“Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.” ― William Butler Yeats
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
She closed her heart
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
Luv, being a verb
... love being a verb
is a things that retains ...
requires action to endure
life being unfair,
Is ment to sustain.
how to be greatful,
and not bitter and angry
when those we love are,
Tobe,, taken..
strive always...
to awaken each morning,
to be greatful,
...that you share, one more day.
Dec 2015
Sunday, October 23, 2016
The scars, they shared.
"Follow me all you who are heavy-laden and I will give you rest."
Wednesday, October 5, 2016
To peer into his soul.
A near miss, and a shared loss.
A near miss, and a shared loss.
Saturday, October 1, 2016
A longing for Joy
a longing intense...
this drive will not rest ...
not feeling at home.
I need to leave peace.
The circle I seek,
return I may then.
** Joy = Sehnsucht a difficult to translate Germain concept.
[my first poem Oct 2011]
Inspired by (Suprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life, Clive Stanley Lewis)
(see, G.K. Chesterton, "Homesick at Home” (1896) from The Coloured Lands (London: Sheed & Ward, 1938))
see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sehnsucht
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Still, the question.
Still the poetry,
From where doeth it come.
But come'th it does.
Till I come,
It reaches me.
Forever more
And then the same.
Doeth it reach you?
much ado about no'thing
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Between, the storms
Monday, September 26, 2016
on Hosea and Gomer ver 2.0
Thursday, September 22, 2016
On being faithful, to his unbelief.
Their he sits,
on the back row,
most Sundays.
The back slider.
He had lost it,
so long ago,
on his mission,
to redeem the world.
He was deep-rooted,
in his unbelief...
So faithful,
to its loss ...
He married outside the faith.
A daughter came then too.
They raised her in his faithfulness,
to his unbelief.
His wife thought...
Their daughter needed,
a faith,
a belief.
His was as good, as any other.
Perhaps, even better.
Many times, he had tried,
to leave his unbelief.
It was marrow deep,
in his bones.
His ancestors buried it,
deep there,
ever so deep,
he could not retrieve it.
It become a blessing,
his unbelief.
Let him see, the true light,
at the center, of every soul.
Was his prayer unanswered,
in his unbelief?
Lord, I do not believe,
Bless me now, in my unbelief.
*Inspired by the life and unbelief of Levi Peterson, author of "The Backslider". It is my understanding that it was his non-mormon wife's desire to raise their daughter in the mormon faith.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
on Hosea and Gomer
Sunday, September 18, 2016
On the World, Becoming
The world,
Is it now becoming?
They seek to divide,
to sell us the goods.
Hate sells better
then love.
To advertise,
they must shock us.
Murder, theft, and robbery,
sell better then,
kittens and new puppies.
To entertain they must devide us.
By all measure the world gets better,
When I walk away,
turn it off,
and seek to serve.
Steven Bassett sept 2015
Thursday, September 15, 2016
on being Geppetto, or block of wood.
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
On becoming a parent.
Saturday, September 3, 2016
I rode a poem today.
I wrote, a poem, today,
Or did it ride me.
To be taken, for a ride,
by a poem.
It climbs out.
Kicking and scratching,
and crawling my way.
Soon to be forgotten.
No fish to wrap.
No fires to start.
Just memories to make,
and lives to change.
Friday, September 2, 2016
he said, she said
Friday, August 26, 2016
To still the (mourning/morning)
T'is it, this past, to then, be gone.
gone it is, this (morning/mourning) long.
When mourn has come, and then be gone.
T'is it too quiet, to come, this morn.
To simmer, this fire, this pain, this past.
to leave behind, this (mourn/morn), at last.
Thursday, August 25, 2016
The choice, in the bedroom. Ver 1.0
he found her that way,
in the bedroom with his best friend.
his loaded glock in his right hand
his anger in his left.
the choice, now to make.
it would change the world.
how long does one count
to ones self
before changing the world ...
years later , the children
did he love her still?
they burned through them all,
together and apart.
one luver after another.
now together, again they are.
he on one bedroom, she in another.
like a little wipped puppy, she was.
yet he luved her still.
yet to leave her he must,
to go on she will.
but the children between them they have,
to luv them still,
this choice to make,
this choice to share.
