Tag Archives: poetry

The Villagers of Stiltsville

Perhaps you don’t know,
then maybe you do,
about Stiltsville, the village,
(so strange, but so true)
where people like we,
some tiny, some tall
with jobs and kids
and clocks on the wall
keep an eye on the time.
For each evening at six,
they meet in the square
for the pupose of sticks,
tall stilts upon which
Stiltvilllians can strut
and be lifted above
those down in the rut;
the less and the least,
the Tribe of Too Smalls,
the not cools and have-nots
who want to be tall
but can’t because
in the giving of sticks,
their name was not called.
They didn’t get picked.
Yet still they come
when villagers gather;
they press to the front
to see if they matter
to the clique of the cool,
the court of high clout
that decides who is special
and declares with a shout,
“You’re classy!” “Your’re pretty!”
“You’re clever!” or “Funny!”
And bequeath a prize,
not of medal or money,
not a freshly baked pie
or a house someone built,
but the oddest of gifts,
the gift of some stilts.
Moving up is their mission,
going higher their aim.
“Elevate your position,”
is the name of their game.
The higher-ups of Stiltsville
(you know if you’ve been there)
make the biggest to-do
of the sweetness of thin air.
They relish the chance
on their high apparatus
to strut on their stilts,
the ultimate status.
For isn’t life best
when viewed from the top?
Unless you stumble
and suddenly are not
So sure of your footing.
You tilt and then sway.
“Look out bel-o-o-o-w!”
and you fall straightaway
into the Too Smalls,
hoi polloi of the earth.
You land on your pride,
oh boy, how it hurts
When the chic police
in the jilt of all jilts
don’t offer to help
but instead take your stilts.
“Who made you king?”
you start to complain
but then notice the hour
and forget your refrain
It’s almost six!
Not time for chatter
It’s back to the crowd
to see if you matter.
Stiltvillians still cluster
and crowds still clamour,
but more stay away
They seem less enamoured
Since the Carpenter came
and refused to be stilted.
He chose low over high
left the system tip-tilted.
“You matter already,”
he explained to the town.
“Trust me on this one.
Keep your feet on the ground.”

An excerpt from Max Lucado’s book, Fearless.


Don’t Leave Me Here

You beckon the weary come
You invite the wanderer home
You call the prodigal son
You promise I’m not alone
But God it’s quiet here
It’s still in this place
My sight falls short
And I stumble in this space
But I trust your heart
And pray you draw near
Just don’t leave me here
I feel you by my side
I know your heart holds mine
But I can’t see what’s ahead
Lord, let your light be shed
Cause God it’s quiet here
It’s still in this place
My sight falls short
And I stumble in this space
But I know your heart
And trust you’ll help me bear
Just don’t leave me here
With everything I can’t see
And in all I can’t do
You show yourself mighty
And all I see is you
Cause Jesus it’s quiet here
It’s lovely in this place
My sight’s been restored
And I rest in this space
Cause I trust your heart
And should you choose to leave me here
May my praise be music to your ear

Awaken You in Me


So, in the same way I like to pretend I can write songs (please see here, here and here) sometimes I like to pretend I can write poems… er… something like ’em.

But with this, I need/want your input. I want to see what you have to say and hear what you think.

Awaken truth that hides down deep,
Awaken truth that sets me free.
Awaken faith to overcome my doubt,
Awaken what I can not live without.
Awaken who I am in you,
Awaken what it is you want me to do.
Awaken my spirit to hear you speak,
Awaken my soul to feel you breathe.
Awaken your grace where I find my rest,
Awaken my heart to love nothing less.
Awaken who you are in me,
Awaken who you’ve called me to be.

 Ok team– your turn. Chime in. Throw out a line; let’s see your ideas and hear your thoughts.



Inspiration from the “Peak”


"I am doing a new thing... do you not perceive it?" Isaiah 43:18

Spring is slowly but surely
winning everyday’s battle;
Chasing winter’s cold darkness
with its’ warm light.
Trees are remembering their color,
flowers are awakening their scent.
Buds are blossoming with boldness
and breezes bring refreshing breaths.
All that lay dormant before is arising,
Bringing sure promises of hope, newness and life.
Faith is slowly but surely
winning everyday’s battle.
Chasing every lies’ darkness
with its’ marvelous truth and light.
My spirit is remembering His Word
and His Word is awakening my spirit.
Love is blooming new boldness
and His breath brings renewed light.
All that lay dormant in me before is arising,
Brining sure promises of hope, newness and life.

He Has Overcome


He overcomes our sin with His death.

He overcomes our death with His life.

He overcomes our judgment with His mercy.

He overcomes our consequence with His grace.

He overcomes our betrayal with His faithfulness.

He overcomes our fear with His peace.

He overcomes our insecurities with His identity.

He overcomes our weaknesses with His power.

He overcomes our lies with His truth.

He overcomes our loneliness with His presence.

He overcomes our reasoning with His sovereignty.

He overcomes our doubt with His love.

He overcomes our need with His provision.

He overcomes our suffering with His victory.

He overcomes our blindness with His vision.

He overcomes our silence with His song.

He overcomes our striving with His sympathy.

He overcomes our shame with His righteousness.

He overcomes our bondage with His freedom.

He has overcome our hearts with His heart.

He has ransomed the captive; He has rescued the slave.

He has called us “His delight.”

He has changed us. He has claimed us.


Poet Poser


The gentles breeze ruffles my hair

Poet's Garden by Van Gough

Poet's Garden by Van Gough

The fragrance of nature is subtle
Rays of light slip in and out of clouds
Warming my cheek like a kiss
Lying on a blanket of cool grass
I float between dreams and reality
Eyes closed, the melody of singing birds
Stills my soul
I feel you close, by my side
But I awake and am alone
For that brief, sweet moment
My rest was complete
Discontented yet again
I rise to start the journey over
I’m learning that those stops
However frequent or short
May be meant to teach and change me
But the sting? The open wound?
Will there be a time when, at the stop, on the mountain top
I will have a companion for the journey down?
Perhaps, but if not
I will simply walk faster
If I be alone, I’ll run with total abandon.