Poems, Personal Stories, and Observations

Posts tagged ‘dream’

What Are Memories For?

What are memories for?
To haunt, to taunt, and still harass?
To calm, to heal, forgive at last?
What are memories for? 

Connecting us to times long past,
Is memory true, or false, we ask?
To weave a story, to give God glory,
To dream a dream, or nightmare gory? 

What are memories for?
To be a human, safe from danger,
Or so afraid — beware that stranger!
What are memories for? 

Without memory, we cannot learn —
Life’s long lessons grow strong and stern,
And yet, through hardship, we are stronger,
In trials and tempests, fear we conquer.

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God’s Dream for You

What’s God’s dream for me, for you?
To go beyond this earthly realm?
To stand before a starship’s helm?
Or rather be an earthbound soul,
To till and dig the crusty soil?

To do those many tasks mundane,
The dishes washed, the diapers changed,
To scrub the floors, wipe dirty cheeks,
To fix the faucets, find pipes that leak?

To work with hands, or with the brain?
Or maybe both – a skill explain?
Will you be famous, or not well-known,
To popularity, or scorn be prone?

Will you be rich or destitute –
What will be your life’s pursuit?
God has a dream He can fulfill –
If only you will trust Him still.

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Mundane Melody

In movies and in fairy tales,
In books and dreams and wishes,
There’s one thing people rarely do —
They rarely wash the dishes.

In tales of pirates, princes, pow’r,
It’s easy to avoid it —
You’ll seldom see this in a tale —
Someone who cleans a toilet.

These mundane things don’t hold the mind —
Those things we see with turned-up nose.
You won’t see in a tale, I fear,
A climax shown by washing clothes.

So never think a fiction book
Or solemn tale of history,
Is anything like real life —
We’d rather read of luxury.

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I Live in a Dream

I LIVE IN A DREAM

I live in a dream …

I live in a little English village
Where everyone knows each other.

I go to the butcher shop
And meet Rev. Franklin Graham and Pope Francis.
At the tea shop,
I enjoy tea and tisane with Agatha Christie,
Hercule Poirot, and Miss Marple.
I also see J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis,
G. K. Chesterton, and Dorothy Sayers there.

I say hello to John Henry Newman,
Martin Luther, and St. Francis on the street.
———————

I take a trip to the United States…

I meet Hilary Clinton and Donald Trump –
Through a series of misfortunes,
They have lost most of their money
And have become very humble people;
They regularly meet for coffee at their local coffee house.

I go to a poor section of town.
The unemployed people are busy
Keeping their neighborhood clean,
Working in the community garden,
And going to school part of the day to better their lives.

I go to a rich neighborhood …
No one is home because they are in the poor neighborhood
Distributing clothing, helping in the community garden,
And teaching English to immigrants.

———————

This is my dream …

I no longer worry what you think of me;
I focus on Jesus and try to do His will.

I no longer try to prove I’m right and you’re wrong;
I respect your opinion and will state mine if you’re willing to listen.

I have peace in my heart
Because I have let go,
And given everything to God.

[Reconciling different elements in my life: Christians
with differing viewpoints, political factions, the rich
and the poor, and my own inner conflicts.]

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We Can Always Dream

Once upon a time
There was innocence
And sometimes people cared
For the littlest ones

And sometimes marriages were mended
For the sake of the children
And parents sacrificed
To make a good home

And men would give up dreams
For a higher calling,
Glad to sacrifice
For something bigger than themselves —
(Where is George Bailey?)

And once upon a time
People knew that life was sacred —
And were grateful just to be alive

And maybe once upon a time
Never was  —
But it does
Exist in some people, in some places

And maybe once upon a time
Can never be —
But we can always dream

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I Dreamed That It Was Raining

[Written during the California drought of 2014 and during the Ferguson, Missouri, riots.]

I dreamed that it was raining
And streets were wet again.
The cars went by
And gave a sigh
As water splashed on them.

