Chapter 5
Psalms of Life & Leadership
A Psalm of Life
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNGMAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;—
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait (1).
Life is indeed real and earnest, and, as I have discovered over time, can even be wonderful beyond our most creative anticipations when lived well over time. Nevertheless, there exists in this world "an opposition in all things" (2). Thus, in the famous words of M. Scott Peck, M.D.: Life is Difficult (3).
No person's journey is the same. We are each allotted a unique number and combination of mortal trials to work through. Some suffer physical maladies and pain. Others confront psychological, emotional, or spiritual demons. All face the challenge and opportunity of overcoming self. In the words of the great spiritual leader, David Oman McKay: "The greatest battle of life is fought within the silent chambers of your own soul."
In this chapter I share psalms (poetry) of life and leadership—and more particularly, of personal leadership or self-leadership, the forerunner of Self-Action Leadership (SAL). For SAL is the means—in conjunction with serendipitous grace—by which we can allow that Higher Power to make something majestic out of our lives.
The day was lost, as many had—
Another gone, a tragic fad.
Lost, yet I, not really through,
Still saw some hope to start anew,
And climb back up into the sky.
And yet such fret did cross my face,
For to realize
The length still in the race
Placed teardrops in my salty eyes.
Then, in the midst of agony,
My Rubicon comes, and I resolve:
I must not quit,
Run, race the way,
Claw my way out of this pit!
And then one day,
Stand boldly up,
And humbly say:
"Time is done,
And I have crossed
The Finish Line."
The day was won,
As many had;
Another gained:
A glorious fad!
Won, yet I,
Not really through,
Still saw
The dangers
Lurking true.
And yet, such hope
Did fill my soul;
For to realize
The dragons God and I had slain,
Empowered me and gave me rest.
And with my newfound strength and pow'r,
I'll boldly take on each new hour,
Resolved beyond the tempter's snares,
I am equipped to meet all cares.
And so prepared and thus endowed,
My sword, once set in stone's
Allowed, to be drawn forth
From its sure place,
To help me fight
And win
The race—
To make it through
The night
With Grace.
That I might each day
Stand Boldly Up
And humbly say:
"As Time moves on,
I will keep on,
To cross each
Finish Line."
Of all things in this world worth seeking,
One thing alone is of the greatest worth
To me, 'tis FREEDOM I am speaking.
For the man who has freedom on the earth,
Is a man richer than the kings of the East,
Yet he may or may not have much pelf
In his purse, yet Solomon did not feast
As he who managed, in spite of himself,
To sever fleshy inner bonds that hold
Most of mankind in such captivity
That they fain refuse the mountains of gold
Masked as the true gifts of eternity.
Therefore, let he who seeketh true treasure,
Give his fight 'gainst self an added measure.
The Enemy Within
Once upon an azure dawn
Once upon an azure dawn
Amidst the toiling years,
I rise from where I've laid upon
My bed of brewing fears.
'Tis not a fright of man or foe,
No! I know that I shall conquer such.
But in my mind and heart I know
It's facing me that hurts so much.
For things outside my world today
Are fairly simply beat,
But when the balance I do weigh,
I know the real feat—
Which lies in inward victory,
And mastering oneself,
In choosing my self-history,
That'll soon be on the shelf.
For other weary, lonely souls,
Who seek for guiding light,
While stumbling forth like newborn foals,
Squinting through rays so bright.
'Tis they who'll seek to hear of tales
Of noble souls that won,
Sweet vict'ry over life's sore gales
That blow 'gainst everyone.
Perhaps then if I do succeed,
And slay the beast inside,
I might shed light on others' need
To sacrifice their pride.
Anything, not Everything
At rest I lay my head and think,
And dwell on past and here and then,
My mind in swells begins to sink,
Into a deepened trance again.
Which way to go, or where to turn?
Go high; go low; move fast; talk slow?
The perfect way, my soul doth yearn...
The undisputed way to go.
And yet this flawless way doth seem,
An all but lost and empty dream,
When on a thought my mind doth seize,
Of course I cannot all folks please.
Indeed, there's always room to grow,
And means to turn and tweak my show,
But God and I we both now know
I can't have all and thus must throw—
Away my wish to have it all,
And search for the one thing that's best,
And find what's mine, and take its call
Once and for all, I'll pass this test.
