Psalms of Life: A Poetry Collection (FULL TEXT)

 In Memory of

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
1807-1882

My Favorite American Poet

Dedication

To my Dad

Rex Buckley Jensen
Circa 1979

A veritable renaissance man, my father was primarily a career English teacher at the middle and high school levels. His passion for poetry and great literature further fueled my own love of prose and verse, and his personal library provided the fodder for my literary love affair to flourish. Thank you Dad! I admire you in so many different ways, and am proud to bear your name betwixt my own.

—All my love,

Jordan Rex Jensen

Chapter 1

What is Autoethnography?

Click HERE to buy this BOOK

Autoethnography involves the qualitative research of one's own person and past. Drawn from the social science of ethnography and anthropology, this unique and burgeoning research method affords individuals an opportunity to academically analyze their own lives as an anthropologist might study a culture, or an ethnographer might study a group of people residing within a culture. It goes beyond mere journaling to engage the scholarly examination of one's own self and self-history. 

As an avid journaler and self-leadership scholar, autoethnography comes naturally to me. This proclivity was likely implanted in me genetically. It was further fueled mimetically by the example of my forebears. As a multi-generational member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints on both sides of my family, my progenitors prioritized family history, genealogy, journaling, and other personal and family record keeping. This was especially true in the case of my paternal grandmother—an avid genealogist and family historian—and her son, my father—a loquacious and voluminous diarist.

At an early age, Dad granted me access to his life's journals, which I eagerly perused—to my great benefit and enjoyment. I have since followed in his footsteps by penning thousands of pages in my own journals. In my doctoral dissertation and other books I have written and published over the past two decades, I have also included detailed self-leadership studies that autoethnographically chronicle my life to date.

Poetry has always been a big part of my life.

Aside from being my first poetry collection, this book also serves as a poetic autoethnography of my life's journey, as well as a literary exponent to promote the use of poetry and verse as a pedagogical tool in classrooms of all kinds.  

Readers of my poems will discover many autobiographical (or autoethnographical) elements strewn throughout its stanzas. One prominent theme involves my difficulties learning to manage obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), existential anxiety, and depression—all of which have been a regular part of my life since age twelve (12). Other salient themes include romance and Self-Action Leadership, two areas of life with which I have been, for better or for worse, obsessed.

Chapter 2

A Poetic Autoethnography

 

 

With my Dad
Monticello, Utah, USA
Circa 1984

As a young boy, one of my cherished pastimes was perusing the books in my maternal grandmother's home library as well as the bookshelves of my father's home office and schoolroom. My maternal grandfather, a professor of speech and drama, had compiled a library of many thousands of books throughout his life. Although he died in 1964 (fifteen years prior to my birth in 1979), his impressive collection remained in my grandmother's possession until her own passing in 1992. 

As a lad, I spent many hours in her voluminous home library and continually borrowed books to take home and read. After Grandmother's death, I annexed a few dozen or so of my favorites, a few of which remain on my shelves to this day. A similar pattern of annexation played out with my dad's smaller, but still well-endowed library (although now it is even bigger than Grandma Smith's).  

My father is a Renaissance Man.

A land owner/developer and certified general contractor before I was even born, he was responsible for the construction and/or oversight of 57 homes, including the one where I lived for the first seven years of my life and then four additional years in high school. He also built an apartment complex with dozens of units; a project he oversaw and managed for over two decades. Despite his many achievements as a builder, construction work was just a slice of his eclectic career.

Dr. JJ before he was a Doc—circa 2003

I, myself, spent several part-time years

building shelves with my older brothers,

although their skills far outshined my own.

Dad was perhaps first and foremost an entrepreneur, dabbling in a variety of different ventures over the years. These undertakings included such diverse activities as: professional photography, teaching time management seminars, selling trampolines, and constructing custom-built shelves in customer's garages and storage areas.

My brothers and I helped Dad with his trampoline and then later his shelving business. The legacy of this latter venture would extend to his sons and grandkids, who continued the tradition of shelf-building in their college years and beyond. One son (Wayne) still builds shelves to this very day as the owner of "JB Shelving" in northern Utah. The "JB" stands for Jensen Brothers, and Wayne is assisted by several of Dad's grandsons and granddaughters in what has become a very successful business over the years and decades since Dad first introduced us to the opportunity.  

Click HERE to visit the JB Shelving online website and see Dad's legacy alive and well in the 2020s. 

While Dad dabbled—and sometimes immersed himself—in many different avocations over the course of his career, he was first and foremost a middle and high school English teacher, a career that spanned some 20 years when he wasn't anxiously engaged in one of the many other endeavors noted above.

After retiring from teaching, Dad—an eternal optimist—spent many years writing a weekly column entitled "Life is Good," which was published in The San Juan Record—a weekly newspaper based in his hometown of Monticello, Utah. In his 60s and 70s, Dad and his second wife, Marcia, spent many years building a spacious dream home on their own land and mostly with their own two hands.

I know few individuals who are more visionary, ambitious, or hard-working than my father, and I'm grateful for the vision, ambition, work ethic, and communication skills he instilled in me through his remarkable example of personifying these attributes and skills himself.  

Dad's Christmas present
to me in 1989.

Because of Dad's background as an English major (bachelor's degree), communications expert (master's degree) and two decades teaching English in the classroom, his bookshelves (at home and at school) laid bare his passion for great literature—a love he would pass on to me at a tender age.

For example, on Christmas day 1989, I unwrapped an especially memorable gift from Dad. It was a 2,300 page single-volume copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

I was only 10 years old!

In the front cover, he inscribed a beautifully hand-written (cursive) note that read:

"To my precious Jordan in hopes that this will be the beginning of a quality library for a "quality" mind. I love and admire you so much. 

"I hope you will discover as I have, that some of life's best experiences can be found in great books. Mr. Shakespeare will mean more to you as you grow older, and age gives you the wisdom to appreciate the great truths contained herein.

Love,
Dad
Dec 25, 1989
Mesa, Arizona"

 

While my personal library had already begun to grow at this point in my life, this volume of Shakespeare served as a cornerstone in a collection that would expand to over 500 volumes by the time I had graduated from college. This hefty tome filled with the genius works of the Immortal Bard continues to play a prominent role in my home and office library today, which has now grown to over 1,000 books.

My 1912 Longfellow and 1888 Wordsworth
Poetical Anthologies 

Despite the growth and maturation of my own library, I continue to eye certain gems in Dad's collection. Aware of my covetous glances over the years, Dad has already lovingly gifted me a 1912 copy of Longfellow and an 1888 edition of Wordsworth—both of which he purchased in England while serving as a young missionary in the mid-1960s.

I have further placed dibs on his leather-bound, 3-volume Shakespeare collection and other antique poetry anthologies—all of which he procured in England as a young missionary. When the day comes that Dad travels on to that "far better land of promise," I intend to add these priceless volumes to my library, which will be a nice, albeit minor, consolation prize in comparison to his much greater opportunity of finally getting to meet Henry, William, and William in person!

I'm not gonna lie... I'm a little jealous knowing he'll likely beat me to those special meet-and-greets and conversations in another realm. Meanwhile, Dad's books bought in Britain more than half-a-century ago will be a fine reminder of my wonderful father—for the rest of my own days in this world.    

Main section of my home
library of over 1,000 books.

A voracious reader, talented writer, and prolific diarist, I also know of few conversationalists more enthusiastic and engaging than Dad. Some of our finest tête-à-têtes have occurred on road trips together. In addition to literature and language, we both have a passionate love affair with the open road and have logged perhaps a hundred thousand miles (or more) together in our lives.

Twice I have accompanied Dad on multi-week cross-country automobile jaunts (in 1991 and 2003). On a more recent trip (in 2010) to the Redwood Forests in Northern California, we took to studying vocabulary words together, and even collaborated on a poem that is included in this collection. 

Alfred Noyes
British Poet
1880-1958

Of all the memories I have of Dad during my childhood years, one of my most cherished directly involves poetry. I was an elementary student at the time (perhaps 4th grade) and had just come home from school at the end of my day. When I arrived home, I found Dad sitting relaxedly on the couch. This was unusual because Dad was a school teacher at the time and almost always got home from work several hours after my own school day had ended.

I don't remember why he happened to be home early that day, but I'll never forget what happened next. I don't recall the conversation that prefaced Dad's spontaneous decision to break forth into an oral reading performance, but before I knew what was happening, "English teacher dad" had picked up a book of poems and began to memorably "lend to the rhyme of the poet, the beauty of [his] voice" (1) as he animatedly brought to life Alfred Noyes' epic narrative poem, The Highwayman.

Dad started out quiet and low, almost in a whisper...

"The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

               And the highwayman came riding,

               Riding, riding,

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door." 

Then, like a master musician or professional orchestra, Dad began to build into a gradual crescendo as he narrated this classic, nineteenth century, British version of Romeo and Juliet. As he approached the end of PART TWO, he passionately belted out the climactic pre-penultimate stanza...

"Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden moon; wine-red was his velvet coat,

                When they shot him down on the highway,

                Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat." (2)

It was enough to put goosebumps on the back of your neck!

Like Romeo and Juliet,
the unnamed Highwayman and his
lover, Bess the Landlord's daughter,
meet a grisly end.

This was followed by the concluding two paragraphs (in italics) which Dad pulled back to once again read quietly and low—the same way he had begun. 

It was a masterful and magical performance by someone who obviously appreciated great verse. 

          I was transfixed!

Poetry was never the same for me afterwards. 

