To A Mouse

This is not my poem. This was written by Robert Burns in the late
1700s after he turned up a mouse's nest with his plough.
He was a young man, 26 at the time, and the old english kind of reminds me of my most recent poem.
Besides that, I think the themes of this poem are very deep and really love this poem.
The second, seventh, and eighth stanzas are my favourite.
Here is:
To A Mouse

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,
An' weary Winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an'stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald.
To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Picket Fenes

(I don't know Chaucer English, but my brain is tired and this is what it decided it wanted to write in. Its Dustin Middle English. Maybe somewhat akin to the lingua de Lewis Carroll via The Jabberwocky.)

Thare was a manne from Spicklespence
whom had a wite nise pikket fenes
he bott did he it wif nine pence
the spockle man from Spicklespence.

Doth as he plannt, twas his defens
the pritty wite nise pikket fenes
it was gud sheeld and very hence
he hyd beihind his pikket fenes.

The nayboors came and gazeth twence
upon his wite nise pikket fenes
thay sedd to him, "twis nice for shence!"
but gaezt not passd his pikket fenes.

His frends came by and did entrence
his yard by his nise pikket fenes
Not seeing howse, the commentence
"We liketh thou noo pikket fenes."

Stayd in his howse did his parents
his cousens, sisters, and their gents
they spoke about the mans good sents
to get a such nice pikket fenes.

But to evry day caem evry nite
when the sun was down and dark took lite
when his fenes stood there no longer wite
and his harrt stood in plainest site

Sedd to himself, "Now damm that fenes!
It wassnot werth the smallest pence
my friends, my cousins, and all their gents,
the holl lot do i questionence.

For since the fence, I painted home
first red, then wite, then shiny krome
I took the roof and put a dome
but past the fenes thay din't known.

The yard as well, I planted trees
Sown doun in twos, ript up in threes
I bilt a hive to raiseth bees
but none of them have notist thees

Miseylf it seems theyv but forgott
ignord the eye, ne'ermind the dot
I cood today leav fenes and plot
but notiss I'm not shur theyd not.

I'll tell you now and only you
I'fe changd mine hart frum red to bluu
I'fe changd my harre and cote and shoo
But outside the fenes, not one man knoo."

So I supoce it fillt his planns
to hyde hisself from other manns
but now hes not shur werre he stans.
So writeth he becuss he cans.

A White Wolf

(This isn't a rhyming poem, sorry to disappoint. It just was something that I needed to get down. It seem when I write I can take something I imagine and make it grow and fulfill it.)

He sits in his chair, at his screens, chittering away.
Every day.
The window sits adjacent to him.
It's not his window though.
He is stuck in the middle of the room.
He glances at it every so often though,
to remind him of the outside world
away from the chittering.

It snowed today.
Not the normal first snow of the year,
that bursts out of the gate eager to paint the world white,
only to end up retreating at first contact with the earth
that is still warm from months of summer sun.
No. This snow stays. It falls.
It beckons him to challenge it.

Why the challenge?
It's warm inside. It's nice.
Comfortable.
But something itches to take its challenge.
Not just for the spirit of competition,
but for an actual desire to test this weathers first go.
To see its strength.
To see his own.
So he ventures out.

Out the door the cars seem loud,
the plants seem sad their lives are over for the year,
the leaves are frozen in the gutters,
and people seem uncomfortable.
So does this man.
He sees the wind blowing past the corner of the building;
a small drift is forming by the edge of the brick wall.
There is where he will find the sharp edge of the snow's blade.
Of course he must.

It whips his face.
Not snow, but small frozen particles.
Wolves in sheeps white clothing.
His blood runs warm with ancestral memories.
The shores of Reykjavik.
The streets of Moskva.
The north is home to this heart,
and so this freezing wind brings him comfort.
Something he did not expect.

It makes him think maybe one of his kindred
stood on those far away lands
long before his time
and that same wind came and visited them.
There they stood, welcoming its annual challenge
with fire in their eyes,
white knuckles clenched,
hair and beard spotted with white
being pulled by the wind.

