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.

.

.

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.

.

.

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.

.

.

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.

.

.

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.

.

.