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
First the pot, then the flower.
An apple was it not,
or then maybe a flower.
Bare fruit it did,
then.
Doe'th one plant a flower,
to preserve a life.
The first fruit, doe'th,
it become?
Brought forth first,
knowledge.
Then eternal life.
This the choice,
a flower thus plant,
to then the cure.
Then more they whole,
once more again .
To thus a family,
tobe the more.
Monday, August 15, 2016
Sits, their he, no more
no more, sits he, their'by
Waiting.
The weight, is no more.
The burden we carry, no more.
Together.
Now he doth wait,
For the more part .
The part to come then,
When we are no more,
Separate.
But, together, again.
On meeting his daughter.
Going is he not?
To meet her today.
She came with,
the one he luved.
The bonus child.
Got her body,
did she then?
Then home again,
went she.
Home, to await his arrival.
Here to raise a family,
was he ...
Never far,
from his thoughts,
was she ...
Look like them,
did she then ?
The other children,
and her ...
Meet they now,
and joy'es it be.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Marriage, a "Vulgar" notion.
In marriage,
two stages, be their may.
Three their be,
If luck their hold.
To work them through,
The second to return,
To the first.
Is the work of,
of a lifetime.
T'is it then a Vulgar notion.
For a Vulgar time.
From fuck you, in the hallway,
To fuck you, as we pass.
To have the courage,
To change, forget, and forgive.
To return the cycle.
To this, then be my task,
In this life.
*Vulgar: of the common folk, peasant class, redneck notion.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
The London Illustrated News .
I let them loose, today.
Where they ever, really, mine.
The thoughts, I possessed...
When I possessed them.
they were mine?
Now are recorded, and scattered.
Scattered to the wind.
Chesterton, had his thoughts,
in the penny papers, of his day,
The London Illustrated News.
They wrapped fish in then.
They used them, like the Sears, Roebuck, Catalog,
In the outhouse,
To finish, their duty,
Now I publish, to the blog,
and facebook too?
Will my thoughts last, long.
Will I be remembered,
When gone, I am.
Still the thoughts,
I carry, and Share,
maybe you, can share,
them too.
Gilbert (G.K.) Keith Chesterton.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
The covenant, and the sparrow.
Why choose to luv, him
Faithful was he, not
The many years,
and the children.
Sleeping side by side.
always to mourn, what could have been.
Together, apart came they always.
Always, together and apart.
To give up, many would have now.
Yet, not give up she has...
Did she see what he could be,
and not what he was,
or had been.
Was he the sparrow,
God watched and mourned?
It is said, never a sparrow doeth fall,
but God doeth not take notice of.
If he, god wanted, him,
how could she not.
This covenant,
This eternal,
This ever more.
This she seeks,
and ever see's.
Monday, August 8, 2016
Saturday, August 6, 2016
The question, the poetry.
From whence comes the poetry.
Come rising up it doth.
Like a great lava flow.
Surging, rising, and falling.
Up and down.
To and fro.
It will not rest,
Till rest I do.
To come forth birthed.
A full grown child.
Then nurtured to a final form.
Released again, anew.
To then come forth.
And visit you now.
And then to share.
This world of ours.
A covenant marriage.
Why stay?
Together, and apart.
Twenty four, plus four, then one.
Faithful, had not, been they?
The others, last did not ...
Still.
they, remain,
together, and apart.
Courage then comes,
together, and apart.
Searching for the missing,
Together, and apart.
The need, the lack, their in
Together, it drove, them
Together, and apart.
The four plus one,
are more then the two.
Then, to the end,
Thus, then were they.
Together, and apart.
Friday, August 5, 2016
The anger lies...
The anger lies,
so deep down, below.
Deep down,
Does it lie.
From whence comes truth?
Truth does not lie.
It moves, and feels, and grows.
From whence, find I,
The truth,
That doth not,
Lie,
their by,
and not below?
