A Gnat So Small

A GNAT SO SMALL

For Lovers of Stuff That Rhymes C. Doug Blair, 2011

To think that YouRegard it allWithout a skip or miss.Creation's spinMen's hurts withinMy hopes and trials and bliss.

Is just to senseAn un-summed CareWhich wearies not, nor wanes.Though nations roar,

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And lust for more,You never drop the reins.

What marvel this!That I am knownAnd figure in the blend.This gnat so smallReceives Your all.And comforts without end.

Love’s The Thing

Do not self-improve.Do not even try.I dispatched my SonAnd I watched Him die.And I heard His friends Beg the reason why.(That they needn't die.)

And this holy lifeThat you strive to scoreIs not bought with sweat.Not to be a chore.Simply probe the depthsOf my love's rich ore.(And I have much more.)

If you must repent Of a single slight,Let it be your coldnessAgain last night.I was there for youJust to hold you tight.(To make all things right.)

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It's the love you missIn this very hourThat will save and cleanseAnd endue with power.I have plans for youAnd will see them flower.(Let my mercy shower.)

Conestogo

A single-lane bridgeIn the country.The Mennonites Use it the most,With corn fields Surrounding,And cattle,And wire-fencesNailed to old posts.A resting spotNorth of the suburbs,With black buggiesEasy to spy.The horses allGlistening and clopping.A hint of a timeWe passed by.The father, broad-brimmed,Stately teamster.His bonneted wifeAt his side.The purple-dressedDaughters behind them,Enjoying the changeOf the ride.Politely, they

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Honour my presence,Alone at the road-side,By car.I’ve come here toListen to nature.Just out of theCity, not far.With Bible andNote-pad beside me,A chance to seeLife on the wing.As blackbirds explodeFrom alfalfa.And plovers soFretfully sing.Some rooster proclaimsFrom a barnyard,His kingdom extendsTo the lane.A collie comesOver to greet me,With broad grinAnd soft, flowing mane.I’m thankfulFor slow WoolwichTownship.Its Mennonites, Back-roads and corn.And marvel at God’sOrchestrationOf this sunnySabbath-day’s morn.

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Bird Watcher

There must have beenSome sunny days,In golden meadow fair;When free from crowdsAnd free from toil,You sought the purer air.And as you strolledThe verdant paths,The wee birds met you there.

Did not they singAt your approachTheir fanfare, clear and sweet?Did not they peerFrom wayside nestsTo note your passing feet?Or else displayAbove your headSome agile, aerial treat.

Oh, villager,Oh, carpenter,Oh, rabbi to the meek.‘Twas you who reachedFrom Unseen HallsTo form each wing and beak.‘Twas you ordainedThe feathered friendsSo delicate and weak.

Then from the fieldsAnd azure skies,You passed to City’s din.To show to powersTheir shallow hope,Perhaps, their souls to win.

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In temple hallsWhere Paschal dovesWere slaughtered for men’s sin.

Pure Focus

Summum Bonum

Summum Bonum

ALL the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee: All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem: In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea: Breath and bloom, shade and shine, --wonder, wealth, and--how far above them-- Truth that's brighter than gem, Trust, that's purer than pearl,-- Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe--all were for me In the kiss of one girl.

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Robert Browning

This is what poetry can do. Draw the attention quickly to a message with microscopic effect.

I remember once having a discussion with Waterloo Region's poet laureate Rienzi Crusz. He knew of my budding interest in writing, and he gave an admonition something like this:

'This is the beauty of poetry. You have the delicious freedom to write whatever you want, in whatever form, at whatever length, loping along at whatever rhythm and intended to cause whatever effect. It may not all be marketable these days, but no matter, you are enjoying a tremendous release and journey. People with a sense of metaphor and imagination will be happy to accompany you.

Do not be in a panic to publish in hard copy. This is difficult, and particularly in the Canadian scene. The promotional effort is three times as taxing as the creative push. Today's poetry raises many more questions than it does answers, with a disappointing sense of futility. That is not usually my kind of poem.'

Thank you for that, Rienzi. (I have appreciated your images and stories which span the distance and difficulty of relocation from idyllic Sri Lanka to snow-bound Waterloo.) I too have had such observations. It is often similar to the imagined visit to the psychologist where the practitioner says, "Yep, this is what you have. It has all the signs. I don't know what to tell you to do about it, but perhaps it helps just to have a name for the thing and to get it out in the open."

