A Wondrous Story 2-2-13

I'd love to be a poet - a real one, you know -

so I could write man's world off allowing God's to glow.

I'd write a wondrous story, that we could all take part

and live it in reality - each one with perfect heart.

I'd think outside my circle, with paper, ink and pen -

and think outside my flimsy box to live in peace again -

in gardens filled with blossoms - all colors full and bold -

that I could sweep my arms across and many flowers hold.

I'd jump inside my story with animals and birds,

living in His nature and camouflaged with words -

that whisper as the breezes in true harmonic cord,

that bring us lives so unsurpassed when living with our Lord.

I'd peer up to the mountains, at several waterfalls,

that rain grace down from Heaven where every angel calls -

to show to us a perfect world where He can overwhelm -

where man rejects but God perfects His great creation's realm.

I'd never hide inside my world, but fully would expect -

that men would treat each other with a solemn, deep respect -

that women dress with modesty and also could endow -

that girls learn to curtsy slow and boys would learn to bow.

I'd stroll inside my poem free from envy, sin and hate -

and walk beside still waters where 'the way' is always straight.

And I shall keep on writing true for many, many years -

until I see no longer through my sad and yearning tears.

I'd love to be a poet - a real one, you know -

so I could write man's world off allowing God's to glow.

I'd write a wondrous story, that we could all take part

and live it in reality - each one with perfect heart.

©2013 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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His Work 10-25-12

He laid a sheet of paper down
upon a table top -
and from his chair he wrote and wrote
so faithfully, non-stop.

They laughed at him and bragged about
the works that they had done.
They filled vast reams of papers, yet -
he had but only one.

They boasted of their many works
their fancy hands exposed.
Great works in rich calligraphy
were pridefully disclosed.

Again they stood around and laughed,
but never did he gloat.
They laughed and scoffed and scoffed and laughed
at everything he wrote..

His life was written on one page -
but what? I didn't know.
The paper he had laying there
was white as driven snow.

Sorrow filled his teary face.
This world fatigued his soul.
The agony that he endured
had taken quite a toll.

I saw that many people judged,
made fun of and demeaned,
ridiculed and criticized
his lack of works they'd seen.

Yet faithfully, he wrote much more.
Were no works written there?
Still blank, his paper had appeared.
I thought it quite unfair.

Unfair that he was working hard
on words that wouldn't be.
Unfair that he was judged by those
on work they couldn't see.

Sometimes we think life's all in vain -
those things we do for God -
but He knows every one of us
and how, through life, we've trod.

It's not the works that we can see
that's valued on our page -
but rather what was done in love
that God will one day gauge.

So why was it completely blank?
Confused, I stopped to think -
but then I learned his work was penned
with tears instead of ink.

Yes, God knows our compassion.
So ponder this- it's true:
God floods His grace upon His world,
gets faithfulness from few.

©2012 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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Erasure Dust 5-9-12

Erasure dust was scattered 'round

my make-shift desk where I was found,

inside my garden court serene,

behind a stand of evergreen.

I should have guessed. I should have known,

mistakes I made were all my own.

I wrote too fast and wrote too long

when pencil slid on paper wrong.

Could all God's people understand?

I tried to move my shaking hand.

To reach lost souls is very tough...

Oh Lord, are these words good enough?

No, back and forth erasure moves,

erasing sins that pencil proved,

that sin's mistakes can ruin lives.

They make a mess as death connives.

And next to rose that set on desk,

erasure dust is so grotesque.

Confused, I was, and ill at ease,

at makeshift desk behind the trees.

The perfect roses, red and pink,

had really made me stop to think.

But if I quit, then life grows still -

so write, I do, and always will.

Though God forgives, the pain remains.

Distracting wrongs bring mental strains.

They bring us pain, great guilt and strife,

but God brings breath, forgiveness, life.

Oh, our mistakes will sometimes be,

yet grace through faith will set us free.

When God brings forth a stiff wind gust

and blows away erasure dust.

©2012 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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Ephesians 2:8

For by grace you have been saved through faith;

and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God;

A Younger Poet 5-1-12

I dab some ink on end of quill,

and draft a poem right until,

my paper stack is all used up

and empty is my coffee cup.

