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ULTIMATE RESOLUTION.

 

How often  has the slate been wiped clean?

   How many times the leaf been turned?

Resolutions that were snuffed out

   like my flaming head which so shortly burned

and dies as soon as the heat has gone;

   cooled by lesser fires.

When in the company of cold dark heads,

   the hot resolution soon cools and retires.

Those friends of mine with I on mind,

   they only aim for themselves to please.

’tis true, too true about lying with dogs:

   I’ve waked up often  with sins like fleas.

For me only one solution stays:

to serve God, and God only, for all of my days.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

15/10/93 - My first Christian poem.

 

 

 

 

 

CHILDISH THINGS

 

When I was a child,

I spoke as a child

and thought like a child,

and often  I  smiled;

at childish things

and childish ways,

and childish dreams

of endless days;

of warm laughter

in the warm sun

and a warm cot

when the playing’s done.

A perfect life

that’s perfectly free

to perfect my creativity.

 

And in doing so I found a dim mirror.

Face to face I found myself:

a man,

impartial to an unjust world.

I hid childish things upon a shelf.

Like my faith in easy living

and hopes for a future without end;

a love for all my fellows

on whom I could depend.

 

I took up the yolk of adulthood

with the reins of the law in control,

set roads to follow as destiny

and a weight upon my soul.

So now, with blinkered eyes and broken spirit,

I often remember my yearling days;

those endless meadows unbridled in the sun,

running to the call of my childish ways.

For when I was a child, I spoke as a child

and thought as a child, and often I smiled.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

17/10/93

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIVING WATER

 

One heavenly drop and the river began

Where a million suns glare and wink -

Living water alive with noise -

To its thunder flock fish and fowl to drink.

 

Then a ponderous rock crushes its path

And soon a dam is filled.

The water stagnates and animals die;

Its life by the sun is distilled.

 

But in its murk it knows its power.

It bursts its wall and flows again.

Sweet water flows from sour.

The strength within the drops of rain

Is in the damming of the shower.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

09/12/93

 

 

 

 

 

 

SAND CASTLE BLUES.

 

The delicate construction,

for that’s what it was,

took more than half the day.

With skill and creative passion

it grew upon the beach

beside the bay.

The blistering sun

and other fun

could not stop his hand.

This fine young lad

scant’ly clad

sculpting up the sand -

to a fairyl’nd castle

with shells and arches,

seaweeds and towers,

stones and walls,

glass and spires:

the work of many hours.

And all the while

they watched his work:

the vulturous lecherous boys

who love to take

to hurt and break,

and kill another’s joys.

At just past three

our friend steps back

for a final admiring glance,

and as he packs

to go back home

the sharks take up the chance.

They lay the sand to siege,

crushing to rubble

with jealous greed,

with words obscene

and faces mean

fulfilling destructive need.

But the Lord saw all

their beastly action

and noted their hate so well:

fused to glass by searing heat,

they’ll hurt to kick

sand castles in Hell.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

22/12/93

 

 

 

 

 

 

DEAR CHURCH.

 

No sand ropes hold me to your pew.

No nails fix me to your passion.

I’m Christian and I speak to your Lord,

but not in so public a fashion.

I follow no mitred holier man,

nor run to the Sunday bell.

To wed or grieve or name is thy purpose,

not to spread fear, fire and hell.

I get no warmth from under the cloth -

albs were made for indoors.

I get my heat from the Holy Spirit

and my study of His written laws.

If you were free from greed and simony

I’d gladly flock to your preacher,

but ’til your walls are truly white

I shall only hear one teacher.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

1993

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE MEADOW.

 

In the meadow

there were flowers,

varied  as  clouds

and colours of the bow,

sprinkled  like  stars

when God went aplanting,

there  as  planted

when He went to sow.

 

In the meadow

there was wind,

blowing the thistle

and spreading its seeds,

falling  like  rain

when God made the sea.

There  as  planted

to grow like a weed.

 

In the meadow

 there  were  flowers

and  when  the   would  whistle,

the  only  seeds  to  rise  were  the  children  of  the  thistle.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

1993

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE MIRROR

 

Once it was, as I gazed in a mirror -

the dim dusty pane unwashed by all tears

that men of age in ages past

cried oft’  for what there-in appears -

God allowed my finger to wipe

the mist of a silvery corner clean

and my mind in its innocent youth to see

the long quested truth as it rarely is seen.