Fat lot of help! Where are the epic stories, the great loves and struggles, the noble characters, the piercing critiques, the breath-taking retreats into nature, the well-paced frolic through clever silliness or punch lines, the partially successful outreaches to touch the hem of the garment of God?

There was a time and a place wherein the poet was regarded as the community sage, and yes, physician. He had the ear of Kings and

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Governors. He represented community conscience and hope, and could determine either the success or shipwreck of a life or ideal.

Now poets seem to wander through dark caverns, gladly offering a sweaty hand of comfort to whomsoever will...

A personal favourite of mine from Longfellow. And yes, it rhymes.Nostalgia. Character. Heroism.

The Village Blacksmith

UNDER a spreading chestnut-treeThe village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.

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And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of lifeOur fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

And how about social commentary?

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Suffer Little Children

Children bound to toil and tears.Thought the shame of former years.Woe, the heart that never hears.Some are fettered still.

Children bent to rake and hoe;Torn from play by plague's death-throe.Scratching dust to make it grow.Some are fettered still.

Children weighed with coat and gun;Warlord's whims to serve and run.Mocking death ere day is done.Some are fettered still.

Children pulled from Mother's breast;Mother, back to work impressed.Hurried plans leave them no rest.Some are fettered still.

Children made the sport of night;Pawns of lust, but out of sight.Forced by fiends who once seemed right.Some are fettered still.

Children never taught to pray;Taught to live Redemption's way.Starving souls with Hell to pay.Some are fettered still.

Children bound to toil and tears.Thought the shame of former years.

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Woe, the heart that never hears.Some are fettered still.

Or simple ministry.

The Shantyman

It is good to toilWith the men I know;And to trim the treesAnd to lay them low;And to haul their bulkTo the stream below;I am glad that the Lord sent me here.

And from time to timeWhen the mood is right,In the vaulted woodWith its dappled light;Where the blue-jay’s flashQuickens shrill and bright;I can sense that the Lord meets me here.

There’s a constant strainFrom the whistle call;As we scale the heightsMaking giants fall;And we swing our steelAnd our chain and maul.And I know that the men test me here.

But the dusk does come,

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And the campfires burn;And the grub is good,And our thoughts will turnTo the ones at home,And for those we yearn;But for weeks we must still labour here.

Yet another timeThe alarm will sound;That a trunk has split;That a man is downed.And like mother birdsWe all gather ‘round.And I sense they are glad I am here.

Then the Sabbath dayBrings some extra rest;And a few will come,And by that I’m blessed;And we search the Book,And I share Christ’s best;For the Lord of the harvest is here.

Oh shantymen sing!In the golden field;In the fishing hull;In the mineshaft’s yield;In the factory’s pulse;Sing of grace revealed;And the joy of the Lord finds us here.

Note: Canada recalls many work situations in which humble servants of the Gospel got into the workplace, rubbed shoulders, earned trust and simply prayed and helped.

Or significant epochs in history.

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Solemn Spires of Rock

With blood and breathThey sealed the Oath,Though parchment bore the gistOf Covenant with Christ their King,Whose court was moor and mist.

The shields of powerHad spewed a law:That every soul must heedThe pulpits of the puppet-priests,By worldly throne decreed.

But hearts enthralled By Spirit’s touch,And cleansed with Christ’s own blood,Must have the shepherd-hearted princeTo preach to them God’s Word.

Now banned from kirksAnd presbyteries,The faithful shepherds fled;To holy haunts on heathered hills,To preach life from the dead.

And whispers thrilled The villages,And sought the lonely farms;As secret calls to worship meantA secret call to arms.

Though empty satThe kirks of stone,

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And empty sat their pews;The glens and rills were filled with psalms‘Neath grand celestial views.

And times would come Of sacrament,Of searchings-out of sin;And fateful times when king’s dragoonsWould scatter to the wind.

And legends grewOf gallant menEvading musket-fire;And matrons bold who harboured them,To raise some villain’s ire.

And prophets savedBy providenceFrom Bloody Clavers’ men,Would vanish into cave or fog,Or stream, to preach again.

And gallows bore The testament,And prison glooms the tale;And children saw the cost of truthIn those who walked death’s vale.

But still they soughtThe sacred heights,Where Grace did much abound;Where bleat of lamb and lilt of birdWere mixed with Gospel sound.

Still constant proved The shepherd-heart;And constant proved the flock;And faithful proved the King of Kings,‘Midst solemn spires of rock.

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Or glimpses of friends in nature.