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
The poetry
The poems,
From where, do they, come forth
To come forth, this,
they do, now.
Like a spring ...
of lava, flowing forth.
Like fire, and ice.
They cover, cool, and heal.
The thoughts.
So long, lay buried.
They buried her, buried him.
Then buried it.
The thoughts...
How long, they struggle,
To come forth.
The choice, in the bedroom
To this, the bedroom,
To them, he found
His wife, his friend,
Embracing now.
Two forks their come
Two choices, now ...
To this, the right, the loaded glock,
To then the left, this anger still.
To this, the choice,
To then, to make.
To then himself,
To this to count.
To then, to change
this world, now.
To this, the children
to luv her still?
then to burn,
their luvers, all.
Why together, are the now?
Till once together,
Till then, they part.
this, then bedrooms,
Two their now.
one for he,
Then, one for her.
then on he goes,
And on to be,
Then two, the one,
they be no more.
But to the children,
between them be,
this the choice,
then be, their now.
The choice, in the bedroom
he found her that way,
in the bedroom with his best friend.
his loaded glock in his right hand
his anger in his left.
the choice, now to make.
it would change the world.
how long does one count
to ones self
before changing the world ...
years later , the children
did he love her still.
together and apart,
they burned through them all,
one luver after another.
now together, again they are.
he in one bedroom, she in another.
wipped puppy, she was.
luved her still, did he?
yet to leave her he must,
to go on she will.
but the children
this between them,
the choice
to luv them still,
this then to make,
this then to share.
--
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
The knife, in hand.
I take the knife,
In hand, to scrape.
This, then the layers.
To peel them back.
T'is it, an onion,
This thing,
This feeling,
This longing, and regret.
t'is it now, read/red,
Or always been.
This pain, comes forth?
This to suffer.
At our hands?
The ones,
He luved.
To cleans this now,
This now comes forth.
To bring new life,
This now the game.
Renew it now,
With fire and ice.
To come again,
This now the choice.
Bodies broken, and my soul.
to build again,
this fear of loss"
to learn to luv
and luv again
is it joy
or is it pain
to see the dark,
depart with light.
T'is it pain,
or is it joy.
to feel the strength
from bodies bent.
broken, used,
like my soul
to lose i must,
be built again
to chose to luv
the pain within.
Monday, July 25, 2016
On thinking of Mom.
Thinking of mom,
This day once more
To learn to luv
And luv again
In sorrow and in pain.
To luv and joy.
Mixed feelings
Have we yet.
To choose to luv
And live once more
Seek we now,
This choice,
once more
To end this day,
to choose once more..
Sunday, June 26, 2016
church talk 06-26-2016
The life and Death of Gloria
Shall it be not her life's shadow;
What shadow she doeth cast'
What light is the source their of?.
that casteth forth;
On her death.
To start an exploration.
On death , or life
- I wanted to see Gloria enter the covenant of Baptism
- I wanted, to see, her conversion, or turning back to God.
- I did not want to see a woman, who was dying, not one grasping for life.
- Gloria helped me to understand that God works in many wonderful ways. He uses his children to bless one another other. We are his hands on Earth.
- God used my parents, who did not attend church services, to support my mission
- God used a member who did attend services to help Gloria gain a testimony of the gospel of Christ.
ON Mommas’ Afghan.
Momma loved to knit afghan’s. They helped her to pass the time when she was watching television. Her Momma taught her how to crochet as a young child. I can remember many hours watching her crochet. She had crocheted so long she no longer watched her stitching, it was a mechanical motion more like walking or chewing gum. I wonder if it helped her to think.
Momma decided each of her children needed a good heavy afghan. She had collected many small balls of yarn from previous projects. The afghan’s were heavy. They had a heavy double stitch, one color on each side. The afghan were so heavy they were best used in the winter.