I dreamed that it was raining
And children laughed aloud.
With gleeful hoots
Their muddy boots
Through puddles gaily plowed.

I dreamed that it was raining
And clouds burst forth in flood.
Their waters calmed
The violence strong
And peace could now be found.

I dreamed that it was raining
And living water sped
From streamlets high
To rivers dry —
The thirsty land was fed.

I dreamed that it was raining
And black made friends with white.
The past was healed,
Their friendship sealed,
With harmony in sight.

I dreamed that it was raining
Upon the wasted land.
The thirsty earth
Could now give birth
To many seedlings grand.

I dreamed that it was raining
And cleansing tears were shed
O’er mem’ries deep,
I now could sleep,
Could rest upon my bed.

I dreamed that it was raining
And God forgave my sins.
He calmed my fears
And dried my tears,
And I could live again.

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Can’t Keep the Poems Back

Can’t keep the poems back,
The sing-song words,
They roll and turn
Inside my head.

They make me sane,
Help put a frame
‘Round jumbled thoughts
And pensive knots.

They make a fence,
Repel nonsense,
Build peaceful scenes
And help me dream.

The words are strong,
They build a bond.
They help express
Love’s fruitfulness.

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Jumbled Dream

Written while taking a walk in the neighborhood.
Just playing with the sounds of words —
Hope it might have some meaning for you … 🙂

——————————————————————————————

I fell into a dream and screamed.
I fell into a vat and laughed.
I flew around the sky and cried.
I prayed, and then my fears were stayed.

I broke into a song and longed
For peace within my troubled heart.
I wrote this poem with these words
To stop the threat of life absurd.

I felt the wind against my skin.
I felt the peace well up within.
I tried to give you all my heart —
At least, I made a running start.

I sang the song of always-love.
It flew in air, like peaceful dove.
The Spirit came down from above,
And told me what His secret was.

I fell into a new romance.
It made me jump about and dance.
Alas, ’twas just a thing of chance —
A fluke, a spark, a happenstance.

And now I see that nothing lasts,
Except the love born in my past.
The Love that brought me from the womb,
And will be there when I meet tomb.

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The Bookworm

On my nightstand in a pile,
Lie twenty books or more.
Inside each one I’ve read a bit
And then found them a bore.

Yes, this is one I’ve read before,
And that one’s just too gross,
Another one’s too shallow,
The fourth one’s too morose.

Perhaps these lands of fantasy —
Where books my soul do bring,
Can they no longer satisfy —
Reality’s the thing?

But as a child I wandered,
Devoured every word.
One book a day I swallowed
And ate the printed word.

And still I’ll wander to those lands
For, yes, they help me dream
Of that which can, or yet will be,
Of worlds as yet unseen.

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False Enemy

[I thought I should explain how this poem was inspired. I watched a documentary about the real story that the book “The Hunt for Red October” is based on. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mh0N3iG-7Uc . In the true story, a Russian naval officer is disillusioned by the way Communism had played out in reality (although he was still a Communist). He tried to start a revolution to bring back Communism to it’s ideal (helping the common people). The documentary also portrayed the Cold War in an interesting way. I thought about all the hopes and dreams of people from very different backgrounds. Then my mind jumped to other differences, like Protestant and Catholic, “conservative” and “liberal”, etc., and I thought, “I wonder if we are all wrong about each other?” Not too say there are not good reasons for the differences and conflicts, only that each person in his heart has a dream that we need to listen to.]

I thought you were my enemy
But someone had told me lies about you,
And so it seems,
Someone had told you lies about me.

We went around in a fog of falsehood
That seemed so normal
Because the fog was constantly around us.

Then the light
Began to break through
For me, for you.

The mist still mystifies
But it’s getting thinner.
Slowly the sun’s light
Is burning through.

Are we just relating
To ideas of each other
Or who we really are?

If I could see
With eyes divine
I would not believe a lie.

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