CLEAN THAT ROOM OR ELSE!

OK, enough serious poems for now. You may not know that I was once known as the “White Boy Rapper” and could hold my own in rap fights with the ‘brothers’ in high school. I was the new kid, having just moved to Chicago in time to start 11th grade. I was surprised when I arrived to see how separate the whites and blacks were in my Chicago south suburban high school, when in my previous high school in California there did not seem to be the obvious racial separation. I made a bold move to sit in the “black section” at lunch and it began an adventure that turned out to be a highlight for me in high school. Persecution? Some, but I made some great friends, and after telling these ‘brothers’ for weeks about a “white boy rapper” I knew who could whoop ‘em all in a rap fight… I finally set a day for them to meet him on a lunch break (we had open campus at lunch) and after waiting and waiting, when there was only 15 minutes left to lunch, I pulled out a pair of black 80′s style shades (well, it was the 80′s!) …

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Through a Mother’s Eyes

Tonight a father and son came over to watch the The Passion of the Christ at my house as part of their Easter preparation. (I have a pretty sweet home theater in my basement that they wanted to ‘borrow’) It is a movie that I can handle watching about once a year. It is a powerful experience. If you have not seen it, you really should. (Read my review on Kidology.org) It is a very fitting film for Easter time as you can no longer be flipant or casual about Jesus’ death after seeing this film. Anyway, as I continue to post my long-lost poetry, (torture to some I’m sure!), I was moved by the film to post a poem I wrote about the Crucifiction titled “Through a Mother’s Eyes.” It also is a song written in B minor, bu you’ll have to use your imagination for that. Through a Mother’s Eyes She stood there looking at her son, She said, “I thought you were the one, The Scriptures promised so long ago, Who’d come to make us finally whole.” But now He hung there on a tree, Bleeding, dying, in misery, She saw the wounds, she heard his cries, …

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All I Need

One of the reasons I highly encourage journaling is that you may find that years from now you can be your own best encourager! When you read words you wrote yourself long ago, you are more open to them because, well, you wrote them. The words of others can be hard to accept at times, but when your own words are exactly what you need, it’s kinda hard to argue. Such was the case with the discovery of this poem, written eighteen years ago. (am I that old?) At a time in my life when so much is new, and when letting go and saying good bye to many people and things that I loved and took for granted as a part of my daily and weekly life are gone – it was nice to read the words of a much younger version of me saying through this poem, “be content, all you need is God. But He’s given you so much more.” Enjoy! ALL I NEED Make yourself, Lord, all I need, In all I say and do, May my dependance be on nothing else, Let me only lean on you.   I want to need nothing else, Than …

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Constantly Becoming

Another poem from youthful days. This one I actually put to music, (key of G my hand written notes say) but, NO, I’m not going to record it and upload an MP3, good friends have advised me against a singing career. Chicago, taken 1989, no digital editing, I used a filter for the coloring. CONSTANTLY BECOMING I’m not who I used to be, I’m not who I will be, ‘Cause more like my Savior, I’m everyday becoming. I’m constantly changing, Constantly rearranging, And I won’t reach perfection, Until His second coming. But until I see Him in the sky On His love I will rely, I must let Him live through me, So with His glory I can shine. Oh, I tried to live life on my own, But I’ve learned my life is just a loan, God entrusted it to me, My life’s no longer mine. I’ve given it back to Him, The good, the bad and all the sin, So He can mold it and shape it, He’s the potter, I’m the clay. Sometimes I find it hard to trust, But I know that it is a must, If I’m to be all I’m meant to be, On …

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He Who Dies with the Most Acorns

OK, another poem from the past. This one was inspired by a bumper sticker that was popular at the time that said, “He who dies with the most toys wins.” ACORNS There once was a squirrel, Who got in his mind, To get every acorn, Of every last kind.A huge hollow oak tree, Weighing more than a ton, Is where he settled down, To build his kingdom. Day in and day out, He went off to look, And if he saw an acorn, That acorn he took. He cared not if he, Robbed another squirrel’s home, For he wanted all acorns, To be just his own. This went on through spring, And through mid-summer too, “Winter is coming, Oh, what will we do?!” Cried the other fine squirrels, As they gazed on his tree, Standing firmly there, Oblivous to the breeze. He say up on top, Way up high like a king, When along came a breeze, Into air did he swing. He fell to his death, The poor little guy, The others moaned for a moment, Thought they didn’t know why. He had done all that work, And had done it in vain, As the others bounded up, All …

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