Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Goodbye/In The End




















When I started this blog several years ago I thought it might be a good way to share some of my poetry and writings with others. I thought a few hundred people might see it at best. I had no idea that it would be viewed by over 50,000 people from around the world. The poems I shared on this blog are from a collection of poems written over the last 45 years. I did not share many for several reasons, one (and the most important) is that they are too personal and might cause pain to those who are involved. This is the last post I will make on this blog. It is the one poem that I would like to be remembered for. I will leave the blog open for those who want to view it but there will be no new posts. I will still be available at my email address, wfrhoads@aol.com for anyone who wishes to communicate with me about my writings. I would love to hear your thoughts. Now that I am semi-retired I would also enjoy doing public readings for anyone who wanted me to do that kind of thing. Thank you.

In The End























Jesus looked directly at them and asked, “Then what is the meaning of that which is written: ‘The stone the builders rejected has become the capstone’? Everyone who falls on that stone will be broken to pieces, but he on whom it falls will be crushed.”   Luke 20:17-18
when I was 18 I was the real deal,
the high school, jock, superstar,
the golden boy
with the golden touch,
class president,
everything to everyone;
it was an image
I spent most of my adolescent years
perfecting;
I could have married the hometown girl,
bought a house in my parents neighborhood,
spent the next 30 or 40 years
making a comfortable living,
gathering after work at the local bar
with all the other hometown boys,
living off old press clippings
and exaggerated sexual conquests,
collecting interest on Friday night touchdowns
and Saturday morning hangovers;
instead I did everything I could
to kill who and what I was;
I wandered,
I searched,
I smoked,
I drank,
I snorted,
I embarrassed,
I lied,
I deceived,
I failed;
I burned every bridge,
I slept with whores,
I broke man-made laws
and spiritual taboos,
I sinned against man,
I sinned against God;
but in the end
I was still here,
stuck in the same skin,
unable to escape,
unable to change,
unable to be anything
but what I was,
trapped by the truth
living inside;
in the end
I became exactly
what I was destined to be,
and You were still there,
knocking,
whispering;
waiting.
in the end
You put Your arms around me,
quietly whispering;
“Don’t be afraid, just believe”
forgiving the beatings,
forgiving the humiliation,
forgiving the suffering,
forgiving the pain,
forgiving the torture,
forgiving the isolation,
endured by You,
for the evil committed by me;
in the end
You forgave the sins
of a world not worthy
to kiss the dust beneath Your feet;
in the end
You shined Your light before me
and my eyes were blind no more;
in the end
I will stand before the throne of Your glory
and the joy shall be forever.
.

.


Monday, January 15, 2018

I am going



















the rain outside reflects the mood;
cold,
wet,
tired;
the world slows down,
unable to sustain the momentum,
we hardly take notice;
moments pass us by
until there is nothing left,
betrayal becomes inevitable
behind treacherous walls of
sardonic infidelity,
complacency swallows up her victims
like leftover children in lonely dumpsters,
filled with jewels of the night
and other bedtime stories;
I am going,
but I’m not going
quick enough;
youth lies wasted,
energy a one-way street,
we can never go back,
we can never return to places
lost among the shadows;
somewhere within the ruins
strangers lie empty and drained,
hidden by lost memories
and walls of battered abuse;
forever searching,
forever wondering,
forever knowing,
losing sight of the prize,
forever lost in the fog;
sometimes words say it all,
sometimes words are all there is;
sometimes words aren’t enough.
.

.

grieve


























I would do it,
but the finality of it all
stands in the way,
the uncertainty,
the hesitation,
sometimes I think
this is the way it should be
all the time;
beyond feeling,
beyond caring,
beyond knowing,
beyond rewrites and
perfection,
beyond judgment,
beyond misery,
beyond charades,
beyond lies,
beyond self-delusion,
beyond love and fantasy,
beyond wondering and doubt;
beyond self;
this poverty has
another face,
another kind of soul,
quiet and alone,
frightened and confused,
the end can be so blind,
nothing more than
a whisper,
spitting and sputtering,
laughing and pretending;
you cannot love anyone,
until you have learned
to grieve for everyone.
.

.

All That is Left


























Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.   John 15:13
“If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you.”   John 15:18-19
If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.   1 Corinthians 13:1-13
love is not about telling
someone what they
want to hear,
not about being positive
or keeping your mouth shut,
not happy thoughts or
living in fantasy worlds
which do not exist;
love is telling someone
what they need to hear,
whether it means they
will love you in return
or not,
love is sometimes
struggle and pain,
sometimes sorrow
and tears;
sometimes torture
and death;
the world does not understand
love such as this,
just as it does not understand.
that someday,
when the flesh has withered
and decayed,
when knowledge and wisdom
are gone,
when hope and faith serve no
purpose;
all that will be left
is love.
.