Perhaps a wolf was there
and felt that wind as well.
Its coat turned white already
as if to say to this winter,
"I knew you would come,
and I am stronger than you."

A Solemn Psalm

Need to turn propellers off,
put the sails to flight,
because this boats near out of coal,
and there ain't no land in sight.
Need to dim the lanterns glow,
because the beasts don't like the light,
need to sit a few rounds out,
because I got no will to fight.

I tried. I fell. I thought, and spoke.
Now time will tell. I'm done, and broke.
I really wonder, if there is hope.
If its from us, then I'd say..nope. (ha)

But if there really is a chance,
of living full, of being free,
then once again, I will dance,
my debts released in jubilee.

But for now, all is naught,
the days persist as battles fought
leave us caged in iron wrought,
until the rest of HaShabbat.

Baruch habba bashem Yhwh
Berachnuchem mibbeit Yhwh
Baruch habba bashem Yhwh
Berachnuchem mibbeit Yhwh

Holy Macaroni

I feel that my worship is like macaroni art,
its not that impressive but it really comes from the heart,
its not that I offer or give just a little part,
its because that it's somewhat incomplete from the start,
I do what I can, but when its held up to the chart
of what God had planned, my try seems to fall apart.

But God doesn't see my art,
He sees my heart,
the little parts,
the little starts,
He doesn't chart,
and I fall apart
when I think of what hes given me,
that He came down to live in me,
to dwell with me, well up in me,
to overflow, abundantly,
ever since Hes forgiven me,
so that I'd be livin' free
in a kingdom so heavenly.

But I have to look back at truth,
that Messiah fought nail and tooth,
for a son that was so uncouth,
(thats me of course) He dwelt booths,
that is to say He pitched His tent,
He dwelled with us when He sent
His sacrifice for atonement,
Because of awe and wonderment
I run for all His commandments.

There is water, sheba shemayim,
the second's better than the first.
He took the sin from all of time,
His punishment, the very worst.
He's living water, the mayim chaim,
drink from Him, you'll never thirst,
He walked on water, He is I AM,
I am blessed when He was cursed.

So what can I offer
the king of kings,
who holds the worlds,
who owns all things?
I give my best,
my very heart,
even if its just
macaroni art.

A Borrowed Writing

People are illogical, unreasonable, and self-centered.
Love them anyway.
If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish ulterior motives.
Do good anyway.
If you are successful, you win false friends and true enemies.
Succeed anyway.
The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway. Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable.
Be honest and frank anyway.
The biggest men with the biggest ideas can be shot down by the smallest men with the smallest minds.
Think big anyway.
People favor underdogs, but follow only top dogs.
Fight for a few underdogs anyway.
What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight.
Build anyway.
People really need help but may attack you if you do help them.
Help people anyway.
Give the world the best you have and you'll get kicked in the teeth.
Give the world the best you have anyway.

I DID NOT write this. It was written by Kent M. Keith many years ago. But thought it was very good and wanted to share it, just in case you are going or choose to go through any things that are like this.

Laodicea

To know who you are
You need to know what you’re for,
To know who you are you for,
To Know your heart from roof to floor,
By Spending time alone, and whats more
To ask your friends what they’re for,
And ask why you go through doors
That end you up in those stores
Where you buy from condors
Who sell the goods to those hordes
Who are doing all of their chores
So they can store their own hoards
And lock them up in their boards.
Do they seek the gold that’s the Lords?
Or seek him deep in their Core?
Or think of Him as Bore?
Did you know that you’re poor
And cannot see the true core,
Because you have no algor,
And completely lack the ardor.
Look up, he stands at the door
Waiting there to restore
Your sight, your life, your honor.
Let him in, he’ll come near.
There is to reason to fear.
If you overcome here,
As he sits with his father
You’ll sit with him on his chair.
So let myself be quite clear,
These words are from the ruler
Of all of life on the earth,
And I say to ears that can hear,
Hear.