The Professor

He stands thereJust like a professor.In blue-graySo tall and so thin.His stride is quiteSlow and deliberate.I’ve known manyMen just like him.His wings bothBehind him for balance.His neck craningForth in some search.And so keenly fixed,His attention.This could be hisClassroom or church.His stilt-like, goldLimbs raise no ripple.His beaky headSlightly askew.The pond’s mirroredSurface reflectionTakes of this greatBird, and makes two.Then stops his stiffPerambulation.Long neck and beak Flash in the sun.To raise in a Silvery splatter,

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His fish breakfast,Expertly won.

Northern Night

The lake is calm,Without a breeze.Bedecked with stars,Above the trees.And Ursa Minor Points the way.While moonbeamsOn the ripples play.And standing onThe dock, I hear,Kathunk, kathunk,As boat bunts pier.Some plashing faintlyDown the shore.A creature lands To rest once more.

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The birches rustle Just behind.A single puffOf cooling wind.And peeper frogs,With chorus sweet,Perform where grassAnd lilies meet.Then basso bull,In search of love, With thunderous throatHis troth to prove.Mosquitoes skimThe fluid face;And water-bugsTheir etchings trace.But then a hush,A freeze, a pause;Some recess calledBy Nature’s laws.And dimly, faintly,He is heard.The eerie voiceOf diving bird.A plaintive low,And yodel sighs..Raised far out thereTo Northern Skies.Primordial scene,And timeless tune.The concert of The Common Loon.

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Or parable.

The Road Home

The land looks much the sameAnd the peaceful country lane,Winding gently past the fields my youth had known;And again I feel the breeze,Hear the birds, smell the trees;But I wonder if a welcome waits at home.

Much too long ago it seems,I had yielded to false dreamsAnd embarked a self-sufficient prince, I thought;On a pleasure-seeking quest,With a yearning for life’s best.Oh what woe and waste my birth-right soon had bought!

All the women and the wineAnd the friends I thought were mineQuickly stripped my purse and pride down to the bone,.Then, quite destitute of aidIn the mire my ways had made,I remembered bye-gone family times, alone.

How the father of my youthHad displayed a love for truth,And for righteous work and ways to chart one’s course.And no doubt reports had comeOf the folly of his son,Of the family riches lost without remorse.

Could I somehow still return?Could I live and lose and learn?Could I yet retrieve the joy which I once had?

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But, unworthy as a son,Let me just return as oneWho will toil at servant’s chores and still be glad.

As I pace the final mile,I am haunted all the whileBy the thoughts of how to say what must be said.It seems much too much to meTo expect their sympathy,And the look upon my father’s face I dread.

But my homecoming is this!

But my homecoming is this.First my father’s hug and kissAnd his ring and robe placed on my wasted frame.Ere I barely can repent,All the house-servants are sentTo prepare a lavish feast held in my name.

Oh, the depths of mercy shownBy my father for his own;

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And what patient faith and prayers had led to this.I just had to turn aroundAnd abandon wayward groundTo receive such sweet forgiveness and such bliss.

(What had started out so fineBut had left me tending swineWas a selfish heart beguiling me to roam.Thank you, Father God aboveFor the chastening of your love,That I might find celebration in your home.)

The Rich Man’s Death

I could have blessed the beggarFound daily near my doorAnd never missed the outlayWith always plenty more.And brought him to my wardrobeAnd dressed him in last year’s.And filled his aching bellyAnd washed away his tears.

But fashion held me captiveAnd closed the hand of graceFor fear of colleagues’ censureFor need to know my place.A privilege come from family,And shored up for one’s heirs,Not soon to heed a pauperNot soon to bless his prayers.

Just yesterday they told meHe sighed his final breath.

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But still I hear his callingDespite the unsung death.“The good Lord, this. The good Lord, that.”Would season every phrase.Perchance he’s gone up laughingTo meet Him face-to-face.

And I am left the poorerFor lack of showing love.Alas, not mine the blessingThat he secures above.Yes, his a peace unworldlyNot seen in all the rest.The pain now comes intensely.“My lot, my loss, MY CHEST!”

Or Gospel

Thomas Gets It Right

Oh, the sting of my reluctance,Ever doubting Jesus’ words!Had I not been in that dry placeWhere he fed the hungry hordes?Had I not been there at BethanyAs Lazarus left the tomb?Had I not been in the Lord’s High FeastWithin that Upper Room?

Oh, the shame of my denialAt the news of Easter-tide.Was it crucial that I test truth

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With my hand thrust in Christ’s side?Was I so bound to five sensesAs to claim the others erred?Was I so steeped in self-pityAs to doubt if Jesus cared?

