My Only Book

An Anthology of Poems & Prose Penned by a Protestant Poetaster ~With the Best of Inspired Others~

MyOnlyBook

The Sin of Omission

Posted on August 31, 2010 at 2:46 AM Comments comments (0)

THE SIN OF OMMISION

by Margaret E. Sangster


It isn't the thing you do, dear,

Its the thing you leave undone

That gives you a bit of a heartache

At setting of the sun.

The tender work forgotten,

The letter you did not write,

The flowers you did not send, dear,

Are your haunting ghosts at night.


The stone you might have lifted

Out of a brother's way;

The bit of heartsome counsel

You were hurried too much to say;

The loving touch of the hand, dear,

The gentle, winning tone

Which you had no time nor thought for

With troubles enough of your own.


Those little acts of kindness

So easily out of mind,

Those chances to be angels

Which we poor mortals find

They come in night and silence,

Each sad, reproachful wraith,

When hope is faint and flagging,

And a chill has fallen on faith.


For life is all too short, dear,

And sorrow is all to great,

To suffer our slow compassion

That tarries until too late:

And it isn't the thing you do, dear,

It's the thing you leave undone

Which gives you a bit of heartache

At the setting of the sun.

 From "The Book of Virtues"

W. J. Bennet

The *Stoicism of Mr. Sherwood

Posted on July 14, 2010 at 10:41 PM Comments comments (0)

The *Stoicism of Mr. Sherwood


That pert little rhyme you so seamlessly quoted the other day...

It awakened in my heart something neat, something charming,

A remembrance of another more nobler age, a generation away.

[One I will never know...but will forever admire—{97 days of years)


How often I see your chalked words on the old slated blackboard,

I could see in my mind’s eye your life riding on them now.

Words remembering an era of God’s good moral sage.

[I wish my past could speak so simply eloquently today.]


That chalk held by strong rustic hands sketched words,

which spelled out an assemblage of “wit” to be etched

in your mind until the days of your last transparent recitals.

[I wish I prompted you these last days to recite them still more!]


Memory, the crowded hall where hangs our lives there...

There, you left your self, so many artifacts, so many thoughts.

This passing now, this silence now, it brings them all alive.

[Good and bad. Lord, forgive us all—even you.]


We see your seemingly indifferent face, that penetrating stoical front,

Where a kaleidoscope of hidden emotions and more living visages

Lived almost a generation of expressions of love.

[How could our eyes have been so blind!]


I was just a wandering young man when I met you, a stable old goat.

I grieve just now. Because you are gone. Here’s my thought’s sum.

I ponder about you in a vastly different light, I see new things to note.

[I can only imagine the gem that you were when young.]


Only the loved ones who raised you (and you them) tell the story

Of what a father you were in an age when true Fatherhood was dying.

For there’s an alpha and omega, parts of this story still to quarry.

And if all could tell their part, would the pages of this rhyme tell all?


There’s a beginning that few know to tell or even remember!

After all, you’re a man who made it to the end of a generation.

Could that have been sad to you, Mr. Sherwood? Never will there be another.

[Even though your legacy leaves us with Don Sherwood to remember.]


I’ve had to ask my self the question: when Mr. Sherwood died,

Did he very much despair, did he at all despond, was he depressed?

I am just now, to say the least, depressed. And how thus?

By this touching of my feelings while you are at rest.

We all know that part of you is now returned to dust, and

We also know that part of you has returned to God

Is this thus, your own stoical way, once again?

[I laugh Mr. Sherwood, because I know you would too.]


We seek to understand our selves without our Don.

But is it possible? No. Not until we meet him again.

When that happy day arrives and we can meet the man,

We ought to have appreciated more then when here,

save for that stoical face, which I enjoyed the task

of seeking ways and means to gently harass.

[He did love me for my “wit” as much as his was greater.]


That was the way I understood how to love you Don.

I hope that it didn’t offend you. I don’t think it did.

Because you smiled a lot. I even got you to laugh!


Yes, I’m very sober now Mr. Sherwood.

I’ve never been more sober in my life.

You taught me something, this schoolroom clown

could never learn in school, nor through all this life thus far.


No, you had to be the one to do it and in the doing you had to do it by your death

You taught me that life is something pretty serious to take.

