Verses Written to the Tune of "Ein Feste Burg"

We stand atop God's holy mount,
beneath His wing-ed arm we hold.
Anointed from the living fount,
let fly His banner brave and bold.
Ranks of the ancient foe
upon our borders grow,
for deeper draws the night
to contend with the light;
Fear not! The Lord is with us.

In dread resplendence sits our Lord,
obey you now His call to arms.
Our shield His Spirit, sword His Word,
His champions shall not come to harm.
Though earth and heaven be rent,
our faith shall not relent.
Through fire and wind and rain,
our cause shall e'er remain.
The victory is granted us.

That victory through Christ is won,
whose blood was shed on Calvary.
Thanks to the Father, to the Son,
and to the Spirit glory.
Yet for the world we pray
for peace beneath his sway;
that righteousness abound.
In none let sin be found,
that all may come to know him.

All glory to the Godhead three,
from all the world be given.
Praise Him that loved and set us free,
your anthems lift to Heaven.
And while we stand as one
before his glorious throne,
with angels to adore
His name forevermore,
in humble supplication.

Saint George's Day Is Gone

The day gives way fast unto night
and dim are all the lights,
the sunny smiles that shone at noon
fade in the watching moon.

The spells that made the morning sweet
and day both glad and meet,
now wane, and life must carry forth
for April Twenty-fourth.

The gifts of words were nothing more
than blessings long before
wished well upon this cheery lad
which made him gay and glad

The ticking clock respects no time
and soon the hour will chime,
but let this precious moment last
while all fades in our past.

The wind that blew on face and brow
are still born breezes now,
and so Saint George's day is gone,
my work here too is done.

Thoughts On A Cold And Sullen Eve

Let us raise a little glass
and blow on little trumpets.
Let us toast, dear friend of mine
while the minutes march ahead.

Time is swift and time is soothing,
but memory disturbs the dream of living.
Dark the shadows, long the raincoats,
the pitter-patter of the raindrops
oft reminds and often hinders
one from going about their daily duties.

Still let us raise a little glass
and blow on little trumpets.
Fairies make me glad by day
and singing elves by night.

Her smile and call like Luthien's are,
and I, like Beren, eagerly follow.
Desperate for attention
and a warm and guiltless shoulder
while trying to keep the Darcy facade.

While trying to keep the cold outside
and killing the fire inside.
Two decades and three
and many more to come;
Of heartbreak, hope and hubris.

But let us rise and call for order.
Let us lift the little cups.
Drink, my dear friends, drink on me,
and do not waste one drop of wine.

Times are hard, though days be hopeful,
hard to come by, joy has proven.
Drink like there is no tomorrow.
It may turn out to be true.

So walked out Bill and dear old George
into the falling rain.
I sat and watched the glass doors swing,
and sighed as taxis hurried by.

I told myself, it will be fine
in this dear life of mine.

When The Jokes Are No More Funny

Late into the year,
the excitement of the new
has long faded.

The heat of the day
grows at the slightest
irritation.

Smiles are plastic
and last a little longer.

Idiosyncrasies play
like a broken record,
repeating ad nauseum
to your heightened tension.

Then fun begins to hurt
from the saturation of the heart

and the closet misogynist wakes up
to play.

Pills, Restlessness & Prosody

An overdose of pills
and heartache
and a nap
on the shrink's arm chair.

There's too much
to focus on,
and so little time
to think on it.

It's like
an Olympic dash,
but the track extends
to the far future.

And I hear it doesn't end.

When there are no storms
to draw one's fancy,
one looks within,
at the hurricane;
and in the mirror
a gorgon stares back blankly.

This is not a masquerade,
this is life.

The Lucky Ones Are Not Yet Born

The lucky ones
are still unborn.

Still they live
in Odomankoma's womb,
and cast pearls
into the ocean
we call the starry sky.

They look down
into his pot,
and ask the old (wo)man

What is that black smoke
and that flashing flame?
Why do they cry
when they know
you do not hear?

Odomankoma,
wisest in all the heavens,
tells them:

That is hell,
with her new gods,
preaching fashion and make up.

Ananse has fooled them,
and taken all knowledge,
so they read a book
and think they are right.
They do not look,
they will not find,
but pray I do not send you there,
you lucky ones!

Farewell February

Thank you,
when what you gave was not enough
it was enough
that you gave.

It has been fun,
and laughter
and pain.

So long,
farewell
until we meet next year.