But Christ came by special measureJust to put Thomas at rest;And he offered up his bodyFor my eyes and hands to test.It was true, my Lord had risen;How my spirit was relieved;Yet I know of greater blessingHad I, seeing not, believed.

Oh, the joy down at the seasideIn that breakfast with the Lord,As he fed our hunger and our faith,While Peter was restoredTo a confidence that Jesus Knew his love for him ran deep;To a challenge and a hope ofFruitful years feeding Christ’s sheep.

Oh, the promise as he left usIn his bright ascension hour,Of baptism in the Holy GhostWith fire and with power.Then the angels’ bless’d assurance As Christ left our dry terrain,That in this same way from Heaven’s clouds,He would return again!

My Lord and my God! I shall believe with faith’s eyes now!

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Joint Heirs With Jesus

Jointly with HimThe peace, the power.The Heavenly accessThis very hour.The standing 'fore GodRelieved of shame.The trespass forgot.The key, His Name.The demons now tremble.The hungry find bread.A kind word in season.Brings cure for each dread.A place in the familyBy mercy reserved.A seat at the Banquet;By Him we'll be served!And nothing of meritNo, nothing of selfFrom us is expectedTo warrant such wealth.The toil is all finished. The costly task done.The Grace account openedBy God's righteous Son!

Plucky, pleasing sound.

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Piece of the Puzzle

Poetry’s a piece of the Puzzle.Poetry’s a part of the Plan.Poetry’s a passion unmuzzled.Poetry’s the pain in a man.

Poetry’s a probe and a penlight.Poetry’s a pin-prick to pride.Poetry’s a prayer in the moonlight.Poetry’s a pony to ride.

Poetry’s a place for the moment.Poetry’s a person just met.Poetry’s a plot in an instant.Poetry’s a punch-line to get.

Poetry’s a palette and paintbrush.Poetry’s a sweet pastoral tune.Poetry’s a palpable night-hush.Poetry’s a picnic in June.

Poetry’s the pleasure of motion.Poetry’s a pendulum dance.Poetry’s a pint of the ocean.Poetry’s a pressing romance.

Poetry’s a pine-scented north-wood.Poetry’s a piece of a wing.Poetry’s a prophet of some good.Poetry’s the pluck still to sing.

Poetry’s the passing of season.Poetry’s a pathway once trod.Poetry’s the piercing of reason.Poetry’s the prospect of God.

Of pathos.

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Providence, Mine or Yours

I thought that I knewWhat you’re going through.I thought that I knew…I was wrong.

I once had a boutOf similar vein,Of similar pain.But not yours.

I sensed that the worldHad turned on me,A cruel destiny,Without hope.

And even my prayersMet brazen skies.The tears, the cries.Where was God?

But one day the blueReturned above.I felt His love,And it passed.

I now see the testHad made me grow;Christ’s heart to know.I was changed.

And this was to beMy providence,Of little sense,‘Til I learned

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That God has a planWhich must use loss,To show the CrossTo each child.

So I will not dareSay what to do,‘Til His work’s through,And you’ve won.

But I will be here,A needed friend,An ear to bend,Like the Son.

I thought that I knewWhat you’re going through.I thought that I knew…I was wrong.

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Of struggle.

Malignancy

I can waste a bodyI can shatter dreamsI can raise my threat Through a thousand schemes.I can rob a homeI can stunt a lifeI can tear the bondOf a man and wife.I can pull the blindDown on hope or joyAnd the neighbours'talkI will oft' employ.I am given moreThan my powers are dueI just feed on fearAnd the schemes come true.I am named with aweIn the Hall of WasteI have Slewfoot's praiseSeen him face to face.I have often heard When their end is nighHow they doubt their GodHow they curse the sky.But it troubles meThat a few gain powerAs they choose to smileIn my meanest hour.As they give loud thanksFor a life to date

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And they lean on ChristFor tomorrow's fate.

Of joy.

Inheritance

It’s the joy of our sins all forgiven.It’s the peace of the Lord’s resumed smile.It’s the hope of new tasks in the Kingdom.It’s the hush of His presence a while.It’s the promise of kin never parting.It’s the safety of homes filled with grace.It’s the dignity love gives the lowly.It’s the Body where each has his place.It’s the troop of a marvelous Captain.It’s the news of a battle well won.It’s the end of all fretful endeavour.It’s a right-standing now in God’s Son.It’s the certainty His Word is faithful.It’s the relish in simplest of prayer.It’s the blazing of light at life’s passing.It’s the knowing our Christ will be there.

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