It showed me that we only get one.

And whether we are stoical or not, it makes neither one the difference.

[“What difference does it make”? He used to say.]


What is the most important thing is the greatest of all gifts.

For you taught me how to love {even those who they say “can’t be loved”}.


Now those who know me, might think I am exaggerating what I am saying.

I’d say to you, you need to meet Mr. Brice Hamilton.

Maybe in the world to come you will.

Brice was another of another “generation” past who did the same things for me.

He taught me how to love.


Brice had Parkinson’s Disease.

He was bed ridden.

I had to tube feed him.

I manually lifted him into his wheel chair.

I felt his aging body.

I physically braced him in his shower.

There he could get clean from the nights “messes”.

This was a struggle for us.

For Brice was paralyzed all over.

Even in his face.


But Brice did have a face. And older wiser face that had seen much.

The lines on his skin you’d never have a life time to read.

It was expressionless, but not. [Listen] Usually motionless, he was. Always stark. Even

“stoical”.Except for those eyes. The eyes of Brice Hamilton could speak a thousand verses and more while his face wouldn’t move one bit.


What is a soul?

And what is the light of it?

It is the eye.


So you see, I have had experiences in life.

I being young, learned early how to see in the life of the elderly

by looking not at their bodies or their faces, but into there eyes.


Mr. Sherwood’s death is followed by my flesh and blood aunt Pam,

who went on after my Grandmother, who went on after my own flesh and blood grandfather.


I loved them all.


Yet, in a special way, I loved Mr. Sherwood.

When my “own” gramps died it was hard.

I had to help “put him away.” His mind went.


But then it seemed like God put Mr. Sherwood into my life.

In many ways he became my second grandfather.

I liked that.


Thank you Mr. Sherwood for you brand of “stoicalness”.

Thank you for showing me your love in so many ways.

Thank you above all, for helping me to become more sober, and more loving.


Some of the stoic was from his generation;

some from his family;

some he grew himself;

but never enough to keep out those who really wanted to know him.


He is much blessed now, where he is, resting...

And he is much missed.


*[Mr. Sherwood was a “Stoical” person, which supposedly means: not affected by or showing passion or feeling; “firmly resisting response or pain or distress.”—insensibility, sufferance, disinterest, philosophy, ethics, abstemiousness. I don’t think all of this fit him proper like a glove; for there was a softness beneath all that frontage. He was one of the most interesting characters I have ever met. He breathed the essence of another era, a simpler time when men were men and could take time to be men without all the distractions and technological junk these end times spawn like so many fish eggs to be eaten by the most impulsive and/or hungry coinsure of the finer tastes of the dainties of fools who know not what they are about but are sure to be about it with all the vim and vigor of a sailor on leave after months of ocean doldrums.]


My Tribute To Bryce Hamilton

Posted on July 14, 2010 at 10:38 PM Comments comments (0)

MY TRIBUTE TO BRYCE


(A Farewell Repose By a Nursing Aide who is about to depart from the Service of a Fellow he has grown quite attached to, and through whom he has learned much about life in the midst of silent heart-aches and obvious suffering)                                                  


1988


    Bryce Hamilton is 86. Bryce has Parkinson’s Disease, a neurological disorder that is

progressively degenerative. Bryce has had P.D. for over 20 years. It had a subtle onset, but

then became more obvious to onlookers and more embarrassing to Bryce.

    Bryce was a brilliant lawyer until he had to retire from his law firm because of increasing

tremors, shaky hands, and difficulty walking.

    At the least, P.D. is a most humbling disease. Those (such as Bryce) who have chosen

to brave it’s disabling effects, in time become indeed, very humble and very dependent upon

others, yet very kind and appreciative of the help they receive.

    Within the last year P.D. has taken more serious toll upon Bryce. His limbs have become

increasingly rigid. There are more tremors. His muscles lapse into spasms in differing degrees

from day to day. Sometimes I have to physically hold his hands in order to calm down his

shaking.

    When Bryce smiles, his poker face stretches his facial muscles (which have long ceased

to operate correctly) and causes him to create something like the face of a joyous Picasso

portrait. Those are times of special reward for me, especially when I know that I was

responsible for exciting his humor.