One day, while searching through Dad's office library as a boy, I came upon a little volume that would further change my life. It was a simple, nondescript paperback copy of 101 Famous Poems, edited by Roy J. Cook.

For me, this book fully animated the maxim: Don't judge a book by its cover. Despite its insipid and unimpressive outer appearance, I found its inner contents to contain riches that only scripture could eclipse. More than any other poetic anthology, this relatively brief and diminutive collection of popular English and American works captured my young heart, thus fully engaging my love affair with verse. 

Years later, as a freshman in college, I received $20 from my paternal grandmother (Dad's mom) for my 22nd birthday. I opted to spend my money at a local university bookstore where I purchased a nicer hardback version—my own copy—of 101 Famous Poems. This more robust and visually attractive copy of Cook's classic anthology, purchased in 2001, has gone with me everywhere I've moved the past 22 years and remains one of my prized earthly possessions. Only the Holy Scriptures sit on a higher pedestal in my library—and my estimation.   

My personal copy of 101 Famous Poems

Originally published in the mid-1920s, 101 Famous Poems went through several editions and publications over the decades. My copy (and presumably Dad's) was a 1958 edition. This placed it after modernism had ended and postmodernism had begun to take its place. Cook was cognizant of contemporary culture and the ways in which the world had changed since the book's original publication in the 1920s—near the beginning of the modernist era. 

Cook further recognized that the collective passion for classical poetry that had marked the Romantic Period and Victorian Age had subsided in the modern age of industry and technology, and that educational drifts toward increasing secularization had begun to stymie the use of traditional didactic poetry in public schools.

Facing increased pressure and competition from all sides, poetry's popularity, prestige, and prominence began to fade over time. While the Great War Poets and other modernist bards left a considerable legacy of their own, it was hard to compete with Romantics who were beneficiaries of the era in which they resided. The absence of radio, cinema, and television in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries gave Georgian and Victorian Age writers an unfair edge over their literary successors who would have to compete with new-fangled, popular diversions derived from society's technological and industrial advancement. Without sports, movie, and rock-and-roll legends to compete with, pre-twentieth century poets, along with their fellow writers, painters, stage performers, civic leaders, and statesmen were the celebrities of their age. 

Robert Frost
1874-1963

Aside from rare exceptions in the twentieth century (e.g. Edgar Guest and Robert Frost), poets like Longfellow—enormously popular in his own day—represent a breed of bards that died long ago, perhaps never to rise again in this world. The technology of the twentieth century, and even more prominently in the twenty-first century, has changed poetry and live, stage entertainment in the same way that the Internet has changed broadcast journalism. 

Just as contemporary political giants will never again enjoy the near-ubiquitous audiences that Churchill and Roosevelt enjoyed in the early days of radio, so metamodernist (post-postmodernist) poet-stars must figure out which niche "channel" fits them best, not to mention finding one that will actually air their work.

The age of Wordsworth and Longfellow is gone, perhaps forever.

While the collective demand for traditional poetry has obviously atrophied in the past century-or-so, the fundamental need for poetry and what it offers has not changed since Homer—or Adam, for that matter. Cook eloquently captured this need in his preface to the 1958 edition of 101 Famous Poems.

Said he:

"This is the age of science, of steel—of speed and the cement road. The age of hard faces and hard highways. Science and steel demand the medium of prose. Speed requires only the look—the gesture. What need then, for poetry? 

"Great need!

"There are souls, in these noise-tired times, that turn aside into unfrequented lanes, where the deep woods have harbored the fragrances of many a blossoming season. Here the light, filtering through perfect forms, arranges itself in lovely patterns for those who perceive beauty."

The concision and cogency of Cook's apology of poetry as a "needed" art hooked me when I first read it back in the early 1990s and I've been a disciple of his philosophy of our "need" for poetry ever since. Yet, finding myself ensconced in the third decade of the twenty-first century, I have been tempted to shout back across the decades and query Cook what all the fuss was about. After all, to a GenXer like me, the 1950s were a simpler, quieter time—not the booming and bustling industrial leviathan Cook alluded to in his preface. Most things are, of course, relative to other times and things, and that is precisely what makes Cook's words so perpetually prescient and relevant to our own age. The genius of traditional poets, "whose distant footsteps echo through the corridors of Time," (3) is found in their rich timelessness—as well as the ongoing relevance and universal applicability of their messages.  

The Great WORDSWORTH
A Poet for All Seasons

A great truism states that: the more things change, the more things stay the same. While a great desire for traditional poetry may have diminished over the preceding century-plus, the "great need" for poetry that Cook wrote about in 1958 has not changed, nor will it ever change—as indicated by the bustling popularity and booming sales of a myriad genres of musical lyrics, which do, after all, share a kinship with age-old patterns of rhythm and rhyme (poetry) albeit set to new and creative melodies, harmonies, and percussion beats.

This is one reason why hip-hop is so popular.    

Psalms of Life invites those in the rising generations to reconsider erstwhile greats in conjunction with contemporary traditionalists who take "the road less traveled" (4) in providing poetic offerings that are best absorbed in solitude and perhaps best enjoyed without the aid of any modern accoutrements.

As foreign a concept as this may be to many in our metamodernist world so deluged by technological devices and flashy sensory stimuli, the value of approaching poetry and literature the old fashioned way remains as effervescent as it is ever-present. Indeed, there are times when radios, televisions, I-pods, I-pads, laptops, and smart phones ought to be turned off. The same holds true for social media platforms. 

Such occasions provide us with glorious opportunities to engage in old-fashioned—but never fully out of style—activities such as thinking, reading, taking a technology-free walk, filling one's lungs with fresh air on that walk, stooping down to smell a flower, tip-toeing up to sniff a spring blossom on a tree limb, conversing with present human beings, and even—as strange as it may sound to some—to simply enjoy being quiet and alone with oneself at regular (and healthy) intervals of time.

One might add to such self-renewing activities the occasional cracking open of a book of traditional poetry—just like Dad did with his memorable reading of Alfred Noyes' The Highwayman that unforgettable afternoon back in the early 1990s when I was just a lad. Such acts provide us with golden opportunities to read, ponder, and reflect upon the classics as well as some more obscure works. You may find that doing so is pleasurable and relaxing—even therapeutic!

As Longfellow invitingly suggests and persuasively implores: 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"Come, read to me some poem,

   Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

   And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
   Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
   Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

   Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor;

   And tonight I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

   Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

   Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

   And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

   Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

   The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

   That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume,

   The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet,

   The beauty of thy voice" (5).

More ambitious souls may even try their hand at the memorization and recitation of their favorites—a mind-enhancing exercise for your brain that I personally love and highly recommend. I am confident such activities will increase your mental acuity, expand your cognitive clarity, and extend your cerebral longevity—and perhaps even your life!  

Aside from extracting pleasure from the experience, such wading (or immersion) into the pathways of poetry can also prove instructive. Indeed, the pedagogical value of poetry often trumps prose in the same way that Jesus' parables transcend more prosaic, pharisaic, and didactic deliveries of doctrine. Poetic lessons are not only more memorable than prosaic ones, but couplets, quatrains, and other versified reverberations of memory are more likely to spontaneously remind and inspire than the less-likely recall of non-rhyming maxims and facts.  

"The British are Coming!"
Longfellow's famous poem made Paul Revere's 
memorable ride even more famous than it already was.

I was just in grade school when I first heard Longfellow's famous narrative poem, Paul Revere's Ride. At that age, the pedagogical focus of such a work was historical, not literary, and I did not associate the poem with its author at the time. But then I was reintroduced to Longfellow in 101 Famous Poems where I discovered some of my all-time favorites, such as: The Builders, A Psalm of Life, and The Day is Done.

I was hooked!

101 Famous Poems further introduced me to other classics of the English language dating back to the Immortal Bard. Mesmerized and enchanted by the vivid language and delightful prosody of such poetical works, I all but worshipped their authors. Moreover, I learned many life lessons, had other principles powerfully reinforced, and derived much pleasure from my repeated consumption, memorization, and recitation of their work.  

Recent contemporary literary criticism of Longfellow—and others like him—has often been unflattering, diminishing his genius and castigating him as being overly simplistic and didactic. While his work's antiquity has not (nor will it ever) lead to its extinction, it has led to its reevaluation, and almost by default, its devaluation and undervaluation (5a).

Bereft of adequate training and erudition as a poetic scholar, I am unqualified to add my two cents to the canon of scholarly critique; I am a doctor of education, not of letters. As such, my poetical aims are primarily pedagogic, although I will not apologize for my own layman's critique presented in this chapter. I think it is well deserved by those whom I seek to defend, uphold, and champion (i.e. Longfellow, Wordsworth, and Company).   

In my view, poetry should exist for three main purposes. First, it should instruct. Second, it should inspire noble thoughts, speech, and actions. Third, to borrow a phrase from scripture, it should please the eye (and ear) and gladden the heart (6).   

While pleasure is purposely prioritized beneath instruction and inspiration, its importance and value should not be underestimated. As Emerson so eloquently and cogently declared in his famous poem, The Rhodora: On Being Asked Whence Is the Flower

"... if eyes were meant for seeing ...  

Then Beauty is its own excuse for being." (7).

I'm confident Emerson would echo this sentiment as it relates to aural, olfactory, and other sentient experiences as well. 

Second, the more perfect the prosody, the more illuminating the language, and the more eloquent the elocution, the more incisively and effectively the poem will instruct and inspire. Thus, all three purposes may work harmoniously together to maximize the synergy and overall impact of a poem on readers, hearers, and most importantly—students. 