Each afghan required a year to complete. She worked on those afghans for four years. Each year one of her children received an afghan for Christmas. I wonder if she thought about her children as she was knitting each one of them their afghan. One child could not read well and had difficulty in school. He was color blind and had trouble telling his colors apart. One children read well but had difficulty speaking to people his own age. He never dated much, but was fortunate to find a good woman who understood him. One child never ate enough and had to be reminded when it was time to eat. This child still struggles with her weight and is now developing M.S. One child struggled with her first marriage and lived with Mom for a couple years. Mom helped her to raise her sons until a man came along who loved her boys and adopted them as his own. They now have five more children and how do they keep her busy.
Momma married young and grew up with her children. Her husband was a challenge. Signs of high functioning Autism and hyperactivity are present in the male line of his family. Momma would never have understood these words she just knew Dad had a tough time filtering his thoughts. He spoke out in inappropriate times and in inappropriate places. My Dad and his Father were forbidden to be in the Smith Brother Lumber Company together. One of them at a time was more than a handful.
Each fall my wife pulls the afghan out of the closet and puts is on our bed. I love to fell warm and comforted by it’s weight.
The afghan reminds of my mother and her life. The afghan is no longer perfect like it was when my mother gave it to me. A few years ago I snagged it on a piece of furniture. Their is a small stitch torn out of one side. My mamma's life was like this afghan. It was no loner perfect like it had been when her Momma gave life to her. Even though this afghan is no longer perfect it is still functional and fulfills its purpose. I have ask my wife to repair the snagged. My wife is skilled in the art of crochet. She tells me it is not possible to repair the snag. Even if she did repair the afghan it would no longer be the afghan my mother crocheted. As the year go by I learn to appreciate the afghan for it beauty and its flaw. It becomes more real with time like Margery Williams Velveteen rabbit (see. The Velveteen Rabbit or How Toys Become Real )
(note insert reading from book)
On television, and cheap whiskey
To luv...a choice ?!
to this I do see ?
To choose thus I must?
Though painful it be.
This pain then it brings,
To me it does now.
A lesson to learn
A gift to bestow.
On a "Highway 20 Ride"
Days would not be wasted on this drive
And I want so bad to hold you
Son, there's things I haven't told you
Your mom and me just couldn't get along
So I'll drive
And I think about my life
And wonder why I'll slowly die inside
Everytime I turn that truck around, right at the Georgia line
and I count the days and the miles back home to you on that Highway 20 ride
A day might come and you'll realize that if you could see through my eyes
There was no other way to work it out
And a part of you might hate me
But son please don't mistake me
For a man that didn't care at all
So I drive
And I think about my life
And wonder why I'll slowly die inside
Every time I turn that truck around, right at the Georgia line
and I count the days and the miles back home to you on that Highway 20 ride
So when you drive
And the years go flying by
I hope you smile
If I ever cross your mind
It was a pleasure of my life
And I cherished every time
And my whole world
It begins and ends with you
On that Highway 20 ride....
Writer(s): Zachry Brown, Wyatt Durrette
Copyright: Angelika Music
Together and apart.
Like two beta fish, Locked in a distance, embrace.
Together, and apart.
...
Found, her hair,
in my wallet,
Together, and apart
like she has carried me, for so long.
Why do I carry, It.
Why does she carry,Me.
Daily, We dance.
"The Class"
Dance class, once we tried, together.
Together, we do not dance.
but dance we do, Together and apart.
and yet I have her, with me
Always, The hair, the dance.
Together, and apart.
The poetry,
from whence doeth it come.
Yet heal'th it does,
And renews again.
My muze,
Maybe Milton,
He is
to sleep then this morn.
to this leave I now
her sleeping their on.
no more do I mourn,
to rest I do I leave
this anger, this morn,
to sleep it there'by
to this may it rest
her sleeping there'by.
(Hope of the Gospel; George Macdonald, ch 10)
Not of my accord,
Would you be with me?
Would you hold my hand,
And sing sweet lullabies,
Of comfort to me.
Thou knowest the end,
And the beginning.
What must I learn,
Being driven to Hell,
Like Job, or Virgil.
Thou standest by me,
As a true friend.
Of free will then comes the choice,
But not the consequences.
Never alone, am I,
Or far from thee,
And thy thoughts.
(Inspired from reading of "The Sparrow", Maria Doria Russell,1996)