    Some may say that when Bryce smiles it’s a distortion of who he is. I don’t think so. To

me it’s a shining moment revealing a touch of all humanity, even the spirit of life. To me it’s

an experience in the discovery of what it means to appreciate a living soul. When Bryce smiles

he reminds us of the beauty of vulnerable mankind.

    I serve Bryce in ways he can no longer serve himself. Yet, together we’ve formed an

independent “co-op” where few people (except those who know and/or serve Bryce) come.

    There are Mr. Pino and Elaine — faithful fellow caretakers whom I’ve seen sacrificing

time and energy for the love of Bryce. Then there is Mrs. Hamilton — with time and space so

limited as to detract more words from this print, and intellect too small to exercise a fair

tribute to, I see myself as insufficient and incapable of praising her devotion to her husband

in his affliction — a truly rare and exceptional woman.

    Bryce needs us, and we need him. Moreover, as “iron sharpens iron; so a man sharpens

the countenance of his friend” (Proverbs 27:17). Bryce is my friend. I need him and he needs

me. I help him out of bed in the morning when his body seems to be crying, “No! I don’t want

to get out of bed!” I help him get to the toilet, I dress him, I feed him, I brush his teeth. I talk

to him and kid with him and joke with him and argue with him (when I know he’s wrong and

he knows I know he’s wrong).

    Bryce and I have had our moments. At times I’ve stepped on his toes by mistake while

trying to clean his teeth. When I have, he usually gets all gruffy, but then in the same instant,

as I ask him to forgive me, his face reverses order and he paints a smile. Then he mumbles the

jesting reassurance that he won’t “sue” me! (I tell him that I’ll call my “lawyer” in the morning).

    Bryce has some nice dress shirts. I have “faked” trying to “buy” some from him. It’s a

game we play together in order to help stimulate him mentally. He thins I’m serious (I think).

So far, I’ve managed to get him up to $7.00 plus a “horse” for one of his most prized shirts. (I

need to find out what kind of horse. They’re so expensive! I wonder if the retirement center

could handle this!)

    I love Bryce. He’s special to me. He has a gleam in his eye few take the time to look for.

It’s hidden, beyond, there in the dark of his eyes. To find it, the light of one’s own eyes must

pass the obstacles surrounding Bryce: his rigid limbs, his poker face, his trembling hands, and

finally, eyes that at first “seem” to say, “I’m not here...go away.”

    They don’t really say “go away” if one’s willing to take the time to look (to communicate

with him with your eyes). He really is there, and he’d probably admit it if you could corner him

on the subject. (Sometimes the private secrets he alone knows cause him to be evasive, acting

like you’re not even there with him. Yet, he knows. You can tell he does. Yes, he knows.) It’s

just that Bryce needs to take a lot of naps. He rests in his mind. Sometimes he naps with his

eyes closed. Sometimes, yes, even open, while you’re talking or looking at him. That’s when to

some it looks like he’s not at home. But, you now, I know {and others know} that he really IS

HOME. It’s sad that so few people understand.

    It’s amazing to me to think that I’ve discovered the genius of a man’s soul in Bryce

Hamilton. Bryce has Parkinson’s Disease. Some think that this makes him less than a man.

I don’t think so. The world might think otherwise, but what does the world know anyway?!!

(Wait a minute, isn’t the world YOU AND ME?)

    The world rarely looks into Bryce’s eyes in order to search out meaning. It just see’s the

shell, seldom the soul, the character, the man. The world seems to pass the Bryce Hamilton’s

by unnoticed. And when called o accountability, it’s “countenance” falls and cries out in the

angry heat of a cornered, guilty conscience, “Am I my brother’s keeper?!!!” Strange think

though, Bryce notices the world around him. His very being seems to cry out “Yes....AM I MY

BROTHER’S KEEPER...and I’d DO IT if I could, darn it!!!” He has sensitivity, a knowing, few

with “acceptable” shells have.

    It makes me wonder how many shells are passed up by the world each hour of the day

in the lives of other shells. Think about it. Plain shells, speckled shells, thin shells, thick

shells, hard shells, new and old shells, every kind of shell of a human being; yet each with so

tender a soul beneath —and a spirit within.