In a fraction of that mysterious glass

were the answers to all the old men’s strife:

"if God is all good, why is there evil?

and what, above all, is the meaning of life?"

I claim not the wisdom to be my own.

’twas the blessing of a single night’s wandering.

Without a tear in my eyes, reflecting the prize;

a heart beating full in a spirit-lead pondering.

 

Consider the man who lives his whole life -

a dark evil wanton creature of lust -

where upon his death-bed, he calls out "Lord!"

confesses his sin and in Christ he puts trust;

of his soul, which soon departs from flesh

and according to Gospel, as his life he gave -

although not long as a Christian lived -

his spirit, dear Jesus will graciously save.

Yet another will walk through years un-evil.

Live good, live bad; on average live well.

Neither hot nor cold, but warm in life,

unyielding to Christ, will die to hell.

As it is written, so it will be,

the mirror showed clear revelation:

not sweat of man, nor good living, but Christ,

alone leads to our salvation.

 

This truth is not new, but old as the question:

"How just is a God who works thus?"

"How could a God of love and hope be,

the one to eternally burn and destroy us?"

Patience and thought should persevere now

as I clumsily set out the truth.

Think ye not God foresaw all our sin

when time and creation were in their youth?

Yes, God was present when Satan confided

with Eve and thus Adam in the beauty of Eden.

For God is in all and all is in God

and thus the fruit was allowed to be eaten.

For man must see evil and man must feel pain

and man must be evil and man must cause pain,

so the world will grow dark as it is grown now,

for us to be sinners and experience to gain.

 

“Why is this true?” you unhappily ask,

as I did and bade the Spirit me tell.

The God of all good allows such evil.

The Lord who made Heaven also made Hell?

We are to worship the Creator of life

and our praise is worth nothing if we are made to praise.

For God wants not robots, programmed to sing:

“praise Him; Holy and Ancient of days.”

But how sweet is the eternal thankful cry

of one whose terrible sins are washed clean,

whose eyes are filled with paradise wonder

that have atrocities in this world seen.

The burden of temptation lifted off their neck.

The laws of the Lord shine on in their heart.

Their voice raised in praises of joy and relief;

that they and their God shall never be apart.

 

So this, dear friend, is the meaning of life:

to suffer the evil and despair of our years,

to endure the report of beauty’s destruction,

to live with our own and cause other’s fears.

And within the blink of life here on earth,

call out to Jesus Christ with our heart,

for we should trip before we walk

and thus have we stumbled in eternity’s start.

But  God’s  grace will lift us to our feet

and with holy strength we then endeavour

to walk through time on legs so strong,

we unfailingly journey with God forever.

Bearing with us the experience of falling;

the memory of sorrow and God’s true grace,

when we were beyond the dusty mirror,

trudging in the sadness of the human race.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

26/05/95

 

 

 

 

 

 

AGAINST NOTHINGNESS.

 

Hold on to your bricks.

Will change only come the day you die?

And days pass like salt -

grains of waterless tears you cry,

when you wake to the dusk,

dim unflickering candle despaired.

Even too bright I see,

for your unwanting eyes so impaired,

by the solid march

across level fields and straight, straight paths,

facing nothing untoward,

’cept your own ceaseless, nagging wraths

against your nothingness.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

15/06/95

 

 

 

 

 

 

WAITING.

 

The clock ticked, and having ticked,

   Ticks again and again so long,

In the sterile waiting room

   Under a broken neon song.

Some came in shuffling

   And passed unnoticed, fading,

Echoing like the cut of seconds

   Relentlessly through silence pervading;

And beyond clasped hands and feet,

   My eyes won’t see though staring.

Empty and yet full of it:

   Time! 

The dreadful minute’s bearing.

   Each tick - sighing by so late -

   In eternity teaches me hate.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

20/06/95

 

 

 

 

 

 

BEFORE.

 

Stowed away on this lesser ship

In the ocean of stars

With gravity and momentum

Fighting over the wheel,

The rats and I have the same right

To be here and yet I,

Hidden under the fo’c’sle, make

Their keel bashed bodies my meal.

