One

How, from great difference, can one be meld.
If our ways, our thoughts, our patterns be telled,

Continents merge and mountains collide,
With greater calm and soothing provide;

Treaties are formed and nations unite,
By stoke of pen, more certain be right.

But artists know of contrast's fair due,
From red and white to shade and hue.

Colors stark and strong and proud,
By brush unto submission bowed.

What, of masters' works displayed,
Were colors only grey and gray?

But we of disparate pigments made,
By master's stroke, a concerted shade.

Upon the master's canvas lays
The glint of an eye, our stroke portrays.

The Wife of My Youth

May your fountain be blessed,
    and may you rejoice in the wife of your youth.
A loving doe, a graceful deer—
    may her breasts satisfy you always,
    may you ever be intoxicated with her love.

Come with me from Lebanon, my bride,
    come with me from Lebanon.
Descend from the crest of Amana,
    from the top of Senir, the summit of Hermon,
from the lions’ dens
    and the mountain haunts of leopards.
You have stolen my heart, my sister, my bride;
    you have stolen my heart
with one glance of your eyes,
    with one jewel of your necklace.
How delightful is your love, my sister, my bride!
    How much more pleasing is your love than wine,
and the fragrance of your perfume
    more than any spice!
Your lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb, my bride;
    milk and honey are under your tongue.
The fragrance of your garments
    is like the fragrance of Lebanon.
You are a garden locked up, my sister, my bride;
    you are a spring enclosed, a sealed fountain.
Your plants are an orchard of pomegranates
    with choice fruits,
    with henna and nard,
      nard and saffron,
    calamus and cinnamon,
    with every kind of incense tree,
    with myrrh and aloes
    and all the finest spices.
You are a garden fountain,
    a well of flowing water
    streaming down from Lebanon
I have come into my garden, my sister, my bride;
    I have gathered my myrrh with my spice.
I have eaten my honeycomb and my honey;
    I have drunk my wine and my milk.

Our Daily Bread

Conversation, dull and common
Balm for scar and wounds begotten.
Silken dressing, healing gauze
Applied a'plenty for lesser cause.

Food for heart at table often
Noted little, soon forgotten.
Yet death awaits for lack of taking
Heart and bond in hunger aching.

Your voice, my salve for troubled thought
The wine of calm and warming brought.
My daily bread of promise given.
Sustaining feast and taste of heav'n.

The Long Night

From deep we cry our screams of resistance.
And you answer.
You answer with the else and the other.
You draw us,
               compel us,
                      convict us.

In our Jacobness you honor our struggle.
Yes, honor.
And the name we ask for, you give anew,
But with cost of your mark, the thorn unresolved.

Your grace is sufficient.
Your grace is sufficient.

We Run

We run.
Heavy a foot, with inner battle
The end nowhere near.
We run.
The call of the race drives us on.
A cheer from the side, a comrade's word.
A moment to moment decision made
We run.
When from the course, a brightness shown
The beauty of light and hue and shade,
Mercy seen, though unforeseen.
We run.
Lighter the feet, joy of breath
Flush with flow of rapid heart
Reminded so the reward of journey
Of struggle deep and grit of will
We run.
Corner turned, the end in view.
Quickening pace, with all resolve.
We speed to finish step in step
We run.
Mystery lies beyond the line
Yet forward we drive with weary delight
As soul compels and conviction sustains.
We run.

Passion

Knowledge yields but little
        That heart and soul be filled.
From objects stark and lifeless
        No noble acts are willed.
But passion is the ether
        By which the cosmos fly;
And courage soars, and armies cheer,
        And mighty anthems rise;
And love professed, and poems penned,
        And songs of beauty sung.
But passion too, that poisoned sword,
        By which great harm is wrung;
Life is lost, and cities felled,
        And horrid acts unspoken;
Hearts are pierced, wounds made deep,
        And bonds of love are broken.
Great peril is in passion,
        Unbridled by fair heart;
But empty, dark and soulless is
        The world without its mark.
We choose the way of passion,
        Amid its strife and storm;
But through the clouds and torrent,
        Resplendent days are born.