    Never had a soul like this man called Bryce Hamilton. I love Bryce because he’s been a

special lesson in humanity for me. It would seem like God sent me to Bryce. Or rather, Bryce

was a gift sent to me. It matters not, what the status of the existence of the gift—it’s a precious

soul anyway it is wrapped, regardless of the “shell.” To me this is a gift worth treasuring for as

long as I live.

    That gleam in Bryce’s eyes—perhaps it’s God’s love beaming between us like a stream

of light—one light tower answering to another—the life of God himself perhaps, poised between

two soulful shells, one gift illuminating the other.

    I love Bryce Hamilton and I will always remember him. For as long as I live I’ll see the

worth of a soul in every man I meet. I’ll remember the light of life between Bryce and myself

as we share each other amidst the vast sea of shells upon the shore of humanities apparent

silent indifference.

    As I part and go on my way, I leave this tribute to Bryce Leeland Hamilton. (In memory

of my time with Bryce.)


       “To him that hath ears to hear...”

       They say (Whoever ‘they’ are),

       that beauty is in the eyes of

       the beholder. So the question is,

       dear friend, dear reader—

       where do YOU look? ‘God is love’...

       Behold HIS eyes in your fellow man.

       Answer the question, to yourself, lest

       you err to perceive and fail of entering

       into the love and life of God.


                                LSK


Sky Blue Walls, Prison Walls, & A Green Chalkboard

Posted on July 14, 2010 at 10:20 PM Comments comments (0)

Sky blue walls pull the light of the sun in through the two large rectangular windows and enliven the room. The windows each have two sections which open to let fresh air into an otherwise very stuffy class room, especially when the heavy walnut stained door is closed. Another feature of prominence are the bars in the windows. Each separate window has five horizontal bars and eleven vertical bars which from an iron grid. This is the education floor. I suppose that this is an observation which teaches much about being in college at prison. Everywhere you go you are reminded of the freedom of the outside by the mocking appearances

of bars of iron. Yet somehow, even up in WR121, because I’m free to choose, free to express myself, free to see joy in sky blue walls and iron bars which frame the same veritable reality of that “blue sky,” I can be thankful for the experience of prison. It only makes me realize the that is in Christ. I see the large green chalkboard and am reminded of the mercy of God. In scriptures, green is always a symbol of God’s mercy. It’s interesting to see such a colossal representation or “symbol” of God’s mercy in such an unlikely place. Even the sky blue, regardless of whether it is within the boundary of the bars in the windows, or beyond in the

distant vista, is replete with symbolic meaning from a scriptural origin. Blue is God’s symbol for TRUTH. Amazing! A paradox even? Mercy embraces truth even in an unlikely place as Oregon State Pen! This is true education up on the education floor at this institution. Only with the help of the mind of Christ can you see such glory in something as simple as a green chalkboard and sky blue walls and bars. What we observe can be definite, positive object lessons which help us along our way no matter what the circumstance—even prison.


                                       Writing 121, 7/11/1991—OSP


Rebirth Me O' Lord, for the Glory of Thee

Posted on April 23, 2010 at 9:27 PM Comments comments (0)

Rebirth me Lord, from my mothers womb where there’d be

    Lo, weaknesses, stains, and grim-ful woe.

Rebirth me Lord, from these things which were sown

    in the heartache and pain and grief that she owned.

Rebirth me Lord, from my father heavy hand, weighted with

    frustration and anger, bitter-sweet fanned.

Rebirth me Lord, from these things which were more

    thru the wounds and hurt and turmoil he bore.

                                    

Rebirth me Lord, from rejection’s sharp edge and

    from the weight of THAT sword, my heart defend.

Birth healing, nay, not solely for THIS—my heart,

    but water and oil in love for THESE do impart.

Rebirth me Lord, from my childhood days, where

    memories of good and evil cower ‘neath a darken haze.

Here, my eyes in grief and pain are blurred seeing the frame,

    where memories rhymed with reason, and yea, joyful gain.

                            

O’ rebirth me now, dear O’ Lord, in patience’s way,

    as part by part, you have your gracious way.

Rebirth me Lord, nay, not solely this for ME.

    But let water and oil run down for the Glory of THEE.