My hand that shakes all on its own,

is held in place by fragile bone

so every verb and every noun

is marred when they are written down.

It seems to me to be so cruel,

for such a weak and senile fool,

with varicose and bulging veins

with all my many aches and pains,

to write more words until they're right

this poetry - despite my sight,

that grows so weak so often now.

I wonder if I still know how...

Yet may my writing not disguise

that God is good and God is wise -

for God has blessed and has in store

His endless grace and all the more.

We often think we know it all

and brag before our humble fall -

yet may we learn this simple truth:

that ink can change a prideful youth.

So I will write 'til truth is taught

and everlasting grace is sought.

Before I die, for what it's worth,

I'll pray for one more poets birth -

to carry on, to take my place,

to teach more youth of every race.

So dab I ink, on end of quill,

until a younger poet will...

©2012 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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A Poet 6-18-11

A poet writes no poems

despite his greatest work -

despite his countless hours

to smooth out every quirk.

Though pray and meditate, we do -

though writing's very fun -

though diligent and gifted,

we can't write even one.

A poem's written long before

a poet lifts his pen -

and sets on paper solemn thoughts

that's given him from Heaven.

For God sends down His blessings,

raining from above -

and He will send His wisdom too,

if first, we seek His love.

©2011 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http:/www.ganderpoems.org/

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Proverbs 2: 1-10 (NASB)
1 My son, if you will receive my words
And treasure my commandments within you,
2 Make your ear attentive to wisdom,
Incline your heart to understanding;
3 For if you cry for discernment, 

Lift your voice for understanding;
4 If you seek her as silver
And search for her as for hidden treasures;
5 Then you will discern the fear of the LORD
And discover the knowledge of God.
6 For the LORD gives wisdom;
From His mouth come knowledge and understanding.
7 He stores up sound wisdom for the upright;
He is a shield to those who walk in integrity,
8 Guarding the paths of justice,
And He preserves the way of His godly ones.
9 Then you will discern righteousness and justice
And equity and every good course.
10 For wisdom will enter your heart
And knowledge will be pleasant to your soul;

Perfection's Promise 11-8-09

There is no perfect paper,
there is no perfect pen.
There is no perfect poem
that can be told by men.

There are no perfect phrases,
that offer perfect rhyme.
There are no perfect voices
to comfort us this time.

We chart our many poems
and give them all a grade -
or pass them off as faulty -
ignore, lest truth invade.

Poems by the millions
can offer but a clue -
to how our Savior really felt
when He was torn in two.

Though not a bone was broken,
though not a word was said -
Jesus broke that perfect mold
and showed us love instead.

If we can't see perfection,
from love that God bestowed -
from love that Jesus gave us,
from love that Jesus showed -

If you can't see perfection
in poetry and all -
then you will never understand
and God will never call.

So take this very poem
and rip it all to shreds -
if you can't see the promise
in what our Jesus said.

However, if your heart is soft,
if humble you can be -
if you can rip yourself from pride -
then Heaven you will see.

There is no perfect poem.
Perfection never starts -
unless we see God's promises
down deep within our hearts.

©2009 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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John 3:16 (KJV) For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

Seven Cents 3-12-09

How futile are the efforts

of mans short feeble strife,
on this lost and dying earth,
as he begins his life.

I repaired a house -

had first to clean it up,
some paper here, some clothing there,
and one stained coffee cup -

I really have to wonder,

what's inside the head,
when I see the pauper's life -
and view his life instead.

How futile are the work days,

how futile those days off,
when hogs and sows come running to -
a busy feeding trough.

If I had only known him,

if I had known him hence,
though others carried him from here,
I held his seven cents.

Though not as much as Jesus' cried
while hanging to the cross,
my heart cries out in anguish

for men who live in loss.

Endulging in the here and now,

responsible, his fate -
man still works and lives like pigs,
though God controls the date.

Seven cents disguarded,

I found inside his home.
A life indulged in things of earth -
More souls forever roam....

©2009 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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