Truth

Gaze but long enough,
        Entangled thought doth see:
Lakes of sand, Potemkin wealth,
        A marionette beauty.
With deeper gaze the truth we craft
        Confirms our vested stand;
Aside all else that might conflict,
        As conscience sore demands.
O what might to breach the wall
        Of practiced self-deceit;
By time and age it crumbles;
        Regret-filled floods run deep.
Protect me from refracted truth
        Through lense of selfish ways;
And let me see the truth that is:
        Your warmth, your touch, your gaze.
         

A Light We Sought

We are small, the world is dark;
We struggled so to make our mark.

But our works burned; we fled through flames;
Fruitless were our goals and aims.

In our despair, a light we'd seek
From our foundation worn and weak.

Inward we looked, to no avail;
There was no light within our pale.

To kings we looked, to prince and squire,
But their light died within the fire.

Our chariots and castles we prayed would illume,
But were just transport and brick for the tomb.

As we sat in defeat, crushed spirits bemoaned,
A light from within, but not of our own,

Took flight in our hearts, our souls and our minds.
The True Light had come to redeem his own kind.

We clearly saw what the Light had dear bought,
And that which is and that which is not.

Beheld we each other in the Light's radiant glow,
And thus, through his eyes, pure love we now know.

Language Deep

A touch
     A look
          A kiss
               A smile,
Language deep. Its meaning, while

Known to the heart, escapes the tongue,
The prose of senses, crisp and young.

Yet ageless is such soul's voice,
Renewed again by conscious choice.

Your touch
       Your look
              Your smile
                     Your kiss,
The poems of passion refrained, wordless.

But thus we speak without a sound,
And sing the silent song unbound.

A Shepherd's Prayer

All that we know doesn’t fill the caverns of questions our hearts ache to know.
Why does such evil prevail?
Are you there is the suffering of millions?

Peace is a lost hope it seems,
Civility melts into factions of greed.
We lift up our hands to you,
Empty of answers

The camp is surrounded it seems,
We look to the hills and we see no relief.
A war of attrition we see,
The weak are devoured and the strong are pulled down.

We wade through the wounded and sense,
No matter how much that we do it’s a loss.
What is our calling in this?
Is your strength to be shown in our weakness?

But when we see you there,
All our questions will fade by the light of your face.
As your brightness fills,
All the valleys that once held our darkness and fear.

All that we know doesn't fill the caverns of questions our hearts ache to know.
What is our calling in this?
Is your strength to be shown in our weakness?

Entwined

An old tree formed from two
          merged together by wind and storm
How so this, from growth once new,
          to be so scarred and mangled formed?

Saplings once the two from seed
          with bright beginnings and so much time,
Close they were, so close indeed,
          that leaf and branch and trunk entwined.

Twists and turns to conflict led,
          as force of will between did spark.
But in the strife, the twining sped,
          and strengthened hard both bond and bark.

Against the wind the two did stand,
          rising high above the felled.
Seeds falling upon the land,
          'neath their expanse in nurture held.

Beyond them soon the seedlings grew
          beyond their covering shelter's need,
Until they were but one anew,
          o're shadowed full by younger breed.

Summer's heat, the cool of fall,
          ushers in the end unspoken.
Leaves of color adorning all,
          falling with old dreams awoken.

Left 'tis beauty of the pain,
          of wars waged and strengthened ties,
Of wounds healed and gnarls lain,
          the burl grain, a master's prize.

Testament to the beauty of two,
          through wars waged and wounds healed.
In legacy lies hope anew,
          a timeless work their core will yield.

The Within

Poems, so weak and thin,
Strained efforts to free the within.

The within so deep, but yearning to emerge
Unable to ride the common words.

The within - illusive; sensed, but not.
Chest tight, sigh deep, then aught.

And you are there, within the within.
By poems I search your place therein.