And by ignoring all that's left
I'll find the best will oft augment,
Eternal glories weight I'll heft,
And bask in all that God has lent.
 |
| Edgar Allen Poe's The Bells influenced the prosody of my poem, Waiting. |
Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting,
It is so excruciating,
And requireth my will,
To keep my restless being ever
Still,
Still,
Still,
Just a hundred moments til,
I am released from this cell,
From this momentary hell,
From this state so stationary,
Where for now I'm doomed to tarry,
Midst this ennui that's so very
Hard to
Bear,
Bear,
Bear,
With a blank-faced glare I stare,
Wishing to be anywhere,
Except
Here,
Here,
Here,
Where I'm apt to shed a tear,
When I recognize and fear,
Standing fast along life's pier,
Ever
Peering,
Peering,
Peering,
Out at all I won't be steering,
Life's events that are appearing,
As they're ever quickly nearing,
With the same old fate,
Granting me more time to wait,
Waiting much of every date,
For my
Ship,
Ship,
Ship,
To come in
At a brisk and steady clip,
And rescue me from this pain,
From this throbbing in my brain,
Where my quest for patience
Seems in vain—
The ship that will
Whisk me away,
Someday,
To a distant land, I pray:
A land where dreams
Come
True,
True,
True,
Just a momentary view,
Of a land filled with such bliss,
I would never, ever miss,
The land of though and that and this,
Where everything of worth did
Cost such
Time,
Time,
Time,
Where so often it's a crime,
To act on the inclinations of
The body's invitations,
Seeking only what my selfish heart
Wants
Now,
Now,
Now,
Sounding rather like a cow,
Grazing lazy all day long,
Mooing out an old kine's song,
Making no real progression,
Just an obscure bovine's session,
That's prelude to the concession
Stand,
Stand,
Stand,
Where a score of burgers sizzle,
Midst a fall fair's soft light drizzle,
Where my zest's begun to fizzle
As I
Think,
Think,
Think,
Again how waiting sure does stink,
Then I have a revelation,
Though I've got no inclination,
Yet a heav'nly invitation to
Just
Chill,
Chill,
Chill,
Search each moment for it's thrill,
Even if the moment's dull,
Then I'll ask my will to pull
Some magic from the hat
Of my brain's bottomless vat,
Basking sweetly in the know,
That this moment soon will go,
And the better that I spend it,
The more worthily I'll wend it,
And transcend its aggravating,
And well-night excruciating,
To appreciate each moment,
Recognizing it's heaven sent,
An authentic gift from God,
I can do more than just plod,
If I'll hold on to the rod,
To make
Every
Moment
Count...
E'en the ones when I just
Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting.*
* This poem's prosody was inspired by (an aurally mirrors) Edgar Allen Poe's The Bells.
 |
| Learn to Labor and to Wait is Another example of Longfellow's Influence on my work |
If I can only sit and wait,
My fondest dreams will be as dust,
When I compare my actual fate,
My grandest hopes will be mere rust.
If I can only hold my horses,
And let God work His way through me,
I'll master all required courses,
And sovereign of my world I'll be.
There's certain magic found in patience,
As I plod through life's course refining,
And though the wait costs years and months,
And often finds my soul repining.
Alas the prize for firm endurance,
Far outweighs the price tag's smart,
With sweet assurance at timely moments,
That God's a master of his scart.*
Help us then with firm conviction,
Sojourning through the agony,
Separating fact from fiction,
Ever learning to be free.
* Scart is a portmanteau I created to describe the nexus of science and art.
Freedom
To be free
Is to see
Into the realms of reality,
Whose next of kin's eternity.
Not the casual passer by's view,
But the glorious peering
Into what's really true.
Where real things
Prove they're real
By casting
Their everlasting presence
Outside the confines of time—
Whose rhyme
Is no rhyme at all,
But a harsh and grating
Dissonance
Excruciating to endure,
When one knows of the
Eternal Now.
Somehow,
This piece of knowledge,
Like college in our
Existential journey,
Increases comprehension
Toward its steeped incline
And ceaseless grind.
Yea—
'Tis a taskmaster most demanding,
Where the freest of us all,
Remain yet in
Chains
To test
Our best
The rest
Of
The
Way.
You Choose
Anyone who'll work and wait
Ensures good fate.
Anyone who'll never quit
Avoids the pit.