In the dark, ankle deep,

Rotting in fetid heavy water,

I concentrate on remembering

The glory of the sun.

In storms, when bodily

Efforts keep me from the rat’s fate,

I recall the days

Before the journey had begun;

When I beheld the clean sails

And my heart leaped to the nest.

How I long to be

Up there yearning east,

Instead of down here mourning west.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

17/06/96

 

 

 

THE FIX.

 

Bed -

the afternoon grave -

had me trapped.

Too much a hold to be called weight;

a desire too much a drug

kept me late.

My decoder off -

a world wind of sense

cut and pasted and gone.

Before the last dregs of sanity,

my spirit

could sense wrong,

and so accepted

the alchemy of meat

and the varying tides

of chaotic thought.

               Too blissful.

                                                                Too addicted.

                               Uncertainly aware I am caught.

                                                               I know

                                                    my mouth drips.

                                                I remember

                                        the world calls

                                             but who wants to escape

                   the death-peaceful walls.      

My ear near my watch,

the  blast of each  second a  certainty.

My  minds  eye

opened  by  a  far  flung  thought,

saw  eternity.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

10/09/96

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LESSER.

 

These are the words written in anger;

  The expression of unanswered need,

    The drawing in and cutting out;

      The scream of ink a greed.

 

These are the times of close isolation;

  A madness of misunderstanding,

    A call to arms to search in my barrel

      And hoist out a heart too demanding.

 

Once and never again, the point was lost -

   A gambling of cannon shot,

     Tore out the thread.

       Things burned too hot;

     Quickened and destructive,

   Or quiet and building;

To which evil should I be yielding?

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

06/10/96

 

 

 

 

 

 

TAKE YOUR SICKLE . . .

 

To be alone without God -

eternity would be too long.

Hell has many pains;

the discarded thought is one.

 

To be within God’s love -

eternity seems too short.

Heaven has many joys,

like knowing you’re in God’s thought.

 

The pained heart of Infinity -

speared by all our sins.

The spirit of peaceful thunder

is the glory of the Trinity;

to end and to begin,

a life in light and endless wonder.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

03/03/97

 

 

 

 

 

 

STORMS OF THE SOUL.

 

There was thunder in my heart

as a blood wind pushed up waves of emotion.

There was drowning in my tears

as fearful sin made my sea an ocean.

There came Christ from His rest

and He spoke my tempest back to a calm.

There was love in His word

as He broke the power of my fears to do harm.

Now the sun is in my soul

and my blood blows peaceful breezes.

In a world of stormy souls,

who lives undrowned without Jesus?

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

08/04/97

 

 

 

 

 

 

CERTAIN.

 

At some corner of some thought

I once caught a glimpse of life -

Out of the frying pan and into the fire,

From running in the race to walking the knife;

And in that briefest of perils,

When I feared I was forever lost,

I realised my idle pricing of my soul.

Did I dare to forget its cost?

For

Who am I to close the parted curtain

And claim that some of the darkness was not my own?

He who paid the price sees all and loved me,

And loves me in spite of what my future has shown.

He let in the light when he parted the curtain.

In this briefest of perils, in his love I am certain.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

18/06/97

 

 

 

 

 

 

FROM BEYOND BIRTH.

 

I searched the far off field of stars

for one familiar face,

but stars are far apart,

so mostly I found space.

I pricked the air for a voice

I once knew more than my own,

but drowned in the thunder of all,

no word made itself known.

I cried an ocean in my soul -

a watery grave for a griever

and though I knew no call for tears,

here wept an unbeliever.

I stumbled blind in a world of light

with a memory beyond my mind,

like the blue-green shadow behind eyelids

where recent brightness shined.

In seeking that light I must have searched

from star to star and still,

their cold small size in sum

fed naught but my searching will;

which then espied the Morning Star,

brilliant in the glory of the coming sun -

not a child of night He cured me,

with the promise of the day to come.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

28/09/97

 

 

 

 

 

 

BROADWAY.

 

Chance not the apothecary’s random genius.

Stick to the old poisons of our kind.

Who aims arrows at the sun

E’en sure will miss and fall short blind.