.

regrets



















I try to sleep
but cannot,
I think of you,
I think of your strength,
I think of your big city
toughness,
and I only love you
more;
I think of a moment when I
held you in my arms,
your arms around my waist,
telling you what a strong little
shit you are,
your laughter,
looking into your eyes,
how I should have kissed you
right then and there,
told you I loved you,
carried you into bed,
made you mine,
but did not;
it is one of the biggest regrets
of my life;
later,
feeling stronger,
I come to the painful
realization,
that holding on to
memories, and things
I will never control
is doing neither you
nor I any good;
life goes on,
it always has,
it always will;
I have to let go;
once again,
I hold on to the one
who has carried me
through time after time,
more than she will ever know,
more than she ever should know,
she deserves better,
but this is the best I can do,
she has known enough pain
for one lifetime,
unable to grow,
forever trapped in time,
by the monster who stole
so much;
I will protect her with my last
breath, even if I must protect her from
myself;
perhaps some things really are
better left unsaid,
but sometimes we say them
anyway;
and for this,
there are no regrets.
.

.

Completely





















In the night
I remember places
I have been,
forgotten things,
small things,
things which only
You know;
I feel Your wondrous touch,
Your magnificent mercy and grace;
all my life
You have led me
to this moment,
now I am ready,
now I can comprehend,
now I am Yours completely,
now I belong to You
forever;
do not let me be a well
without water,
do not let me be a dark, angry, cloud
within the approaching tempest,
do not let me walk down paths
leading to death,
do not let me be pious
for piety sake,
let me be a living spring
from which all may drink,
like a mighty raging river
Your unconditional love
flows from within,
a brightly blazing beacon
set upon a hill for all to see,
let Your marvelous light shine forth,
fill me with the splendor
of Your precious spirit,
allow me to be a messenger
of Your glory and truth;
Jesus,
praise Your holy and beautiful name,
my King, my God, my Savior
my Everything.
.

.

sometimes




















we live in midnight institutions
complete with limited resurrections,
searching for bedtime heroes and
untraveled imperfections
among lost and forgotten
erections;
they never knew
just how deep the cut
really was,
they never knew
what was taken
on that day so long ago;
how could they?
early morning memories
fill these empty corridors with time,
reaching out for just one more
in this never ending reality,
taking hold of the mindless insurrections
thrust upon this bodiless soul
with decided impropriety,
so full of tight lipped incognito bullshit,
drowning in pools of molten
metal mania;
sometimes it must be this way,
sometimes this is all there is,
sometimes we all go down;
sometimes it’s all right.
.

.

even Einstein knew that




















energy can neither be created nor destroyed, only transferred or altered in form – the first law of thermodynamics (conservation of energy) and the basis for Albert Einstein’s Theory of Relativity
I’ve learned a few things
in this life of mine,
things that no one else knows
or takes the time to see;
for example;
I know that rock n roll
began in 1948
in the form of a simple
country blues song
called boogie chillum,
by a man
who would influence
a whole generation
but never get the credit
that was his due;
and I know
that I have seen a prophet of God
walk this earth
in the shape of a man
during my lifetime,
and that I have heard his voice
just as so many others did
but that no one recognized him
for who he truly was
but someday they will;
I know that this life
is not what it seems,
that it is an illusion
created to deceive and fool,
a very elaborate illusion
but an illusion
just the same;
I know that Jesus Christ
was exactly who He said He was,
just as the words of the bible
say precisely what they mean
and are not hiding
ancient secrets
or theological mysteries
despite how many scholars
say they are,
that the truth is so simple
only the simple
can see it,
whether the rest of the world
wants to believe it
or not;
I know that nothing
is an accident
in this life,
that it was all planned out
from the beginning,
every detail,
every chance encounter,
that the energy
we carry inside
can never be destroyed,
only changed
or altered in form;
hell;
even Einstein knew that.
.

.

Martin Luther King Day?
























Martin Luther King day?
he brought sanity
to an insane world,
created calmness
out of chaos,
peace
on a battlefield,
forgiveness
where none was deserved,
light
to a land grown black
by its own internal darkness;
so;
Martin Luther King day?
I would certainly think so.
.

.