Historically, poetry has been utilized as an important, even an essential pedagogical power tool. From the New England Primer, McGuffy Readers, and Nursery Rhymes of centuries past to School House Rock, Dora the Explorer, and The Wiggles in more recent decades, rhyme is perennially summoned to instruct young—and not so young—students in a variety of subject matters, including personal development and character education.

Poetry belongs in the classroom...
and outside of the classroom.
Poetry belongs everywhere!

My aim is to encourage contemporary educators to reconsider age-old rhymes in conjunction with newly penned verse (perhaps of their own making) to both acquaint students with the beauty of language as well as to equip them with mnemonic devices that bolster curricular recall. 

Simply stated, poetry belongs in the classroom, and not just in English class. I am confident that creative pedagogues of all subjects can find myriad uses for this versatile vehicle of classroom instruction and edification—if only they will. 

From an instrument of basic mnemonics and rote learning in all subjects (including the hard sciences) to a compelling medium for storytelling, narrative history, and critical thinking in theology and the liberal arts—including philosophy and history—poetry can and ought to be tapped by educators everywhere, every chance they get.  

The real magic of poetry in the classroom is found in its capacity for being memorable. To wit: I have long since forgotten many, if not most, of the relatively unimportant factual details I temporarily retained over the course of my eighth, ninth, and tenth-grade English classes. Yet I can still recite Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken verbatim after memorizing it nearly 20 years ago in my 8th grade English class. Or was it 9th or 10th grade English? I can't even remember exactly when I memorized it, but I still have all 16 lines of that 4-stanza masterpiece burned into my long-term memory and can recall (recite) it at a moment's notice.

If you don't believe me, just ask me sometime and I'll be happy to provide you with a spontaneous performance!

How many of us have forgotten a host of scientific and mathematical knowledge learned over the years, yet remember how many days are in each month of the year because of a widely recognizable little ditty, or one of its many derivatives, such as:

"Thirty days hath September

April, June, and November;

February has twenty-eight (28)—alone but fun

While all the rest have thirty-one (31).

Then every fourth (leap) year's extra fine

Cuz February has twenty-nine" (8).  

The Brilliant Benjamin Franklin

Finally, all the instruction I ever received in school on personal development or self-leadership can't compete with the scores of classic one-liners deeply ingrained in my mind from reading Benjamin Franklin's Poor Richard's Almanack. Consider, for example, the following lines called up from my own memory, without the use of any external source material. 

Whether the lesson is on gossip and vitriol...

"A man's tongue is soft, and bone doth lack,

Yet a stroke therewith may break a man's back."

Contentment and simplicity... 

"If a man could have half his wishes, he would double his troubles."

The Wise Dr. Franklin

Or the art of leaving a legacy behind you when you die...

"If you would not be forgotten,

As soon as you are dead and rotten,

Either write something worth the reading,

Or do something worth the writing."

Ask me if that little quatrain has inspired me in my own quest to leave a legacy as a writer and entrepreneur...

YES, it has... on many occasions.  

          THANK YOU, Dr. Franklin!

Yes, poetry makes learning easier—and certainly more memorable, and our most memorable lessons have a way of translating into the most meaningful ones as well. 

In previous generations, poetry in general—and Longfellow's poetry in particular—was once "widely taught in schools" (9). As such, poetry has been—and I would argue, can be again—perennial power in the hands of educators and well-invested pedagogical profit in the minds and hands of pupils. My appeal, therefore, is not only for educators to better investigate how they might utilize poetry in their classrooms, but an even more specific call for a return to the poetic genre that a successful contemporary poet and prolific modern anthologist—Dana Gioia—calls "inspirational didactic verse" (10). 

Regardless of any and all critical disdain scholars have explicitly or implicitly heaped upon traditional schoolhouse classics like Longfellow's A Psalm of Life or The Builders, it is sufficiently obvious as to be self-evident that such poems can provide students with moral education that contribute to the development of upright character and good citizenship. 

Regardless where they may stack up against other poems in the judgment of the critical literati, why not utilize them nonetheless to teach and inspire the development of desirable character traits such as: vision, hard work, patience, persistence, honesty, integrity, enthusiasm, and a positive outlook?

Of course educators, including teachers, coaches, and mentors everywhere can do this—if only they will!

It's hard to see how anyone, regardless of their political or social ideology, could be at serious odds with promoting such values and virtues. Indeed, I can't think of any group—regardless of their platform or pet political projects—that would say they don't value courage, honesty, hard work, determination, fairness, and integrity. Such virtues and characteristics are universally admired and sought-after.

They always have been, and they always will be.

Thus it is that I seek to promote the work of Longfellow—and others like him—who penned verse intentionally in the inspirational didactic genre. And thus it is that I seek to further resurrect this sleeping pedagogical giant by diligently adding my own two cents to the fire (11). 

My own poetry is written for pedagogy and pleasure, and in that order. I also read poetry and other literary genres for the same reasons—and also in the same order and priority. To literary critics who may view my own verse as little more than second-rate parroting of other, better, and erstwhile poets, you will hear little push-back from me. I'm not here to promote myself as a great poet or to try and best Longfellow in a literary sense. My objective is rather to join him—and others like him—by adding my own inspirational-didactic poetical voice to the choir, and then to direct the combined music in the direction of students of all ages. 

Click HERE to buy this BOOK

I am a teacher first and a poet second—not the other way around. My poetry is therefore penned primarily in promotion of a pedagogy of personal leadership in an explicit effort to inspire readers to noble actions and virtuous living as self-action leaders.

The purpose of this pedagogy is to influence citizens of the United States—and beyond—to become better individuals in the promotion of happier families, healthier communities, and more perfect unions around the globe. I write only secondarily to please the senses with the beautiful sights and sounds of well-crafted language. Although I confess I will be gratified if I, in the eyes of any reader, happen to succeed in any way on this item of secondary importance and value (12).  

Chapter 2 Notes:

1).  From Longfellow's poem, The Day is Done. 

2).  Noyes, A. (1926) in Cook, R.J.'s 101 Famous Poems. Chicago, Illinois: The Cable Company. Google Books revised edition. Pages 119-122.

3).  From Longfellow's poem, The Day is Done. 

4).  From Frost's The Road Not Taken.

5).  From Longfellow's poem, The Day is Done in Cook, R.J. (1926) 101 Famous Poems. Chicago, IL: The Cable Company. Good Books version. Pages 109-110. 

5a). See Dana Gioia's article, Longfellow in the Aftermath of Modernism in Disappearing Ink: Poetry at the End of Print Culture. (2004). St. Paul, MN: Graywolf Press.  See also Footnote 12.  

6).  See Doctrine & Covenants 59:18.

7).  From Emerson's poem, The Rhodora.

8).  There are many different versions of this same little ditty. The one printed here is of my own composition.

9).  From Dana Gioia's article, Longfellow in the Aftermath of Modernism in Disappearing Ink: Poetry at the End of Print Culture. (2004). St. Paul, MN: Graywolf Press. Page 56.

10.  Ibid. Page 68.  

11.  "Add my two cents to the fire" is a saying borrowed from one of my best friends, France Nielson, a dentist in Las Vegas, NV.  

12.  The ideas I share in this article were influenced by several essays written by contemporary poet, Dana Gioia, including Disappearing Ink: Poetry at the End of Print Culture, Longfellow in the Aftermath of Modernism, Can Poetry Matter? Notes on the New Formalism, and The Poet in the Age of Prose. I express my gratitude to Gioia and acknowledge his tremendous contributions to contemporary poetry as well as the resurrection of poetic interest in bards of the past. One of Gioia's own poems, Pity the Beautiful, ranks among my all-time favorites.  

Chapter 3

Mentoring Psalmists

Artists of all kinds grant credence to the reality of one's
MUSE in obtaining inspiration for one's best work..

No Poet is an Island (1). 

Aside from the celestial assistance of one's Muse, to Whom I gratefully acknowledge for the inspiration, organization, and perhaps most importantly—the timing—of my work, all are indebted to erstwhile bards of the mortal variety, whose genius, along with the help of their own Muses, infiltrated their souls with the rhythms and rhymes, features and forms, messages and meanings that strike living, breathing, artistic chords within and without for the benefit and blessing of others and the joy and satisfaction of oneself.   

Such literary resonances infuse many newcomers, like myself, with a penchant for poetical procreation. Some fledgling artists seek to spawn their own, unprecedented, original forms into the compositional cosmos. Others are more content with carrying on within the confines of conventionality. Star struck by the augustness of the orthodox traditionalists, I seek to build upon the firm foundations of former times in an attempt to extend the reach and power of antiquated templates into original, contemporary offerings.

This approach seems appropriate in light of the anthologist Dana Gioia's remarks that:

"Poetry ... achieves its characteristic concision and intensity by acknowledging how words have been used before. Poems do not exist in isolation but share and exploit the history and literature of the language in which they are written. Although each new poem seeks to create a kind of temporary perfection in and of itself, it accomplishes this goal by recognizing the reader's lifelong experience with words, images, symbols, stories, sounds, and ideas outside of its own texts" (2).   

Readers of my poetry will notice certain prosodic and thematic similarities to the work of Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Longfellow, Dickinson, Poe, Frost, and other English language masters of the past 500 years. If imitation is the highest form of flattery, then flattering my mentors has been and will likely continue to be my cherished poetic pastime. 

Some of my imitation is undoubtedly the result of my own poetically nascent voice—one that is still developing and maturing—a voice that seeks to create new art from old templates that have, in my lowly opinion, already been perfected. 