Lawrence Scott August 1990


POWER to Run the Race

Posted on April 23, 2010 at 9:14 PM Comments comments (0)

Cleanse me O Lord, from secret vice and sin,

from inner repinnings and murmurings within.

Deliver me O Lord, from stumbling stones “I” put out,

from waverings and wanderings and casting of doubts.

Fill me O Lord, with faith, love and zeal,

courage and submission—the meekness of those you seal.

Raise me O Lord, to new heights I’ve not seen,

where death to self is done, and Christ within me gleams.

Proclaim his Glory thou angels high around his throne,

mercy is poised in loving grace to those he calls his own.

Praise God, O my soul, for all his grace,

amazing, yes it is, for he alone doth supply us fully

POWER TO RUN THE RACE.    

                          




Lawrence Scott - October 1989


Three Loaves of Bread, a Fish, an Egg

Posted on March 2, 2010 at 6:37 PM Comments comments (0)

Three loaves of bread, a fish, an egg —

Or stone, or serpent, or scorpion?

To ask, to seek, to knock—

To “go unto HIM at midnight.”

To receive...we “ask.”

To find...we “seek.”

To open...we “knock.”

And...

“Being evil” we plead for answers,

While our children own the “gifts” they plead

Much more, how much Our Father

Who owns the Heavenly Throne

Subdues our earthly kingdoms,

And gives his Holy Spirt

“Unto them that ask of Him.”

Or stone, or serpent, or scorpion?

Gifts of faithless passivity.

Nay Bread!!!—three loaves, a fish an egg...

To feed our much importunity.

Yea!!! to strengthen us in weariness,

To guide us in the straight and narrow.

That we may brave with courageousness

The perils of a pilgrim’s journey.

Three loaves of bread, a fish, and egg—

Our Father’s ears do hear

The faithful supplications

Of those to Him so dear.

We “ask”....and He wills according to His will.

We “seek”...and His mercy helps us to find.

We “Knock”...and it’s His Hand that opens—

A “Door” for our hearts to hide.

Three loaves of bread, a fish, an egg—

“Good gifts” for the children of God,

Who continually come to Him and plead

While on earth’s last turnings they trod.

Based primarily on Luke Chapter 11

Lawrence Scott

Out of the Quiescence

Posted on March 2, 2010 at 6:07 PM Comments comments (1)

In the beginning, before the End...

Beyond all shadow, a path of sun

parched the pavement and drew a line,

leaving a marking for man to see,

yielding a sign for all to be;

forever aware, forever alive

to know the truth, to never sigh,

to understand, and truly find,

a thorough search—centered inside—

for the Kingdom of God, for Peace on Earth,

for the Love of all children and soulful rebirth.

Little time was given to make amend

for, the line burned deeper, imparting the end.

It weakened the earth from out and about

which, upset the world and everything in doubt.

The wind blew harder, the snow came down

the rain flooded over, and the sun went out.

Evil took over in this tempest time,

whining and wailing, venting it’s crime,

till, silence was dawning a sedentary—STILL,

stationed in nothingness and eternity’s will.

Out of the quiescence; a new world was born,

in reality unseen, in a vision that shone.

In the truth of an essence—

for, the peace or quiescence

converged as One in the Most:

in the kingdom of God—

the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Lawrence Scott 1980-81

When God Created Man

Posted on March 2, 2010 at 5:54 PM Comments comments (1)

When God created man

did he know of life?

When the soil became one

did he know of strife?

When it rained a storm

did he create the flood?

When the flood had sighed

had he let us ride?

When he cleared the sky

did he hear us cry?

When we came to land

did our tears run dry?

When we sat and prayed

did he hear our praise?

When we failed in faith

did he set us straight?

As time moved onward

did man fall backward?

When God created man

was there form or plan?

Lawrence Scott

Letter to Diogenes

Posted on March 2, 2010 at 5:42 PM Comments comments (1)

Diogenes, you would not be proud

of what I have lastly found

Sympathetic trusts so true

that they override my solitude.

Loneliness, is not a petty pain

else, I would ignore its ugly fame.

YES!

This creative surge is deep within,

although you’d say, “it’s only sin!”

But, I say to you in secluded rage!

That in the end I’ll turn back the page!

The words will be changed...for good!