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Pushbuttons


















sports, sex and food,
those are about the only things in life
that have ever really interested me,
and I’ve only been good at two of those,
well okay,
I used to be good at two,
now,
I only do one well;
technology?
bores the shit out of me,
and on top of that
I don’t really understand it
yet somehow
here I am,
a highly trained technician,
in a highly technical field,
pushing buttons,
watching red and green lights
go on and off,
thinking about
the leftover steak in the refrigerator,
the secretary with the nice ass,
how my daughter can improve her
basketball game;
sometimes I imagine life
living in a stone cottage,
overlooking the ocean
on the western coast of Ireland,
writing whatever comes to mind
all day long,
then walking into the village at night
to drink a few pints,
tell a few lies,
stumbling home
to crawl in bed with a good woman,
big and soft
who moves with passion,
moaning out of control,
and keeps the house clean;
excuse me,
I gotta push a button.
.

.

Dancin to the Chieftains















round and round we go,
faster and faster we spin,
the beat of the fiddle
making our hearts grow light,
the flute ringing out
like a lost and dear old friend;
ah these days
will last forever,
for they are all that matter,
sweeter
than the sweetest wine,
soft and tender
as the fairest young lasses
lips,
for surely we have passed
this way before;
if only in a dream.
.

.

W.B. Yeats


























welcome old friend,
come in from the cold
and rest awhile,
I recognize your voice,
it is one I have heard
many times before,
the accent
was a little different
then
from what it is now,
but still
it is the same;
we have talked often
you and I,
during that soft
and painful transition
as I tried to hold on
to the dark and dying night
and you patiently waited
for the pale morning dawn,
tell me old friend,
have you found that precious
light of a new day
for which you waited
and searched
for so long?
ah well;
nor could I
hang onto the darkness,
but what difference does it make?
it is in the trying
that matters most,
you and I
were never born
to live in the black
or the white;
it is the cracks in between
where we belong.
.

.

Kathleen


























the laughter rings in my ears,
silence covers the night like a
worn out lover, inviting everything
into its domain,
like flies in the spider’s web,
echoes of the past banging into
the walls of my mind;
who am I?
how did I get here?
I remember a road
on a dark starless night,
I remember your laughter,
I remember your scream,
I recall everything
which means nothing;
ah Kathleen,
your hair was like silk,
you smelled like the springtime flowers,
we were young,
we were lovers,
we were soul mates,
we traveled the road to Dublin
then you were gone,
I searched for you in the meadow
but you were not there,
I screamed out your name
but received no reply;
oh my Kathleen,
where have you gone?
time has no hold on our love,
our love was greater than time,
it was greater than life,
our love was endless,
timeless,
even death cannot keep me
from you;
remember the moon?
we watched it rise,
you saw the fairies
and called them out by name,
we danced till the new day sun
came out;
Kathleen,
where have you gone?
.

.

Infection


























Jesus looked directly at them and asked. “Then what is the meaning of that which is written: ‘The stone the builders rejected has become the capstone?’ Everyone who falls on that stone will be broken to pieces, but he on whom it falls will be crushed.”   Luke 20:17-18
From that time on Jesus began to explain to his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer many things at the hands of the elders, chief priests and teachers of the law, and that he must be killed and on the third day be raised to life. Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. “Never, Lord!” he said. “This shall never happen to you!” Jesus turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men.” Then Jesus said to his disciples, “If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for me will find it. What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul? Or what can a man give in exchange for his soul?”  Matthew 16:21-26
“To face what we are in the end, we stand before the light
and our true nature is revealed. Self-revelation is annihilation of self.”
Kathleen Conklin – ‘The Addiction’
we all stand afflicted,
hopelessly addicted,
ravaged and abused,
scourged and inflicted;
infected by the disease;
we choose this road
because that is who we are,
what we have become,
there simply is no other choice,
no other path;
a leopard cannot change
its spots,
nor can a flea become
a dog;
hopelessly addicted,
infected by the disease;
self-induced delusions,
self-abused illusions,
self-taught dreams,
self-righteous justification;
hopelessly addicted,
infected by the disease.
.

.

Slick Willie


















Slick Willie got caught
(again),
personally I could care less
which brand of cigar he uses;
smoke em if you got em;
of course that can be hard to do
when they’re all soaked like that;
Willie’s not a bad guy,
he’s just a good ole boy
in over his head;
like most of us;
however
the rest of us don’t have the power
to make toast out of the world
when we slide off the deep end,
so maybe we should just let poor Willie
enjoy a little fun every now and then;
after all,
cigars and an occasional
cum stained dress
are a hell of a lot cheaper
than the end of the world;
even if they are
good Cubans.
.