A Contemplative Wordsworth

On the other hand, some of my imitation is both explicit and intentional, such as my inverse echo of Wordsworth's sonnet: The world is too much with us, where I invoke a philosophical conversation across the centuries while simultaneously conducting self-psychotherapy aimed at improving my own mental hygiene as I pontificate and versify on the counterintuitive woes of the world being not enough with me, NOW. 

In other instances, I have precisely aped the rhythm and/or rhyme of a given poem from the past with my own new language and message simply because I adore the prosodic patterns of a given piece.

It is my own way of paying homage to the grand ole masters.

I also hearken back to the Romantic Poet's pattern of apostrohpically truncating words to maintain a set syllabic count per line. Finally, I adhere to Shakespeare's precise rhyming scheme—ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG—for virtually all my sonnets.

The Granddaddy of them all... 
And the Master General of Sonnetry 

In my mind, what is the use of attempting to improve upon an already perfect template? If an engine is already ideal, why not further utilize it to craft new messages with meanings for the benefit of contemporary readers?

On the pages that precede and follow, I list some of the poets who have influenced both my philosophical musings and poetical compositions. While certainly not a comprehensive list of bards who have influenced my life and career, it does provide a meaty sampling of the best-of-the-best I have been blessed to be mentored by.

The foremost of these mentors is, of course, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who was born in Portland, Maine in 1807. Longfellow was educated at Bowdoin College—the same Bowdoin College that one of my historical heroes, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, would preside over five (5) decades after Longfellow attended there as a student. In fact, President Chamberlain would invite Longfellow back to Bowdoin as a guest speaker in 1875 as part of the 50th Anniversary of he and his colleagues 1925 graduation.  

Longfellow in middle-age ~
the days before his iconic white beard.

Click HERE to read more about Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain in A Civil War Miracle.   

After Bowdoin, Longfellow spent two decades on faculty at Harvard before retiring to write full-time, although he would continue to live in Cambridge for the rest of his life. Unlike many traditional poets—then or now—Longfellow's poetry was enormously successful, bringing him unusual quantities of fame, financial remuneration, and literary acclaim.

Despite enjoying this dreamy career filled with accolades, attention, honor, and money, he faced great trials in his life, most notably of which were the deaths of both his first and second wives. The first, Mary Potter, passed away from a miscarriage after only a few years of marriage. He pursued his second wife, Frances (Fanny) Appleton for seven (7) long years before she finally agreed to marry him. They had six (6) children together. Tragically, however, Fanny would pass away 18 years later due to complications incurred from a tragic accident involving her dress accidentally catching fire. Longfellow's grew his trademark (and very famous) beard in part to cover scars he incurred himself while trying to save his wife from the flames. Both of these deaths deeply scarred Longfellow, and Fanny's tragic accidental death was particularly devastating to him.

Abraham Lincoln and his Cabinet preparing
the Emancipation Proclamation

Eighteen (18) months after Fanny's death, in 1863, President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, ending slavery throughout the United States wherever the Union Army had control. An abolitionist, Longfellow welcomed the news. He also sought for an amicable reunion of North and South following the war.

During the war, he composed one of his most famous poems—I Heard the Bells—which was later put to music by John Baptiste Calkin (1827-1905) and has since become a popular Christmas Carol. Longfellow composed the poem on Christmas Day in 1863, shortly after his son, Charles—a Union soldier—had been wounded in combat in Northern Virginia. A full-length feature film—I Heard the Bells—was released in 2022 capturing this moving story in the life of Longfellow and his family. 

Click HERE to watch the movie trailer for I Heard the Bells about Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

In 1875, at the fiftieth reunion of his graduation from Bowdoin, he was invited to speak at the college by the famed General and hero of Little Round Top at the Battle of Gettysburg—Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain—who was President of Bowdoin at the time. Longfellow composed and read an original poem for the occasion: Morituri Salutamus. 

An elderly Longfellow
as he is typically remembered

Outliving his beloved Fanny by over two decades, Longfellow passed away at his home in Cambridge, Massachussetts in 1882 at age 75. He was buried next to his two wives.

Longfellow's dearth of contemporary critical acclaim is contrasted by his enormous success and popularity during his own life—and well after. In the words of Dana Gioia:

"[Longfellow] is ... not an author for ambitious [contemporary] critics to write about. Few recent books on American poetry mention Longfellow except in passing; [and] almost none discuss him at any length. ... 

"[In his own day, however] Longfellow was not merely the most popular American poet who ever lived, but he also enjoyed a type of fame almost impossible to imagine by contemporary standards. His books not only sold well enough to make him rich; they sold so consistently that he eventually became the most popular living author in any genre in nineteenth-century America. ... 

"[And his] fame was not limited to the United States. He was the first American poet to achieve an international reputation. England hailed him as the New World's first great bard. His admirers included Charles Dickens, William Gladstone, ... [and] the the British royal family and their notoriously anti-American poet laureate, Alfred Tennyson. ... In England, he eventually outsold Tennyson and Browning. ... 

"Three years after his death Longfellow's bust was unveiled in the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey, the first and only time an American poet has received this honor. [Moreover, his] popularity did not prevent him from receiving the esteem of literati; in his lifetime they generally regarded him as the most distinguished poet America has produced. ... 

"[To top it all off] Longfellow's fame was not merely literary. His poetry exercised a broad cultural influence that today seems more typical of movies or popular music than anything we might imagine possible for poetry" (3).

Longfellow in his study
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Circa 1870s

Regardless of his lack of contemporary critical acclaim or popularity, there are reasons why Longfellow remains one of the most oft-quoted poets in American history. It is my hope that this work will influence and promote a return not only to the reading, studying, memorizing, and cherishing of Longfellow and his work, but of others like him from both yesteryear and more recent times, including TODAY. 

I reiterate here the cogent reminder of Cook: there remains a "Great need" for poetry in our "age of science" (4). 

I am no Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, Longfellow, or Poe. Nevertheless, it is my hope that perhaps some of the simple and heartfelt lays that have gushed from [the] heart of this humbler poet, might nonetheless find an audience seeking something similar amidst the craziness of our metamodernist era—so full-to-overflowing with chaos, cacophony, and crassness.

In so doing, I hope in some small way to satiate longings, soothe restless feelings, and banish the cares of readers along their own great journeys through love and life. I also hope to poetically elucidate some of the private, psychological hell I've battled—and continue to battle—throughout my career and life. Perhaps some of this verse will encourage and inspire others to noble actions, habits, dispositions, humility, and endurance along the circuitous corridors and precarious pathways of their own life's treacherous journey (5).

Chapter 3 Notes:

1). An allusion to the poet John Donne's famous words: "No Man is an Island, entire of itself, every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away from the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a Promontory were, as well as if a Manor of thy friends, or of thine own were. Any Mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee."  Donn, J. (1990). Ed. Booty, J. John Donne: Selections from Divine Poems, Sermons, Devotions, and Prayers. Paulist Press.  

2. From Dana Gioia's article: The Poet in an Age of Prose. Can Poetry Matter? Essays on Poetry and American Culture. St. Paul, MN: Graywolf Press. 1992. Page 221. 

3. From Dana Gioia's article, Longfellow in the Aftermath of Modernism. Disappearing Ink: Poetry at the End of the Print Culture. (2004). St. Paul, MN: Graywolf Press. Pages 53-54, and 57. 

4. Cook, R.J. (Ed.) (1958). 101 Famous Poems: With a Prose Supplement (Revised Edition). Chicago, IL: Contemporary Books. Preface (no page number). 

5. Italicized words can be found (verbatim or paraphrased) in Longfellow's poem, The Day is Done.   

Chapter 4

Early Attempts

I was first introduced to poetry via nursery rhymes at home and at my Grandma Jensen's home. My favorite childhood poem was Wynken, Blynken, and Nod by Eugene Field (1850-1895).

 

Eugene Field
1850-1895

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
   Sailed off in a wooden shoe,—

Sailed on a river of crystal light

   Into a sea of dew.

"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"

   The old moon asked the three.

"We have come to fish for the herring-fish

   That live in this beautiful sea;

   Nets of silver and gold have we,"

           Said Wynken,

           Blynken,

           And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,

   As they rocked in the wooden shoe;

And the wind that sped them all night long

   Ruffled the waves of dew;

The little stars were the herring-fish

   That lived in the beautiful sea.

"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,—

   Never afraid are we!"

   So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

           Wynken,

           Blynken,

           And Nod.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

All night long their nets they threw

   To the stars in the twinkling foam,—

Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,

   Bringing the fishermen home:

'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed

   As if it could not be;

And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed

   Of sailing that beautiful sea;

   But I shall name you the fishermen three:

           Wynken,

           Blynken,

           And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

   And Nod is a little head,

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies

   Is a wee one's trundle-bed;

So shut your eyes while Mother sings

   Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful things

   As you rock in the misty sea

   Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:—

           Wynken,

           Blynken,

           And Nod.   

"The British are Coming!"

To this day I cherish Field's nursery masterpiece and have derived great joy reading this poem to my own children.

My academic introduction to poetry came in fifth grade (grade 5). My teacher that year—at Hermosa Vista Elementary School in Mesa, Arizona—was Bridgette Owens. Mrs. Owens LOVED poetry and was unusually proactive in teaching and emphasizing poetry in our classroom. On a regular basis all throughout the year, she would introduce us to new poems by different authors. The two most memorable for me were Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Paul Revere's Ride and Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer.