The more of us that cover the land,

Shoot’r arrows and as targets stand.

 

Change not the beat in the stinking galley.

Ramming speed only to broadside tomorrow.

Born to the oar and borne by all,

Rejoicing in rhythm to hide subtle sorrow.

From captain to slave we know our course,

To sink tomorrow with well stowed remorse.

 

March not in time to most of the marchers,

Nor wear the stripes and brass of a way.

Everyone now is their own private army

And hears through the thunder of their things to say.

How well can it work this world-wide committee?

This army of slaves rule Babylon city.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

12/11/98

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHEN FOREIGN SOIL PUNCHES MY FEET.

 

When foreign soil punches my feet

And bruises my heel,

When heavy toil rings my head in pain

And fills my hands with steel,

When the day is dark and long

And I hang on, my spirit thirsting,

When others taunt me - my companions,

One side blessing, the other cursing -

I am alone, abandoned by father and friend -

I count my sacrifices

And feel I deserve an end;

Then I remember that such pain, and worse,

In three days ceases.

How little are my struggles -

Thank-you Jesus.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

21/04/01

 

 

 

 

 

 

EPHPHATHA.

 

Lord I pray and I know that You are attending.

You can hear this one soul, this one voice

Though Your mind is on billions of others

And You trace the stars of heaven.

You are in the past and in the future,

But You are also here with me now.

I believe this Lord because Your love and power are unending.

You were always in control but You gave me a choice.

You guided me home by the works of others.

Now I sense Your mighty presence,

So help me choose my words with care.

I believe in Your love, You embolden me so I dare

To raise this one voice, hear my soul,

Though the seas of Your cares roar

And the thunder of worshippers roll.

Your spirit knows my needs, though I am dimly aware

How clumsy my words seem - like a child’s,

But Father you are there -

Forever -

The source;

The foundation of stone,

And now, as I fall silent,

I know You will hear my spirit groan

And I thank You.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

15/07/01 - Based on the Mark 7:35.

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE SONG OF OTHERS

 

Let me not be a drum -

     empty and full of noise.

Let me not be a bird -

     flying in glory above the land-locked.

Let me not be asleep -

     only to dream and not to achieve.

Let me sing the song of others.

Let not this cradle be self rocked.

 

Give me the strength of wind -

     to be gentle yet persistent.

Give me words of power

     or shut my foolish mouth to the greater good.

Give me deep thoughts

     to drown my shallow side.

Give me the song of others,

that I may live as I should

                 

Shall we walk hand in hand?

     All of our kind in touch?

Shall we free each other

     from the weight of oppression but not from care.

Shall we rest this hour

     that wets our brother’s brow?

Shall we sing the song of others?

Our future belongs to those who share.

 

Let me sing the song of others

     and walk beneath their rain.

Let me write my song for others

     and leave a sweet refrain,

for He has left a song for others,

     a song of love,

a song of pain,

     a song of lasting victory,

a chorus for all brothers,

and a song for me.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

16/09/01

 

 

 

 

 

 

WICK

 

Why must one candle burn bright in the dark

and not bleed rivers of wax,

while another is blown by the window

and gutters and cracks?

 

Why are some flames long and strong,

lasting throughout the ebony night,

while others are starved and useless -

their blue light dull and slight?

                     

And tragic is the promising candle,

tall and immortal seeming,

which is snuffed out when newly lit,

in a haze of smoke where it once was gleaming.

                       

Let all of we who burn with flame,

banish the shadows between us.

Throw off our bowl and find our stand;

existence futile if none have seen us.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

25/11/01

 

 

 

 

 

 

MORTAL.

 

To have lived

in spite of the odds -

to breathe.

What worm,

what lowly thorn

I could have been.

 

But to think

that death consumes all -

no fear -

I might not

have lived at all.

Death is not mean.

 

Life’s moment

is surrounded

by the endless and forever.

Death, indeed be not proud:

I’m better late

than never.

 

Copyright Jason Horsler

26/11/01

  

 

 

All my poetry is copyrighted (in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988) and some of it has been published. They are here for your enjoyment and commentary. If you do wish to use them in any form of publication you will need to contact me (tai_tree@yahoo.co.uk). I reserve the right to be recognised as the author of these works.
 
J