.

Ani





















with just one look
anyone can see;
she’s special;
there’s a light
radiating from within,
a certain kind of warmth
that makes her skin glow
as the fire that burns inside
blazes to the top,
and anyone can see;
she’s special;
it’s not really the song,
it’s more the passion,
the complete loss of control
as she offers herself up
for total consumption
to the forces which demand everything
and give nothing in return;
yes anyone can see;
she’s special.
.

.

Sigmund's Full of Shit


























when you’ve been
on both sides of the fence,
you know it’s not a question
of which side is greener,
it’s only a matter of
which side is green at all, and
you quietly wonder at
what a cruel, terrible joke
this is;
do the questions never
have an answer?
and you silently wish
for a reason,
an excuse,
some childhood abuse,
daily beatings
or a solid drop on the head,
anything to explain
why
you are the way you are
but there is nothing;
only proving
Sigmund’s full of shit.
.

.

filling time



























I started telling her
about this Bukowski poem I had read,
but then I remembered
she could care less
so I didn’t,
that’s the way it is
with us,
makes the whole process
so much easier;
sometimes I forget the rules
and she pretends to listen,
but most of the time
we just remain silent;
there is one thing
we do really good together,
and I suppose
from a practical point of view
that is the only thing that matters,
because when we do that one thing
I don’t really care
about a Bukowski poem either;
and I realize
that everything else
is just filling time
until we can do that one thing
again.
.

.

the future





















lean and hard,
a new breed,
survivors
emerging
from the dust,
not quite
human,
something different,
strong,
unafraid,
cold;
soulless;
all that remains
from the great
and terrible
affliction,
sons and daughters
of the apocalypse,
unseeing,
unknowing;
unforgiving;
fearless,
flesh,
frigid,
inner pistons
pumping
the beat
of life
where there is no
life,
savage killers,
preying
on neighbors,
feeding
on brothers;
the future.
.

.

O Eire



















O Eire,
who could taste your sweetness
and not cry out for more,
who could stand upon your cliff tops
or walk the banks of the Shannon
and not feel your mystical magic;
your hills
breathe with life,
so young and fresh
but with a wisdom
ancient and old;
O Eire,
even the strongest invader
is overwhelmed by your
mighty power,
succumbing not to your sword
but rather your spirit,
taking not their lives but
capturing their souls instead,
making them prisoners to that
which they had come to imprison;
O Eire.
.

.

a different time





















a different time,
a different place,
You and I touched with
the sound of the crashing sea
covered by a crimson sunset
in a land with no horizon,
waiting for a tomorrow
that would never come,
with a love that could not die
as flesh and bones
silently crumbled
into dust;
no words spoken,
looking into each others
eyes we both knew
there would be another time,
another place;
shadows fell,
darkness descended,
fire and mist
showed the way,
then nothing
but the sound of weeping;
and memories.
.

.

Son





















somewhere
he waits
and I listen,
as the silence
grows painfully louder;
son;
I wish I could tell you
that you’re mine
but you’re not
and never were,
still
there is that bond,
and I guess
that is the way
it will always be;
son;
I wish I could show you
the beauty of your
shining sisters smiles,
I imagine
you must be
very much like they are
except they are mine
and you are not, and never
will be;
son;
I make no excuses
for the things
that took place
and I wouldn’t have any
even if I did,
to be honest
it didn’t have a thing
to do with you
as hollow as that may sound,
it’s just the way
things worked out,
but still I remember,
which is more
than I left to you.
.

.

Saturday, January 13, 2018

From the Heights to the Depths





















I die a thousand deaths with you,
falling 2000 ft past
roles and rules of
dubious impropriety,
beyond decency
and molds of
sacred sobriety,
into far-off rolling hills,
gently beckoning,
softly cajoling,
whispering for more;
together we have faced
the best,
escaped the worst,
survived with all
the rest,
becoming something new,
something else;
something unknown;
distant guns blaze away,
smoking and smoldering,
pounding and hammering,
swirling inside forgotten
and forlorn tempests,
drifting without a home,
floating on the breeze;
out here there are no
agendas,
no pre-determined
destinations,
out here there is only
this and that,
here and now,
closely followed by
felonious miscreants,
sacred imposters,
intent upon perpetrations
of questionable valor,
plundering and pillaging,
falling down before
the dawn,
replacing methods of madness,
silently drowning out
the moment;
this love is like layers,
peeling back one
only reveals another,
quietly hidden
within the depths
of this empty fortress.
.

.

Hope?





