The following year, in sixth grade (grade 6), my teacher—Nell Jean—required us to produce a comprehensive poetry project. The assignment included copying down our favorite poems by other authors as well as a smattering of our own, original, juvenile efforts as well. Of all the school projects I ever completed over my 19 years of formal schooling, this poetry assignment was one of the most enriching, enjoyable, and memorable. To this day, I still have this project. It is handwritten on pink sheets of paper and is more than 30 years old.

Later on in middle and high school I learned more about poetry in English classes and was able to ply my trade in further attempts at the art. These early efforts clearly evince the work of an amateur; and some cases, were little more than doggerel. But they also indicate a growing interest in and penchant for an art form I would later spend a significant amount of time pursuing and practicing in elusive attempts to perfect.    

The poems in this chapter were all written in my youth. Some of them come from that 6th grade project. Others were composed in middle school or my first year of high school (9th grade). In reprinting these, I resisted the urge to polish the punctuation and spelling. These literary errors and scars evince my growth curve as both a poet and writer.

Poetry

Poetry is a pencil in hand,

Poetry is very grand,

Poetry is a soft sweet song,

Poetry is about right and wrong,

Poetry is the adjective big and small,

Along with happy, exited (sic), hungry, sad and tall,

Poetry is from the heart,

Poetry is thinking smart,

Poetry is food and money,

Poetry can be very funny,

Poetry is clothes and cars,

Poetry can travel very far,

Poetry is people,

Poetry is Everything,

Poetry is You. 

The Deer Family

Softly the doe eats,

as she looks over her young,

While the buck stands watch.

Note: This poem is indicative of the setting of my youth—southeastern Utah—where herds of mule deer were legion and it was not uncommon to see deer around town.  

Snow

Snow:

Cold, Glistening;

Light, stately falling;

Snow capped mountain heights:

Snow.

Mountains

Mountains:

Immense, Picturesque;

Towering, Majestic, Serene;

Away from modern paraphernalia:

Mountains.

Note: These two poems are similarly indicative of the setting of my youth—at the base of the Blue Mountains, which rose to over 11,000 feet in elevation and held snow throughout the fall, winter, and spring months.  

History

History is our past,

It is what our fathers did,

And what we will someday do.

Self-Esteem

Self-Esteem, anyone can,

It's all in obeying God's simple plan,

It's not obtained through glory or honor,

Self esteem's a point to ponder.

It all comes from doing what's right,

And doing good with all your might,

It helps to have some confidence,

Not to mention a little sense.

Why this all can come from doing good,

And fulfilling all the tasks we should.

A little service, some charity,

This will make us the best we can be.

You may say to me it doesn't make sense,

By doing god I'll gain confidence?

Yes it's true it don't seem right,

It probably seems quite far from sight.

Just take it on faith and you shall see,

That self-esteem can come from charity.

The Horses Run

Seven hours we worked, from six til one,

As we cross the road, toward the bunkhouse,

The cows are driven, the brandins' done,

The horses begin to sense where we are going:

Through the gate, and onto the cinders,

We clip and clop down the lane,

Then off Troy goes at a wild gallop,

His horse in a mad frenzy.

I lunge forward, as my horse follows,

0-60 in about a second, I fly down the path,

Fear grips my heart as I feel a loss of control,

My hat flies carelessly off, just like the movies.

The horses [sic] will overpowers my control of destiny,

As vain attempts to slow the horse

Result in an increased sense of humility regarding

My mortality.

Now I simply concentrate on holding on,

To dear life that is,

And hope that the horse will stop.

Faster than I have ever gone on a horse,

All becomes an unimportant blur around me.

Darn that Troy, to have started to gallop like that,

A while back I scream to him, seeing a possible

Way to stop the horses.

No dice, as all efforts of mine are drowned in the

Stubborn desires of the creature.

The ride is short, exhilarating,

and dangerously Frightening,

The stables are close now, as the horses come to a

Stop.

They just wanted to get home faster,

Troy tells me he did not try to go that fast,

I am safe, I am not hurt,

I stayed on.

It is over. 

Note: This narrative piece is a work of nonfiction. It all occurred precisely as I outline in the poem one summer day in 1994 on my Uncle Hyrum W. Smith's ranch in Gunlock, Utah. I'll never forget it; it was one of the most frightening, adventurous, and memorable 30 seconds of my life! 

Think big

Think Big,

For we only have one chance at life.

Do not suppose,

Because of doubt,

That thou cannot succeed;

For those who think that they will fail,

Will surely fail indeed!

Do not let others

Halt the way,

Whomever they may be;

Just press forward, with faith and zeal,

You'll win the race, and taste of victory!

It does not matter how distant the goal,

How far the journeys [sic] end,

With a noble heart and a workers [sic] grit,

With a soul that believes thou can achieve,

Nothing will stop thee from getting it! 

Then doubt no more,

But set that goal,

And firmly work with a noble heart!

And if thou endureth to the end,

Thou surely will obtain what thou desired at the start!

For what thou achieveth,

And attaineth in life,

Shall forever be thine,

Through eternity.

We only have one chance at life,

Think Big!

Preaching "Noah's Ark" at the funeral
of a dead bird. Monticello, Utah, USA
Circa 1985 (age 6)

Watery Justice

The door shut, and the Ark was quiet.

The sunlight dashed, and gray covers clouded the sky

Casting a forboding [sic] darkness upon the face of the earth

Silence,

Subsequent droplets of rain began to fall from the heavens.

Quantity steadily increased until it was raining as it never had, before or

since.

Scores of thousands of foolish hearts vainly summated [sic]

Everything, trying to assuage the deathly fear and guilt

That had so gripped their souls.

Unable to free themselves of their predicament, they cried

"Shem!"

               "Ham!"

                              "Japeth!"

The black army of the great deep swept forth to sever all breath

Of life.

Caesar cried, "help me, Cassius or I sink!" (1)

The rain abated and

All was silent.

The great structure floated monotonously

For scores of weeks as the luminescent

Sun warmed the gargantuan waters.

A dove sent out for days, weeks, and

Humbly asks Noah,

"Where am I? Where is my mountainous

Home?"

               "I am the Lord, and let justice destroy the wicked."

Note: From an early age I felt a powerful predilection towards Holy Scripture. A favorite biblical story of my early childhood was Noah's Ark and the great flood. Once, while pastoring a funeral for a dead bird, I opened up the scriptures and preached this story over the fallen fowl. Apparently, the tale still held fascination for me in high school, as this piece—written in English class—attests.  

Bitterness

Bitterness,

Why does it have place in the soul?

Why doth heart anger, and paunch fester,

At things we cannot control?

Why does when someone cross our line,

We seem to always linger,

To spread their fate, and spoil their vine,

And always point our own dirty finger?

Why could we not instead of spoil,

Just turn the other cheek,

Be the bigger man, don't boil,

Hence, are the wise, and the meek.

It doeth no good to fester and rot,

Deep down all know it's true,

So just let it go, be big, Act the way you ought,

Cause bitterness only harms you. 

Limerick

Their [sic] once was a silly young squire,

Who lit the poor castle on fire,

Then he dunked the king,

In some gasoline,

And that was the end of our sire.

Note: As I reflect on this limerick as an adult, it is admittedly a little disturbing and macabre—so much so, in fact, that I seriously considered eliminating it from this anthology. However, I decided to leave it in for the sake of autoethnographic authenticity. This poem evinces the eleven year old boy scout and pyromaniac I once was. It demonstrates that despite any and all precocious proclivities I may have exhibited as a child, I was also once just a little boy who (like most other little boys) sometimes thought, spoke, and acted like a puerile preteen. In other words, I've never had any inclination, impulse, or desire to burn anyone alive. This poem simply reflects a moment of childish levity and silliness. It also reminds me of a remark a college professor of mine would later make about how poets are apt to do whatever it takes to make their rhyming scheme work. This piece proves his point! 

Chapter 4 Notes:

1. From Shakespeare's Julius Caesar: Act 1, Scene 2, Line 118

Chapter 5

Psalms of Life and Leadership

A Psalm of Life

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG

MAN 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. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

    Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow
    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!

Lives of great men all remind us

    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 Finish Line

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 Finish Line (Part 2)

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."  

Sonnet 16  (Freedom)

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

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,

                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

Learn to Labor and to Wait (4)

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.  

To Risk or Not to Risk?

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.  

Why I Live Down South

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!  

The Journey

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.  

Sweet Sleep

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

Reflections on Childhood

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 move away, my mind expands,

I see my start in different lights,

Yet it stays etched into the sands

Of my heart full of sheer delights.  

Chapter 6

Theosophical Odes

I have always been interested in and passionate about theology and philosophy. Theosophy is the place where these two fields converge. The poems in this chapter reflect my many musings on this hybrid subject.

Time

Minutes passing on like hours,
Hours moving past like days,
Days go slow as growing flowers,
Planted in an obscure maze.

Each day is like a lifetime,
Seeming to last just as long.
Each fresh 24's a new climb,
Scaling life's repeating song.

Then with seven lifetimes past,
I reflect back to the start,
Of my week that passed by so fast,
Streamlined as a cosmic dart.

Yet somehow a month goes faster,
And a year? Much quicker still.
Till a decade soon is past yon
Father Time's unyielding will.

Does a second hold a lifetime?
Or is a lifetime just a second?
And what of the in between?
It's all so paradoxic!

