling eye a mirror and a spoof.

I lent my ear to catch new sounds, or tried,
For I heard little, understood less...
From somewhere utterances arose and died,
Vivid yet obscure, like a roaring lioness,
Her self and source her only proof.

Of a sudden, resonance replaced desire to know
And sounds unwrapped themselves. Contingencies
Became in mind the branches of the tree unknown,
Which, seen as such, are, too, necessities,
Whole, beholden, beheld by holy truth.

I saw my weal in woman's eyes:
She said: "I am ground and statue crumbling;
I am peaceful, loving, Christ-like and kind,
Humble, I am to my brethren humbling;
One with source and seething ground of sooth.

"Rooted and grounded in love, I am that tree,
And each branch, grafted in, drenched in love,
With this unknowing trunk, vibrant, happy,
Receiving life below and life above,
Riches in blooming ground, and pouring roof.

"The virtues four increase a hundredfold!
For man is man when he is purified
From sin; not pleased and rich or wise and old:
Yes, man is man when man has died!
This dying life, my ruin and my ruth."

And more, she told me, "Wait." That word rang clear.
Projecting stillness, she became a song
Of patience, without bustle, noise, or fear,
Like lying still in bed, or righted wrongs,
Like a warhorse, resting powerful hoof.

As dawn-light broke on day, and on my brain
She left me, with a whisp'ring echo of her tune
Still resounding 'tween my ears. To know again
What then I knew beyond unknowing
I, waking, now am searching like a slueth.

But so it is! Praise the Lord of souls!
The ever-living Father, Son and Ghost!
So be it, God! So be it! Spirit, pull
Into grace this soul and her body-host,
and burn from me all that which is uncouth!

A Paraphrasis

"Forgive the ponderousness of these ponderings
('Are you used to it now' I am wondering?)
Poor communicative skills in the face
Of important realities takes so much space
To approach even approximately
That which I only imperfectly see. "

Ends and Means - a Silly Poem

Along the hoary timeline
Of poet-gods and kings,
Those singers of the song and rhyme,
All ringing, jingling things,
There comes a one (or two)
Of such who use archaic speech
In silly ways, like "pard" or "froo"
Their somber truth to teach.
Immortal souls, in mortal bod's?
It cannot be denied!
These men were more like manly-gods
Who see and sing with pride!
For from their dusty spirit-box,
Behind their earthy-eyes,
The holy hand of Spirit knocks
And shines the heav'nly cries!
But some times, roaring, in a rage
Their words resound and shout! --
And sometimes, silly, in a word,
They merely peepeth out.

Poverty

Poor man am I, Lord, in all things good,
Barefoot and covered by dirt and daily grime.
I've walked by houses where riches abound,
Felt phantom silk cushions under my head at night,
Gaped at wild strawberries, nuts, and lamb roast,
Tinkling glasses, lovely bowls and spoons,
Fine cabernet, fresh bread lightly toasted,
In large, ornate, well-adorned, softly-lit rooms.
I've dug through trash to find my next meal,
Spent freezing evenings in autumn air,
Worn tired-out wool shirts, rough to the feel,
And wandered about, too tired and lost to care...
I saw, dimly, a well-lit house in the night.
You brought me in, killed the calf, bathed, clothed, and fed me with light.

The Boy and the Poem

Sing, lyric Muse, of a boy of young years --

A bright, rambunctious and promising youth --

The day he learned something that some men still fear,

A dire – yes, awful! yet wonderful truth.

And incomprehensible Word, God's own Son,

Please draw us along, so that, faithful and tried,

When we have endured all confusion and pain,

We may join with your Father in joy at his side.

One day at his homework, and feeling quite bored

With grammar and syntax and long Latin words,

This boy left his books in his cell, making towards

His dear father's room. Careful not to be heard,

For his father, he knew, would want him to go

And to sit still and work, to write and to read.

"Though I want to talk, he'll say, 'Study!' I know."

But youth allows youthful desire to lead.

He stole up the stairs, as quiet as he could

And, thank Heaven! the door was already cracked.

He poked in his head, through dark beams of wood,

And thought to himself, "Should I stay, or go back?"

Though, peaking inside, he promptly withdrew

His question, so puzzled he was by the sight

Of his dad, all alone, in the dark, silent room,

His face with happiness lit very bright.

Bright? Rather, beaming! At what, he knew not!

