Seems like each year I come back to this place,
looking for that quiet grace,
that can only be found by much water laid out
in front of penitent eyes,
that despise such things as
schedules
and alarm clocks.
anthony forrest
Tag: Poetry (Page 1 of 9)
A heavy fall of rain dots my hearing
Awake to the tiny dashes against the night
My sleep-sodden mind fights with all might
But these tired eyes open to the dark-sky storm
Born of heat
Summer rain
Like pent up pain released upon the Earth
anthony forrest
Whether desert or jungle or lost upon
a range of mountains,
where there is no clean water or fountain
(or anything at all),
those places most forgotten or barren
and filled with the wild things of this life,
rife with beauty
and trees
and seas
all lonely and wonderful;
here, in the quietness, is found the works of the maker
(every bit savored).
And if you hold very still,
He will come to you like a breeze—
and meet you in that jungle of trees.
anthony forrest
“Further up and further in!” Lewis instructed—
So we begin:
Steadily and readily
We go
And bring hope
Of God
To a people who know nothing of Lewis…
anthony forrest
We never stop the steps forward
Crossing borders
To a place—meet a person—tell of a thing
A string
Of ideas
Of this truth held together
Like adhesive
We believe this
Good news of a Man who is God
Sent from abroad
And cross-ed His own border
To end strife
Bring life
To the unliving soul of the lost
And all it costs
Is a few steps
Forward
anthony forrest
Teary-eyed, we drive into the sun
Ending day rays
Begun
Simply to end in a grey-dark brooding night
Sunlight gone now
As quick as it started
Teary-eyed, we watched as the sun set
Sat down below
The road
In front of us
Bright day behind and our tire tracks
Leading West
Trying our best
To chase the final vestige
Of a light always fading
Clear-eyed, we drive into the night
This nighttime-reflection
Introspection
We can only assume this darkness
This darkness
A gift
anthony forrest
To be spoken to God upon the celebration of a birthday
Great Father and keeper of Time:
I raise my heart and hands
to you who
understands,
and commands
another year.
I come to you
in Gratitude
and celebrate this date
of my start.
I cry thanks also
for the time since you
found me,
rescued me,
reclaimed me,
resurrected me;
and how you breathed life into my soul.
I am now whole,
and my life not a dull
dim death.
Grant me now
another year of closeness to you.
And may the passing of
time be but
sign that
reminds me
of the ever-present
care
of our Lord.
anthony forrest
If these woods were a bakery, the bread baked here would smell of Autumn leaves;
red-orange, yellow leaves
dropping, swaying down again,
prompted by October winds,
crowding the trail below.
Only a small memory of Summer remains.
And soon even Autumn will surrender to snow.
All sold out of fresh bread,
this bakery’s hours come to a close.
anthony forrest
There are nights when fitful sleep comes with frightful,
uneasy grins,
“mums the word,” he whispers—hand over my mouth—then artful dreams
he spins.
Images and situations
flash in a dash
—like the Cross Stations—
(in broken cathedrals unused,
unworshipped in:
an unspoken confession)
spoken in the tired mind of one tossing,
turning.
Then there are mornings, ah, mornings!
When sleep ends his reign, no matter the night,
or the frights
of the nights.
Sunlight rays pierce
all clouds dark and fierce,
even on overcast days.
Images, situations,
terrifying Cross Stations
still weave tales of
life
then death
then life again.
Evil cannot mix or spin
the goodness out of that story—
hope of day—a ray—during darkest night.
anthony forrest
Should the summer sun break the night
and rise silently in the eastern sky;
bringing hues of reds and golds,
peeking through the trees and folds
of leaves,
then I shall be there
in the morning,
when the birds cry
their morning-warning.
And sitting on the deck
in the New Light
I shall watch the summer sun
break my night.
Hope of day begins.
anthony forrest