To Shady Groves I Wander

To shady groves I wander,
That I might sit and ponder
'Pon glorious thoughts and things,
And listen as the robin sings,
And other gifts God lushly brings
To me there as I sit.
So peaceful—
I just bask in it
While listening to the sound
Of the tumbling, churning, rushing,
Lively river on the ground,
Where I suppose I might just go

Alexandria Park
Bila Tserkva, Ukraine

To watch the glistening H20,
Church, turn, fission, fall, and flow,
And then stoop down to take a drink
To quaff my thirst,
Just then I think,
'Tis such a shame
I have to blink,
And miss for e'en a split-haired wink
The beauty
And the glory
Of
   It
      All!

I Went to the Woods to Ponder

When oft my mind grows worried,
Then I yearn for wooded groves,
How oft alone I've scurried,
To solitude in coves.

To country lanes I've hastened,
To lands whose heart I know,
My cares away are chastened,
And my troubles cease to grow.

I think I'll fly to that spot,
Where peace restores my soul,
Against sore troubles I'll plot,
And heart's resolve cajole.

There is no other respite,
That heals so soothingly,
My soul at times, when desperate—
Retreats alone with me.

Sonnet   By: William Wordsworth

The World is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our heart away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The wind that will be howling at all hours,
Are are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Sonnet 17 

The world is not enough with me, NOW,
Too much time spent thinking and forecasting,
Trying too hard to see it all—blasting
The feelings and peace—I fail to allow
Real emotions, the wonder, the WOW,
The satisfied sense of sweat on my brow,
And pure joy—so spontaneous in my youth—
The unsullied acquisition of truth:
It moves me not! Great God, I'd rather be
A zealot, willing to fight and to die
For any just cause that might make me free,
Possessing the will to work and to try,
What e'er it may take through eternity
To gain the God granted privilege to fly.

A Newborn Seed of Hope

Alas! Amidst the toil and grind,
A precious thought lights up my mind,
A newborn seed of hope refined,
Sprouts up within my soul defined.

Whence sprang such light that shone so bright?
That sent me soaring into flight,
And changed to day what had been night,
After all those years of fright!

It shines from Him, and within me,
Yes together we will scale the sea,
The depths of life's adversity,
To win an epic victory!

The battle will rage hard and long,
And I'll cry tears between each song,
But now I know the right from wrong
And saved because Hope came along.

'Twas Many a Year Ago

'Twas many and many a year ago,
   As my mind doth recall,
That a young lad strove to show
   And rightly prove to all,
That faith, when rightly exercised,
   Could uncloak success disguised
As a fool's path withal.

Though haughty scoffs from friend and foe,
   Sought to mire the way I'd go,
Within burned bright the heavenly light,
   And helped my soul to know,
That pure integrity of mind,
   Was the virtue that defined
The obscure path: my show.

Who knew, but I, and God above
   What service I would render?
Or how despised would be the love
   That I would try to send her?
Yet now I feel to praise the Name
   Of He who shouldered so much blame,
Yet ever has been tender.

Now riches of the earth are mine
   In extravagant abundance,
And for naught at all my soul doth pine,
   But basketh in elegance.
And finds a mind and memory
   Enriched beyond prosperity,
Yet nothing came by chance.

By living as the universe
   Decrees, I found that I could please,
And help to lift aloft the curse,
   By bowing down upon my knees,
Wherein I asked God's greatest gift,
And then implored that He might lift
   Me up beyond this mortal tease.

Then shouldering myself the lot
   The Almighty assigned,
I went to work, and daily sought
   For God's own strength and mind.
Wherein, in time, I found that I
   Could likewise breach the starry sky,
And henceforth join all souls divine.

My journey's close will be to see,
   That all things are in front of me,
And the ending of my line
   Of mortal life, and strifes, a sign:
Of the beginning with the Lamb
   Where I'll see who I really am.

Amidst My High-Strung Furious Rush

Amidst my high-strung furious rush,

And constant angst I feel,

My body, mind, and spirit flush,

Beholding all that's real.

And though I often have my doubts,

And wonder if I'm headed right,

An inward spirit softly shouts:

That somehow I will win the fight.

And here and there and now and then,

I catch a blessed vision,

That makes me silently aware

Of God's Handwork and precision.
 

And how He orchestrates 'round me,

Each single last detail,

Such knowledge firmly sets me free,

I know I cannot fail.

As long as I maintain my will,

To follow him wherever

He prompts me forward fast until

I'll with Him in forever.  

Hurled Perils

When as a lad I did prepare

To set out in the world,

I did not know, was unaware,

The perils that would be hurled

Right straight toward me

As if they were

Ordained by God to beat

The ever living hell and pride

Right plumb straight out of me.

I've heard of gold and silver true,

Of pearls and diamonds few,

And learned how pure steel swords are made

By ham'ring them black and blue.

To make such gorgeous, precious things,

It takes such pressure as God brings,

To cremate and to crush,

All the flaky human fluff,

So that a goodly God,

Could one day say: "'tis enough!"

And when that sweet day arrives,

My finished soul will rise to thank

My Heavenly Refiner,

For crushing dross well night to death,

Till I attract a miner.  

How Paltry and How Petty

How paltry and how petty—

When compared unto the steady

And the perfect equilibrium

Of He who rules the Kingdom—

Are the boys and girls of Father,

Oh my! Why does He bother?

And give me such rapt attention,

And his focused condescension,

All the day through my contention,

As I piecemeal learn the order,

And the perfect pure perfection,

I am more apt to disorder,

And perhaps change the selection

Of my heart's truest desire,

So enraptured in the fire

Of a momentary passion,

That so soon doth lose its fashion,

Yet through all my mixed emotions,

With patience deeper than the oceans,

And His soft firm hand a-guiding,

All the while I am a-riding

Through the perils of this life,

Through the thick-and-thin of strife,

With a thousand things awry,

And life's chances passing by,

I gaze upward toward the sky,

Which suggests not low, but high,

Somehow sensing that it's worth it,

Let the sculptor sculpt this misfit

Child for whom He sees a stronger

Fate that surely will last longer,

And transcend by far the glory

Of my mortal, earthly story,

Upon which I will look back

Once I've finally got the knack 

Of living life as full as He,

Throughout all eternity,

I will see

Just how paltry

And how petty,

Just like meaningless confetti

Falling down for just a minute,

On a post-race M. Andretti,

Yet my whole life's caught up in it,

But to see it

Is to be it,

And the first real step 

To fre it:

My soul, that is

I'll see it

Sheltered surely from the storm,

Where He'll kindly keep me warm,

And send legions nigh to swarm

My dastard enemy within,

So that 'ere the night is through,

As I strive e'er to be true,

He'll redeem my soul anew,

Grant my eyes a clearer view

Of the things that I must do,

And my mind will He review,

And my willing soul imbue

With the courage

That's essential,

To transcend the existential,

Moving on towards my potential,

To rise

   Above

      It

         All.  

Sonnet 18  (The Nobler Virtues)

Courtesy, kindness, compassion, and love,

Courage and fortitude and chivalry:

Attributes emanating from above,

From Godly parents who love you and me.

Forthright forgiveness, repentance, and virtue,

Flawless integrity, a soul so pure,

A mind and heart as strong as they're true,

A faith and a confidence. I am sure

Of the outcome as I stay on this path,

Pressing forward without deviation,

Living my life as it really is: math,

Constantly seeking for revelation.

   Carving an integrated existence,

   From the marble block of life's consistence.  

Sonnet 19  (A King Once Asked)

A king once asked himself: wherein lies my strength?

In gold, in lands, in military might?

Perhaps dominion, or in my life's length?

Or skill and wit and brains and brawn and height?

But then I queried: what if all were lost,

When adverse fates blew briskly through the land?

Would I withstand the blow and pay the cost?

Would I still mark greatness upon the sand?

'Tis fickle the worth of palpable signs

Of greatness and glory and might's array,

At daylight's conclusion there's still the fines,

The piper of natural law we must pay.

   At last I see, the only real thing,

   Is when to the altar our will we bring (1). 

Sonnet 20  (Passage of Time)

Thanks be to God for the passage of time,

That life marches on to a welcomed grave,

Where at last we may hasten the sublime

Status of being in a new enclave

Outside of time—that fleeting enemy—

Which serveth death to each blessed moment

We would fain prolong through eternity.

When after every precious second sent

Away, lost, returns with divine interest

Into the holy coffers of the soul,

Wherein we may perpetually invest

In glory that ne'er dies, which doth cajole

   A sharpened focus of my use of time;

   That I, by spades, might yet summit the climb.

Cast Upon the Waves of Fate

Cast upon the waves of fate,

Cursing in my soul,

Pining for a rendezvous

With death's diverting toll.

Fearing full the earthen price,

Cowardly ashamed,

Shrinking 'neath the clamping vice,

Refusing to be blamed.

Pondering if leaving life,

Might calm the tempest's roar,

Would it bring an end to strife?

Or multiply it more?

'Tis a philosophic bramble

Fraught a'plenty with sharp thorns.

Wisdom begs I oughtn't gamble;

Just be glad that I was born.

Then search a way to wend my journey,

Through the perilous wastelands,

Avoiding transport on a gurney,

Or slipping fast in life's quicksands.  

Sir Galahad

Wherein Lies My Strength?

My strength is as the strength of ten

Because my heart is pure. (2)

My strength is as the strength of a hundred

Because my mind is focused and my body is bridled.

My strength is as the strength of a thousand

Because I am consistent and never quit.

My strength is as the strength of legions

Because I am God's child and

His eye, hand, heart, and power ever rest upon me.  

A Self-Despising Fate

I will never live to be the kind of man I want to be,
Until I turn my life to God and make my 'me' a 'We.'
Peace is what I'm missing from my poor pathetic life,
As I press on without Him, my soul's leprosy grows rife.