But beaming as if he'd been given some prize,

Or caught some great creature that long he had sought,

So great was the gladness that beamed in his eyes.

Forgetting his fear, now totally curious,

Into the dimly lit room ran the boy,

For he had to know -- though his father be furious --

What was the source and the cause of his joy.

"Papa, may I take a break for a minute?

I'm hungry and tired and practically through…

I saw the dark room, and your face, bright within it...

Well, you seem so happy… What happened to you!?"

"Good morning, my boy, I thought that was you;

Why back there, all skulking in shadows and cracks?

You noticed the clock, which says ten, and not two,

Or did you, oblivious, simply lose track?"

"Well, yes, dad, I guess, dad. I just want to rest!

I'm sorry I snuck in. Can we break and talk?

I'm learning my Latin… Well, trying my best…

But Grammar's as hard and as dry as a rock!

"Declensions are dreadful, and vocab's a bore!

This syntax is practically stealing my breath!

When I get through this book, you'll buy me two more…

But by then I fear that the price will be death!"

"So tell me, but briefly, sir, if you be kind,

Please give me this one time but one small reprieve.

Just tell me, what joyousness brightens your mind;

Your speech, and my hearing, will be my relief."

"My dear, young, silly, and lovable son
Who taught you so to exaggerate?
An hour of study, and then you are done?
Is that all the Latin that you'll tolerate?

"To lessons to-day, you may claim you're adverse,

But you capture your meaning in a way not half-bad!
How is it you now call these lessons perverse,

Relying so much on past lessons you've had!?

"My son, you will learn to endure more than this,

If I'm not mistaken in what I divine;

Not pain its own sake, like some masochist,

But pain with a purpose, and clear, good, design.

"Pain as a means to an end, glor'ous and high

As the heavens above, yet as near as a kiss.

This pain we pursue, (Yes, us both, you and I,)

Is discomfort that eventually leads up to bliss!

"Come over here, son, and sit down on my knee.

Since it is now just about five after ten,

I'll tell you, if quickly, 'What's happened to me,'

But then to your Latin must you quickly run.

"It's not 'What has happened,' but what I have done,

That springs up the gladness that shines in my brow.

The game that I've caught, the prize that I've won,

Is the fruit of long labor, ripening now.

"A gift for my father, the grandpa you love.

And I have been writing for quite a long time!

A draft from the last year was spotty and rough,

But now, like a jewel, it is polished and primed.

"Our God above freely gave the inspiration

And so only gratitude, I pay as a fee,

And sing of my thanks and my great admiration,

For my dad, who's done (and been) so much for me.

It took me much time and hard work, you should note.

God wants our effort and his to agree.

All great writers, indeed, thusly wrote,

God's work and theirs in a sweet harmony.

There. Now you've rested, my tale you have learned,

My boy, my poem to you is revealed.

Just so must my boy to his room now return,

And thus the agreement of ours is fulfilled."

"But no, dad, O please dad, don't leave me like this!

You told me the first part, and neglected the next!!

Disclose, too, the poem! O please don't resist,

At least let me see one small bit of the text."

"There's no room for argument. Simply obey.

The clock kindly tells us its ten after ten.

The poem is not something you would enjoy,

For do we enjoy what we don't comprehend?

"When faculties fully will take in my meaning,

Don't worry, when older of mind, I will share.

But now, before your intellectual weaning,

Though hearing with ears, you'd not really hear!

"Ok, dad, well thanks, dad, for letting me stay."

He said as he hopped down, and made towards the door,

A frown on his face he tried not display,

And a grumble inside him that cried out for more.

This grumble to him seemed to be for the poem,

In truth, all he needed was something to eat,

Almost out, but wanting his father to show him

The writing, he turned one last plea to repeat.

"This story is not for young boys, but for men."

His father pre-empted, "If you need a snack,

Ask mom, but then to your Latin again!

To earn life's rewards, we must stay on track. "

And so did he go, his hopes dashed within,

The interest inside him no less fully piqued.

What were the words his father had written?

O for a snippit! A glance or a peak!

So glumly returning downstairs with some juice

And a snack, the boy tried to focus his thoughts,

But, like shining stars in the sky, bright and loose

As they fall to the Earth, stay in place they would not.

In twenty more minutes or so of attempts,

He began to, reluctantly, settle and learn.