My senses speak of the naught that is
And your presence within that unseen-ness.

Your fragrance, your voice, your touch, your eyes
Your lips, the taste of passionate sighs.

O that I could a word devise
To call to the depths the within to arise

To show itself, the naught that is
And your presence within that unseen-ness.

Dusk

Wind buffeting submissive trees
        ushering calm behind the breeze,

Passive surrender of the sun
        upon the canvas of day now done,

Captured witness of time now passed,
        fading, until at last

The victory of darkness then proclaims
        that naught but hope remains;

Hope in the dawn that faith demands,
        a hope so begged with lifted hands.

If alone I was to struggle so
        as I walk the way of darkness, O

My God I could not bear the load
        without my love who walks the road.

Her hand my comfort, your blessed gift;
        my soul to fill, my heart to lift.

May we together see the dawn,
        your promised day when else is gone,

The sum of all, come from above,
        we in you, in perfect love.
       

You Near

Your fragrance, unadorned but my soul it freshens
Your voice, so familiar, on my heart its impression
Your touch, still young with tender compassion
Your eyes, they sparkle in narrowing fashion
Your lips, such cuisine, the sweet taste of passion.

The Last Song

When the last song is written

When there are no more words to speak

When the souls of men are emptied

Before the one we seek.

With nothing left to offer

No wisdom that we give

When our works are shown as vapors

In Him alone we live.
 

Ever After

Love for a lifetime, can it be true?
A yearning deep, but held by few.
        
Something only for tales and stage?
Embers warm even with age,

When life is lived and all is done,
Someone to hold us and see us young,
            
Still warmed by our touch and loves to the core
That which we were and that which we are.

A mysterious gift which cannot be sold,
The value oft missed by those who hold.

A wealth held by commoners, desired by kings.
In the scales of the heart, else are lesser things.

Who are we that God has bequeathed
Such glistening jewel beyond belief?

We watched in awe, the precious stone made,
As the Master Stone-cutter continued his trade.

We flinched with the pain of his masterful stroke
Our edges and flaws therewith he broke.

With pride he reveals in approaching e'en.
Two hearts as one in glimmering sheen.

       

The Path

Come with me into the cloudiness

I lead without knowing
          the path's end or way,
or whether I shall be with you
          to the close of day.

In my hand is not wisdom
          of what from here lies,
but courage for the journey
          and passion for your eyes.

We

                             Light

                                            Sparkling
                      
                             Eyes

                                           Silver

                             Strands

                                           Glistening

                             Lips

                                          Glowing

                             Cheeks

                                          Burning

                                    We
        

The Prize

The task before us.

Uncertain.

Extending

            Exhilarating, yet tiring.

The task before us. We pursue. The outcome unknown.

But it is the pursuit that molds us.

It is the pursuit that bonds us.

It is the pursuit that transforms us.

In the pursuit we discover and rediscover ourselves and each other.

And in the pursuit we learn it is not the task we are pursuing, but the One who set the task before us.

Pursuing together the One who desires our pursuit,

but who, by drawing us to pursue Him, is the One pursuing us.

The pursuers becoming the pursued.

The outcome of the pursuit then certain.

For we are the goal of His pursuit. We are His victory. We are His accomplishment.

We are His masterpiece.

We are His prize.

It is

What is it?
What is it that exists between us?
Try as we might, definitions of love are either too trite or too obscure to really say what it is.

It just is.
It is.
In the moment our eyes lock together amid the mundane. And we know.
It is.

In the twinkle. Yes, the twinkle.
It is.

Yes, in the passion. It is.
But also in the quiet moments when each of us is in our separate world.
Then a touch
   or a look.
And it is.

It is  - in the smile, the tilt of the head, and the familiar mannerisms.
Even in the strife. In the battles both between us and about us.
A bond, though drawn taut, holds.
And we know.
It is.

Who can believe in something so unexplainable,
     so undefinable
          so utterly impossible to detect or measure?

But we believe.
    Because we know.
         It is.