I am a stupid human, I know not where to go,
I fail to be an arrow in God's quiver or on His bow.
What keeps me down and lost beneath these dark and dreary skies?
It all amounts to this: my fellow men I do despise.

I scorn them cuz I pridefully cannot uphold their way,
Disdaining so much of what they do and what they say,
But then an extra painful smart as I begin to see
And face up to the cold, dark truth: they are no worse than me!

And thus the lucid truth unveils, it's not just them I hate,
But also me, and I must face a self-despising fate!
My only hope's to make a change wherein new love I'll greet
Myself and others as I bow down humbly at His feet.

Chapter 7

Psalms of Mental Illness

As many of my readers already know, I have struggled with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) and related anxiety and depression for over 30 years. 

Click HERE to read about Dr. JJ's Past Experiences with OCD, Anxiety, and Depression.  

Because these issues have been such a significant part of my life, it makes sense the subject would make its way into my poetry. This chapter shares these poems. In creating and composing them, I have striven to provide an authentic purview into both the horrors I have experienced as well as the hope I have found in help and healing. Since none of us are perfectly healthy mentally and emotionally, it is my hope that these poems might provide some measure of insight and inspiration to all who read them.  

Coarsely Crossed

Coarsely crossed, the angst-filled smart
Of agony did fill my heart.
An outgrowth of my humbling path,
Bedecked with the Refiner's wrath,
That ripped my soul and taxed my mind,
Beat me through life's unending grind,
That was ordained to make a king,
Who after night is o'er will sing
A thousand praises to the Cause,
That aided an end to my flaws,
As to the realms of royal right,
I will transcend the cold, dark night,
And gratefully begin to see
The road into eternity's
A path that starts and ends with He,
And all between depends on We.

Pain's Glory

Once upon a night so dreary,
Passing by all weak and weary,
My face cast down, my eyes a'teary,
Grappling firm with fate.

The moonlight pulsates through my heart,
As mind and soul consumes the tart
And bitter, wrenching, poignant smart
Of life's incessant grate.

When shall it end? I plead in tears,
This grating toil that spans the years?
The answer comes: not til all fears
Are vanguished 'neath His will.

And even then some shall remain,
For it's what outlines joy so plain,
The God's themselves still feel pain,
When humankind choose ill.

There is no other way to feel,
The holy joy that's just as real
As pain, this paradox reveals
There is no other way.

Then let us bear with all our might,
The angst and toil amidst life's plight,
And never ever quit the fight,
Trusting what's in store.

Though faith and trust don't erase pain,
They do fuel existential gain,
And minus them you'll ne'er obtain
That sought-for Finish Line.

Though vic'try's blessing starts with you,
It comes down from a Friend that's true,
Whose power can lift, build, and renew,
And change your very vision.

Then press on through your preparatory
Stage, then wise, and filled with glory,
You'll someday guide another's story,
That's love's supremest mission (1). 

Trapped

Trapped!
I am trapped...
Imprisoned and
Held captive
Behind bars
Inside my brain.
Strapped to the tracks
Of an oncoming cerebral train,
Crying tearless tears of unrelenting pain.
While I can imagine that hope still exists,
My heart pounds and burns as I
Grit my teeth and clench my fists,
Trying to untie my stomach knots
And twists.
Squeezing my eyes shut
I silently scream!
While still clutching hold
Of my long-harbored dream
Of healing, freewheeling,
And dealing
A terminal blow
To the serial horror show.
As much as it smarts,
In my heart of hearts,
I know I have power
O'er life's delicate flower,
To hold on still longer
Through each crushing hour,
Yes somehow I know,
That I'll still scale the tower,
Through each small step forward,
My will makes the difference,
With God lifting still,
Though His help sometimes seems
Hell-bent to kill,
The last bit of life in my soul.
It's the great paradox
Of His saving Grace
At work.
But
Investing my best
I know
He'll do the rest
   For He,
      And me,
Yes we
Each have a key
To the double-locked cell
Of my captivity,
And someday,
In His own time
I
   Will
      Be
         Free!

Consternated Underneath

Consternated underneath
A soul that's ever burdened,
With all I am,
And all I'm not,
And all I yearn to be!

O please dear God do not forsake
My ever anxious mind,
Be always near me
Is my prayer,
And peace help me to find.

And yet, I seek not ever for
A terminus to trials,
My greatest friend
They tend to be,
I should embrace life's wiles.

Yes, give me full exposure to what
Will make me like Thee,
For that, dear God's
My fondest wish:
Thy Own dear Face to see.

Unbridled Emotions

Emotions are potions affecting my brain,
Emotions are notions that set off a train
Of thoughts:
Sometimes good,
And then equally bad,
Then circling 'round
Like a misguided fad,
Around and around,
They swirl fitfully,
Til I'm wound up inside
And plumb restless, you see,
It frustrates to know
That these passions are just
A falsified image—
A facadical crust,
That fails to provide me
With accurate feedback,
Of truth's whole completeness,
And sweetness doth lack.
No matter if my state is happy or glum,
My head winds it tight
As if wound round my thumb.
And desperately grasping,
I flail for the surface,
To free from unbridled thoughts
Worthless or priceless.
While throughout my soul,
I know deep down it's true,
That accurate measure
Fails to pass my view.
It's balance in all things
I surely must gain,
The stuff that wisdom brings,
I must now refrain
From seeing the world
Through a distorted lens,
And begin my peerage
I'll here make amends,
And learn to examine
The world as it is,
And then likewise program
My thoughts to align
Things the way that they are,
And re-route my ship,
To actually reach that star,
Then through patience and vigor
And focus and light,
My soul will grow bigger,
I'll find my true sight!

A Two-Edged Sword

OCD:
What has it done for me?
Is it my friend?
Or my dark enemy?
The answer
You see,
Though I've
Oft been its slave—
Pathological knave!—
Made me crave for the grave,
Yet somehow
It managed to
Set
   Me
      Free!
Yes it does rather seem
That my nightmare extreme,
Sometimes guised as a dream—
And a good one forsooth!
For in truth
I behold,
That for brain hygiene's gold,
I must work hard to mine,
Spending mountains of time,
Sweating tears as I pine
Many years 'ere I find,
That the cure for my mind,
So oft plagued by the grind,
Is just like that gold,
Mixed betwixt all the old
Common, cheap, rocky ore,
Whose plentiful store
Hides all worth
Worth pursuing,
Investing,
Accruing;
There's no need for
Stewing,
For Freedom's
Now mine,
And ever can be
Into eternity
If I'll never
Forget
That the price
Involves sweat, and
Avoiding regret,
And that I'm only set
When I see I'm not yet.
And then rightly perceive
That in time I'll receive
A most pleasant reprieve
That's as grand, I believe
As it badly began,
As if Alchemy's claim
Held water—not sand.
So I'll keep on the fight,
Through each day,
And each night,
With a calm, tranquil might
That affirms I'm all right.
And ne'er e'er forgetting,
The puzzling piece
Of the pie
Peck calls Grace—
So truly amazing
To see it's pow'r
Razing
My mind's ills
All erasing.
Plus there's help from my pills,
My shrink,
And SAL to boot
But shoot...
What a pathetic
Hoot
I would be
On my own,
All though now I'm full grown,
And have carefully sown
Seeds of thoughtful decision,
Crafting nobly a vision:
Important!
Yes, all,
But lest I should fall,
I will never
Forget
The Source
That doth heal
With salve that is real—
As real as You,
And Me,
And OCD,
And the help,
And the cure—or
The management—
Here and
Now,
As I await its ultimate
Eradication
THEN...
By Him
As long as
   I
      Do
         My
            Part.

Chapter 7 Notes: 

1. This poem's prosody was influenced by Edgar Allen Poe's, The Raven.

Chapter 8

Personal Odes

John Keats Unnamed Grave in Rome, Italy,
where he died of Tuberculosis in 1821
at the tender age 25.

The great English poet, John Keats, died of tuberculosis when he was only 25 years old. He was not well known or monetarily successful at the time of his death; but in time would become one of the most famous and beloved of all the British bards.

Keats gifted us with some of the most memorable lines of literature in the English language, including...

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
     Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter."

"Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art."

"The poetry of Earth is never dead."

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever." 

"I find I cannot exist without Poetry."

Two of his Keats famous poems were Ode on a Grecian Urn and Ode to a Nightingale. An "Ode" is defined as a lyrical poem that is addressed or dedicated to a particular object or subject. This chapter contains several Odes I have written in the form of personal tributes to individuals who have played important roles in my life.  

LaVerda Barton Jensen
1919-2006

Ode to Grandma Jensen

Upon my bed two quilts are spread,
Reminding me of Grandma's love,
And though her body now is dead,
Her spirit smiles from up above.
While down below, her quilts they warm
My heart inside, safe from the storm;
And aid in keeping memories fresh,
Of all she did while in the flesh.
For me she true and deeply cared,
And of her time and cash she shared,
She lived for family, then died,
To join those on the other side,
And wrap the circle up complete:
A veritable heav'nly treat!
So when upon my quilts I rest,
Or cast my eyes upon their threads,
I think of she who loved me best,
And feel the love she downward sheds.

With Mama, age 7
Mesa, Arizona
Circa 1986

Ode to My Mother

I think that I will rarely meet,
A mother who's so soft and sweet.

A woman of purest desire,
Whose endless love burns bright like fire.

For she did raise me straight and tall,
And help me up when I did fall.

A saint of grace, whose voice did ring,
When tenderly to me she'd sing.