Anyone who keeps their soul,
By never casting off their goal,
Sets up a plea
With Destiny
That's touched by God—
Will You?
Will Me?
I guess we'll see...
But this I know,
Though vague it be,
That all of us
Are Free
To be
The kind of man,
Or woman
We most would like to be.
And in the end,
Deep down
Everyone knows
That blame for failure always goes,
To each and every
Single Soul—
Whose free to choose
To win
Or lose
No matter how the battles rage.
Come wind, come storm, come ice and hail,
We'll always get our due earned wage,
E'en if not on this side of the veil.
Will YOU prevail?
Fly high
And free?
To claim your earn'ed victory?
And enter into destiny?
Inside of God's eternity?
The choice is YOURS
To win,
Or lose:
YOU choose!
Leaders are Pleaders
Leaders are pleaders,
Yea, pleaders for hope.
Pleading hope won't
Reach the end
Of its rope.
Hoping that someday
We all will be one—
United, excited,
When all the work's
Done.
Less is More
Less is more,
And more is less,
Unless your less
Is not your best,
Or when your more's
Got too much zeal—
And zest.
It's hard to tell,
Just when to yell,
Or when silence
Is just as well.
But balance 'tween
This paradox mean,
Perfects the soul,
Achieves its goal,
And wins the score
In store
For him or her whom
More is less,
And
Less is More.
While yet a lad,
I heard two men say—
"Son, Now listen good to me:
I've got the secret to success,
And I'll tell it ye for free."
My youthful eyes at once lit up,
And I proceeded to open my ears,
To hear the words each man would speak,
To guide all my forthcoming years.
Quoth the first,
"Now here's the shoulds:
To be a wise old chap,
You've got to stake and guard your goods,
And avoid all mishap.
And to find sweet peace of mind,
Ye've got to play is safe,
And if ye do yer sure to find
You will avoid life's chafe."
"Take it from me," he said with a glance,
"Life will take advantage of you,
So mark every step, and doubt every chance,
And trust no one e'er to be true.
"Life's a jungle, a zoo! And the wisest of all
Know that each man must have his own back!
Keep your heart closed within, or you surely will fall
Into love—a most dangerous track!"
Quoth the other quite glumly,
But clearly more humbly,
As side-to-side his head he shook.
"What is this fool thinking?
What has he been drinking?
He's been reading from all the wrong books!"
Then turning to me, with his eyes all a-twinkle,
And mirth rising out from his soul,
H grabbed me with both hands, his smile marks a-wrinkle,
To point me towards a different goal.
Said he,
"My boy, lookee here now, be clean and be pure,
Yesiree! but once ye've got that down,
Stand right up to fear, cold, sweat, blood, and manure,
And take some bold risks in this town!
"Be smart, Yes! And learn every time that ye err,
But please don't ever let a slip,
Give you a spineless soft cowardly stare
To pass over tongue, tooth, and lip.
"Be kind, but audacious; let no one detract
From your heart's authentic desire,
For playing it safe will only subtract
From the size, heat, and strength of your fire.
"By playing life small you've got no chance at all
Of living your life's fullest worth,
You've gotta awaken to your life's truest call,
Then hearken to it from your birth."
I thought and I listened and pondered and mused,
But I'll admit not for really too long.
For it seemed that the first man was rather confused,
While the second had struck truth's bright gong!
A Conditional Ode to Deconstruction
Deconstruction, oh that stuff—
It's enigmatic and it's tough!
I guess that's cuz it asks the brain
To reach and grasp for what's not plain.
For in the text you'll often find,
You'll get perplexed, you'll stretch your mind,
To seek for what's not plain to view,
And discern an unwritten cue.
But that's the key as you explore,
And open deconstruction's door,
You look in places never scanned,
For diamonds hidden in the sand.
But do beware lest you get trapped,
In deep black holes that can't be mapped.
Deconstruction's only helpful if
It is well kept in perspective!
Along the Chattahoochee
Along the Chattahoochee
I take a lonely walk—
Or maybe just a walk alone
With my thoughts,
And my angst,
And my reason,
And hopefully God
Tagging along.
If only I were better able
To receive the gifts
He has here for me here
In Nature.
I think it would be fine enough
If only I could feel what my
Thoughts reveal.
Then I'd be content.