His writing slowed down and became less unkempt,

His lips moved, if slowly, with long Latin words.

But no sooner had concentration arrived,
Than 'twas shattered by furious knocking outside.

A figure rushed in, with excitement in eye,

Strutting into the room looking puffed up with pride.

Our subject, expecting to welcome his mother

Scrambled to gather some work he could show

But looking and seeing instead just his brother,

Just sighed, now leery of his brother's proud glow.

"Little bro, I just visited dad in his room,

You know how he has been writing each night?

Guess what? He's just finished a magical poem,

He showed me the outline! and whoa, what a sight!

While sitting and doing my Logic upstairs

I realized it's time for my break-time with dad

He mentioned that he had some great news to share,

Then pulled out and showed me the poem that he had.

"It's only the outline, the chapters and such,

But it's awesome! I basically got the drift.

I mean, I know he loves grandpa very much,

But that will be such an amazing gift!

"Well, I gotta go, little bro, thanks for the chat.

I'm going to finish my lesson at lunch,

Tuesday's for shopping with dad, you know that...

It was so nice talking. Thanks a bunch."

The pain and dismay that now filled the boy

Could hardly be sung in verse or in prose,

A pain mixed with envy at his brother's joy,

The storm of emotions now inside him rose

And growing so great, did drown out the voice

Of his father inside, "My son, you must wait,"

And so, without wit, the boy made his choice,

For he longed his forbidden desire to sate.

Now, how could he steal by without detection?

He asked as he stood up and made for the door.

Forgetting his studies he made an inspection

Of the hall, "Now, to get to the second floor..."

The youth took a moment to consider the risk.

Thinking and puzzling, he puzzled and thought,

When footsteps rang out pacing heavy and brisk,

From the hallway, "That must be dad going out,"

And out he did go, big brother in tow,

The two left the house and were now in the car.

"Aha!" Thought the boy, and he lunged out, although

The path up the stairs now seemed somehow so far,

But finally arriving at the large oaken door,

He looked left and right, and though it was closed,

He tip-toed inside on the hard-wooded floor,

But hearing a creak, he suddenly froze,

Then, hearing no sounds coming up from below,

He walked through the room, and avoided the light

That shone in a thin line through the window.

His gaze reached the desk, and even in spite

Of his father's command, echoing, "This is not right"

He snatched up the papers, but discovered one glitch:

He could not see what they said without light!

So he fumbled and stumbled and looked for a switch,

When click! With a flash, and the light was discovered,

The beautiful poem revealed to his eyes!

Eagerly, now did he pull back the cover,

With trembling rapture that welled up inside.

But just then the boy stopped dead, suddenly,

The look on his face of dismay and suprise...

Time passed, but he did not stir.. No, not he...

He rather stared with a horror at his newfound prize,

The words shining up at him from the dark page

Were in Latin, an incomprehensible mess,

The rich, lovely meaning, locked up in a cage,

And hid from the pry of his young eagerness.

Before the new shock of the truth had sunk in,

A creek did he hear, that familiar sound,

A feeling of fear replaced rapture within.

He put down the paper, and turning aroud,

Faced his father, a look of concern on his face,

The hat he'd forgetten was there in his hand.

He stood, a figure of judgement and grace,

Tall, like a king, majestic and grand,

"O dad, I'm sorry, I just couldn't wait,

My brother said you had showed it to him...

For me, I know now that it is too late;

I'll never read it or see it again."

"My son, come to me, wipe the tears from your eyes.

For disobeying, you are right to be sad.

But from sorrow, behold, I make new joy arise.

Hear my words, for they shall instead make you glad.

"Now son, listen closely and never forget

For the words which I speak are words to the wise:

Though soon you will read what you have not read yet

And soon you will see with wonder-filled eyes,

"This poem I hid from your view for your good,

For never will I hold back fun for no reason.

But just as the best cook will eat the best food,

The most fun requires we first work for a season.

"To help you work hard, help you stay at your books

And show you that I will not punish or shout

Of my poem I'll give you a taste and a look

I'll tell you, in English, what it is about:

"A story of grandpa, his love, and his life,

His service to people, his service to Christ,

The untiring care for your grandma, his wife,

And the time and money on us sacraficed.

"There now, my dear boy, cheer up and be glad,

You've had a small taste of my reason and rhyme.

Soon you'll be ready, till then, like your dad,

Be patient, the journey to joy will take time."