“Life is a tale told by an idiot – full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” – William Shakespeare.
What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.   Ecclesiastes 1:9
“See that I am He! There is no god besides me. I put to death and I bring to life, I have wounded and I will heal, and no one can deliver out of my hand.   Deuteronomy 32:39
we live,
we die,
we laugh,
we cry;
there is nothing new under the sun;
all the accomplishments of man,
all the clever, flowing words,
meaningless dust,
vanities and vexations,
twisting and blowing,
scattering on the shifting wind,
dark mists of evaporating vapor,
clanging gongs of raucous sound,
deep reservoirs of hopeless hope,
obstinate children full of excess
and self-glorification,
pompous celebrations of mediocrity
and drivel,
early morning shadows
disappearing with the
noon day sun;
here today,
gone tomorrow;
nothing,
nothing at all,
not one can bring
life from death,
not one can escape
the grave;
without You there is no meaning,
without You there is no truth,
without You there is no light;
without You there is no life.
.

.

A Cult Of The Ordinary



















the dark night does approach,
silence fills the unending void,
there are consequences
for careless words spoken in haste,
prices to be paid for miscommunications
and mistaken identities;
we have crossed unknown
lines and barriers
without any thought
for tomorrow,
settling for pennies on the dollar,
creating monuments of our
own misgivings,
putting eternal wheels in motion
which cannot be undone,
winning victories
but in the end
losing the war;
the last breath
waits feverishly
on the wings
of majestic crows,
black and sleek,
seeking refuge among
the lost and forsaken
rubble which
congregates just outside
these prison walls,
waiting for no one,
seeking nothing;
nothing at all;
they never see past the veil,
this charade,
this hideously pathetic impression,
for most it is
business as usual,
part of the routine;
a cult of the ordinary.
.

.

Waiting for the Show



















the sun beats down
at 102 degrees as you
silently wait for
the show to begin,
it is always like this,
a pause,
a cost,
a loss;
there is no other way;
the knife cuts deep as
you seek a finish,
a final place of rest,
it comes upon you cold
and wet,
rushing and wild,
strangely familiar;
empty and final;
there are things bigger
than fear and insecurities,
places where the night
gathers once more and it is
never what it seems,
never what is expected,
licking every drop,
leaving nothing behind,
raging like a beast
with no hope for tomorrow,
purging every second
for all it is worth,
ripping flesh into
mountainous shreds,
scattering forgotten remains
upon the blowing wind,
howling until the morning
dawn;
a place which no one can see,
a land that no one can understand.
.

.

You'll Never Know




you’ll never know
how much there was
hidden inside with all the other
unseen baggage and trash,
collected over a lifetime
of useless dreams and
sentimental nonsense;
you’ll never know;
vultures circle above,
waiting for the moment
to arrive,
they hear the sound,
they understand the fear,
they taste only tomorrow,
yesterday dead and gone,
today but a mystery
locked within
distant shadows
without form or shape;
you’ll never know;
you’ll never know
where tears go
when they can no longer
be cried,
how daytime light
disappears into
unending shadows
of approaching night,
why noises within the darkness
turn suddenly silent at the
approaching madness;
you’ll never know.
.

.

War


























Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.   Ephesians 6:10-12
all around the battle rages,
the enemy silently waits,
unseen, unknown,
beyond sight,
beyond touch,
beyond understanding;
slaves to all that we see,
all that we hear,
all that we feel,
yet we see nothing,
we hear nothing,
we feel nothing;
mirrors and smoking guns,
illusions and disappearing truths,
cheap parlor tricks played out
on morning talk shows,
here today,
gone tomorrow,
the war never ends;
the enemy never sleeps.
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Stolen Ground

























I have tasted heights so high,
I have swam depths so deep,
touching things along the way
which were never mine to keep,
traveling beyond all there
was to know,
yet still there is more,
so much more to go;
confusion and sorrow color
these early morning skies,
answers lie hidden
among alternatives and
cascading lies,
places once called home
crumble into the far-off fading light,
faces once called friends
disappear into the approaching black
of this forever growing night;
take my hand,
lead me from this land,
hear my voice,
help me make a stand;
darkness grows above,
storms rise from below,
over-fed pretenders
prepare for the final show
in this never ending battle
which can never be won,
raging just beyond
all that can be overcome;
into the nighttime void a
whisper does sound,
shadows of tomorrow looming large
across this stolen ground,
mistakes of yesterday forever lost,
innocent blood shed,
freedom at such a staggering cost;
take my hand,
lead me from this land,
hear my voice,
help me make a stand.
.

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