For no evil will concur, or could!

Your blasted ways will want revenge!

But my souls delight will bend your ends!

Forlorn, bedighted?

No more!

I’ll say:

DIOGENES!

Begone!

forsaken!

forgotten!

....AWAY!!!

Lawrence Scott 1982


THE DARK SAYINGS OF PROPHECY - THE SECRETS OF THE REVEALER OF SECRETS


"He that hath ears to hear, let him hear." "Take heed what ye hear: with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you: and unto you that hear shall more be given." Mark 4:24 


The DARK SAYINGS of PROPHECY---the secret things that belong unto the Lord our God---the opposite of the Spirit of Evil, the "Strange woman"---the Deep and Secret Things GOD Reveals of the Darkness and Light that Dwells with him; the wisdom and might, the OMNISCIENCE revealing the Revelations of Kings; all these things spoke (and embodied King Jesus when upon earth) unto the multitudes in PARABLES; and without a PARABLE spake he not unto them that would listen: that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the PROPHET, saying, I WILL OPEN MY MOUTH IN PARABLES; I will utter things which have been kept SECRET from the foundation of the world; the SECRETS of WISDOM, that they are double to that OF the "finding out of the Almighty to Perfection" (despite our iniquities); THE SECRETS of the heart sacrifice of sheep counted for the slaughter (as Jesus was); THE CONCEALED SECRETS of the matters of a faithful  spirit, harbored safe in the mulititude of counselors, where is the God in heaven that REVEALETH SECRETS and maketh known unto kings what shall be in the latter days (now), in the VISIONS of the heads (of kings, presidents, prime ministers, rich men, the high men of the earth, the merchants of the earth, and even dictators) what should come to pass hereafter (in our present moment of the future) and by THE REVEALER OF SECRETS; concerning human beings who receive THESE SECRETS, to make known the INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS AND VISIONS to kings, that all men may know their hearts and BY TRUTH know God is a God of God's, and a Lord of Kings; and indeed a REVEALER OF SECRETS because of DIVINE OMNISCIENCE, settling in their hearts and consciences, witnessing to the LAW OF GOD, in the day when God shall JUGDE THE SECRETS OF MEN by Jesus Christ according to the Gospel message of Glad Tidings of Good News. These are THE PROPHESYS WHICH MANIFEST THE SECRETS OF MEN'S HEARTS and cause them to fall down and worship and witness that GOD IS with (these) PROPHETS OF TRUTH, who are servants of Jesus Christ --- Apostles separated unto the Gospel of God as promised, for he promised his PROPHETS in the ancient holy scriptures (writ, graphe, documents) in THE PREDICTION of Jesus Christ our Lord, who was born just like the patriarch David was, in human flesh: whom now is made manifest, and BY THE SCRIPTURES OF THE PROPHETS, according to the EVERLASTING GOD, made known to all nations (ALL |PEOPLES) for the OBEDIENCE OF FAITH, which OBEDIENCE is deserving of a God of such WISDOM that he should be glorified for ever through Jesus, the christ. All these hath the INVISIBLE church (for those who have the kingdom of God within them) manifest in APOSTLES uppermost, then PROPHETS, then Teachers, then Miracles Workers, Healers and their gifts, Gifted Helpers, and Administrators of God, especially in all languages spoken by the nations (peoples); for the SPIRIT OF THE PROPHETS ARE SUBJECT TO THE PROPHETS that there may be no confusion of BABEL or BABYLON, but peace in all the INVISIBLE CHURCHES (of the hearts) of the saints; who are no more strangers but fellow citizens of God's GOVERNMENT, with the saints, and of the household of God, built upon the foundation of the Apostles and PROPHETS, Jesus Christ himself being the CHIEF CORNERSTONE OF GOD THROUGH THE SPIRIT OF GOD. AMEN, and amen.


(This is a poem actually. It takes a bit of pain to read through it though, because the style is "continual paragraphing." References: De 29:29/Dan 2:2,3/ Mt 13:34-36/Job 11:6-7/Ps 44:21-22/Pv 11:13,14/Dan 2:29,30,47/Rm 2:15-17/Rm 1:2,3/1 Cor 12:28/14:32,33/Eph 2:20-22)