But, as it is, I must
Save the scene for another day,
When God let's me congeal
What I think
And feel,
Not merely calculate
Or count,
But actually experience joy:
That's the day the real me
Will finally be.
Way up north it gets real cold,
And snow it likes to fall,
It chills my bones, makes me feel old,
And likewise freezes all.
That's why I live way down beneath,
The Mason Dixon Line,
Where I avoid the chatt'ring teeth,
Midst oak and palm and pine.
Plus folks down here are mighty kind,
And Dixie dames are pretty,
Perhaps someday I might just find
A Southern Belle to marry.
So 'tween weather, friends, and purty Belles,
I think I'd like to stay,
The South and me's a mix that jells,
I think I'm here to stay!
When you think that you've made it,
Arrived at the top,
Climbed out of that pit,
Never failing to stop;
Then you rest and you grin,
And you think you're so clever—
You knew all along you would win—
However,
That grin soon erases
When downward you slide,
And find yourself slowly
Being dragged through your pride,
Then back once again
To another deep hollow
You aimlessly look
For some fellow to follow,
But find none as you
Soon begin to wallow
In pitiful,
Pathetic,
Pity—
A sight that is shameful,
A view that's not pretty,
But wait just a moment...
You were freed once before,
You once broke down that door,
Perhaps one time more
You could exit the pit,
Through a lot of commitment
And plenty of grit!
YES: you'll get back on top,
Though it takes you all day,
There's none who can stop you,
'Xcept YOU—
So get out of your way!
Then out of that pit once again you will climb
Straight up to the top
Midst the music and rhyme—
Yes, the rhyme; oh that rhyme
It is always repeating—
You say to yourself
Your heartstrings a-beating
The message for me
In that well rhym'ed key
Is a prelude to my next
Hard earned
Sweet Victory.
You never will stop,
Oh never
No never
Til you've reached the Top.
Then once at the top
You'll help others to climb,
By stretching,
And lifting,
And repeating
The rhyme.
The same one that you heard
And rose on its wings,
You'll echo its wonders
As a sweet songbird sings,
To each rising comrade
In need of your voice,
To strengthen each fellow
Whose made the right choice,
To follow your footsteps,
And rise to the top,
By following the maps
Down to them that you drop.
And as each one ascendeth,
Your glory grows greater,
Past sins are a'mendeth
Here, now, and not later.
And then when all have
Made their ascent
And are ONE—
The joy of the journey
Will fully be won.
May your sleep be sweet as sugar,
Resting lightly on your brow,
May your heart be filled with splendor,
Gleaned from here and then and now.
May your dreams be filled with wonder,
As you lie there soft and still,
May nightmares be torn asunder,
By a sweet dream's sovereign will.
And amidst these fancies find:
Pleasant pictures, thoughts and things,
All of which to fill your mind,
With all good things the Sandman brings.
Then when morning's air draws nigh,
You shall find yourself renewed,
And without a doubt or sigh,
Find your day with joy imbued.
 |
| With my Mama, age 7 Mesa, Arizona Circa 1986 |
A place called home, what does that mean?
Where I was born... and though it seems,
There's so much more, no static stream,
My life's full tale flows like a dream.
The place of youth's defining start,
That first did pluck the strings of heart,
Midst family's boon, my soul caressed,
A safe cacoon? My future blessed?
And though such innocence did lay,
The seedlings of a different day,
Where I would see beyond the kiss,
Of youth's veneer: it's joys and bliss.
Into a far more different type,
Of my life's stage beyond the hype,
Toward daily stress, the pain and stripe,
That gradually helps me grow ripe.
I see my start in different lights,
Yet it stays etched into the sands
Of my heart full of sheer delights.
—Dr. JJ
June 14, 2023
Palm Beach Gardens, Florida, USA
Author's Note: This is the 326th Blog Post Published by Freedom Focused LLC since November 2013 and the 151st consecutive weekly blog published since August 31, 2020.
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Notes:
1. Longfellow, H.W. (1912). The Poetical Works of Longfellow. London: Henry Frowde Oxford University Press. Page 3.
2. The Book of Mormon (2 Nephi 2:11).
3. Peck, M.S. 1978. The Road Less Traveled: A New Psychology of Love, Traditional Values and Spiritual Growth. New York, NY: Touchstone. Opening lines of Chapter 1.
4. Final line of Longfellow's poem, A Psalm of Life.
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