For me, whom she did call her boy,
Did teach, and all my doubts destroy.

Whose faith surpassed the tempter's doubt,
And rarely raised her voice to shout.

Her early morning moving feet,
Was up to fix us food to eat.

Those choice repasts midst candlelight,
Such memories do still burn bright!

And never shall I e'er forget,
Her cozy table, cleanly set.

Or how she always kept the rule,
To be home when I returned from school.

Her willing voice was there to cheer,
And always lent a listening ear.

To hear the sorrows and the joys,
Of her two girls and all five boys.

Among the things that meant so much,
Was Ma's sweet, gentle, tender touch.

Her healing art and friendly nature,
"Angel" is her nomenclature!

To her I owe my very best,
And thus I now must show the rest,

Mother in Honolulu, HI on the beach

with Diamondhead in the distance.

Mama was raised in Hawaii,

and her heart never left the Islands

That I grew up to be a man,
Because of her choice guiding hand.

And if my love for Mother's true,
I will prove it unto you,

By searching for a wife—no other—
Than a gal as good as Mother.

And with her raise some girls and boys
To pay Ma back and boost her joys.

That is what my mind thinks of,
To repay Mother's perfect love (2) (3).  

Sonnet 21  (To Mother)

Pure refined elegance and cheerfulness,

Marketh the heart and soul of dear Mother,

And when I pray, I do ask God to bless,

And prosper this woman—like no other.

Her talents are many; her will is strong,

Her love grows for me each day that passes,

Much of Earth's evil would not last too long,

If my mother were raising the masses.

Soul set to triumph and taste victory,

She presses on in spite of all trials,

Forging for grandkids a valiant story,

Teaching us to deal with life's wiles,

   And angel of peace and goodness is she,

   And if not for her, there would be no me! (4)

Ida Joy Anderson
Dr. JJ's maternal first cousin

Ode to Ida Joy

As generous as nature's giving,
   As gorgeous as a movie star,
How fortunate that she is living
   So very near, instead of far.

As talented as any other,
   As thoughtful as a gal could be,
She's like a sister or a brother,
   Oh, how much she's done for me!

Through struggling crucibles and trials,
   Ever pressing forward, she
Keeps going on for miles and miles,
   Someday a goddess she will be.

Oh how she's blessed my life to date,
   And oh what service she has done!
I hope as great will be my mate,
   When I've finally found my ONE.

The difference that her soul hath made,
   Yes contributions made galore,
How many times she's come to aid,
   A gal in pain, or a bloke who's poor—

Like me—and yet her goodness gives
   A motivation to extend
My hand to another soul that lives,
   When my fortune finds its other end.

A privilege and an honor see,
   To be a cousin of this saint
Named Ida Joy, I'm blessed to be,
   Her friend for all eternity!

Being Silly with my Sister Jody
Smith Family Reunion
Gunlock, Utah
Summer 2015

Ode to My Sister Jody

So mindful of her family,
And capable as any other,
A blessed sense of humor, see:
Is my sister, Jody.

And though she is my sister, free,
A chosen friend she'll always be,
An angel's blessing unto me,
Yes, 'tis my sister Jody!

She's always been there when I've had
Troubling times both big and small,
Like when dating made me mad,
Or dough—when I had none at all.

A true support through thick and thin,
She is one of my truest friends,
Who's cheered me on—win or lose—
No doubt she'll keep up til the end.

With Jody at the graves of our
Smith Ancestors in Nauvoo, IL
August 1991

At times when I could not stand tall,
And needed some supporting,
She was there to catch my fall,
And nurse my wounds from courting.

It is not easy to express,
The meaning of a soul like Jode,
Who's always there to love no less,
Hence why I've penned this ode.

That somehow I might capture here,
The glory of my sister, dear,
Who's in my heart though far or near,
Her blesséd name is Jody!

Jody and me
on the Mississippi River
August 1991

Her darling girls and fine man Troy,
Mean so very much to me,
I'm such a lucky, blessed, boy,
And also an Uncle, you see.

Lest I forget her sweet boy Luke,
A debonair prince of a tot,
I know for sure he was no fluke,
As a boy myself I've often thought

What a shame it would be if
A universe filled with little boys,
None of whom e'er had the chance,
To call Jode "Mom," oh what missed joys!

As a psuedo-son at times, I think
I'm credible to appraise,
That the universe is back in sync,
Now that Jode's got a son to raise!

Jody and me
Niagara Falls, New York
August 1991

In spite of all this poem doth state,
It's only but a paltry rhyme,
That fails to capture just how great
Jode is—yes she's simply divine!

Yes, words are but a fickle form,
That ne'er quite catch the majesty
Of Jody's soul so bright and warm—
The part of her not always seen.

And while she is a foxy catch,
And her beauty's plain to view,
Her soul is far more lovely still—
As good as she is true.

Kelly Church w/
Grandpa Jensen
August 2003

Ode to the Churches

(Upon our arrival in Bloomington, Indiana; August 2003)

The Jensen's have missed sweet, sweet Kelly,

Ever since she did move far away,

Cause she's sweeter than cakes at the deli,

So seeing her has made our day!

Her golden locks, oh how they shimmer!

Her eyes, how they shine in the light,

How grateful we are to have dinner,

With dear Kelly here in our sight!

Kelly Church (Minnie Mouse)
And Uncle Jordan (Hamlet)
Halloween 2002

We think Kelly's sweet, pretty Mama,

Whose cooking is second to none,

Has eased all our traveler's trauma,

And ensured a great weekend of fun.

And then there is Kelly's fine Pappy,

A bright and aspiring scholar,

He rides bikes and he's one stellar chappy,

And his tech ware is always top dollar.

So here we are all now together,

Laughing and having some fun,

Enjoying the Bloomington weather,

We'll be sad when it's over and done.

Note: This poem was a collaborative effort with my father, Rex Buckley Jensen, on our 2003 cross-country road trip together, which ended with Dad dropping me off to seek my fortunes in Atlanta, Georgia before flying back to Utah.  

Ode to Shannon  (on her 21st Birthday)

Shannon Long's a special lass,

And one of my good friends.

She's filled with spirit, spunk, and class

And yes, she always tends...

To brighten days and memories make,

Yes everyone who leaves her home,

Fun and happiness they take,

And now and then a tome.

On Singing Post Lane there is a place,

Where action rolls in from the street,

And there you'll find a smiling face—

A friend and a nice, soft seat.

And lovely treats and funny shows,

And lots of fun, joy, and mirth,

It's better that ribbons and bows,

Yes, one of the best spots on Earth!

But enough of lauding her folks' home,

When Shannon's the person we cheer,

Explaining to her with this poem,

How much we love having her near.

And glad, yes indeed that — — fails (5),

To recognize all that she's worth,

Leaving her with us, and all that entails,

We're the luckiest folks on the earth!

The difference one makes

'Tis truly a wonder,

And Shannon is always impacting,

Our lives for the better,

Through thick and thin fetter,

Dear Shannon: Our friend everlasting!

Ryan Jensen Bunker's Headstone (front)
City Cemetery; Monticello, Utah

Ode on a Passing Friend (and Cousin)

Bereaved and grieving

O'er the loss

Of a beloved friend—and cousin.

A life cut short?

   A tragedy?

      A son who's met his end?

But no...

From somewhere deep inside

A greater light reveals

A vision of things as they really are,

That gives sight as it heals

Our wounded hearts,

Whose bleeding tears

Can't count all the memories

We'll always cherish

And remember

Throughout the years.

With my cousins, Ryan Bunker (left)
and Preston Bunker (center)
Circa 1990

And though they will be lived without 

A close proximity

To him whose precious soul we'll love

Into eternity,

The Master who created and knows all,

Who holds all in His power,

Who's graven us on the palms of His hands, (6)

Who inject eternal hope into

   Our minds,

      And souls...

Clasps us in His loving arms,

Reminding us He brings

All righteous, departed souls into His service,

Where their work goes on,

Making death

   More like 

      Mission transfer

         Than to extinction.

Ryan Jensen Bunker
1979-2005

And when that day of light appears

To us who linger still

Upon this Earth

   To toil

      And till,

We'll see things

As they really are,

Then with joy our hearts will fill,

And with newfound clarity

We'll view the tapestry

Of our life that's weaved by God

Into eternity.

Then regardless what side of the veil

Our work happened to be wrought,

We'll know in truth,

It matters not,

As long as we prevail.

For He's already won victory on our behalf.

Now it's up to us.

If we succeed, as did He,

Then victory shall be ours at last

At some blessed, holy day

Then death shall be powerless

To stand in our way.

Ryan Jensen Bunker's Headstone (back)
City Cemetery; Monticello, Utah

But, in the here-and-now it's true,

   That mostly it just hurts,

So, while this state of angst and pain

Doth last, O Lord we plead

For help to gain

Thy strength,

And may it remain

Throughout our time of need.

That with forward glances we may

Look to the realm where we, indeed,

Will once again be with our cousin—and friend,

To him and Thee, all love we send.

   Amen.  (7)

Chapter 8 Notes: 

1. Grandma Jensen made me four quilts (three of which were full-size) over the course of my life. Two of them I still have and use. One was gifted to me in August 1997 as I was beginning my senior year of high school. I moved away from Monticello, Utah to Spokane, Washington, to live with my oldest brother and his wife for my last year of high school, so Grandma gave me my "graduation quilt" nine months early so I could use it as a bedspread for my bed in Spokane. It has traveled with me everywhere I have gone since (over 30 different moves all over North America). It has been my bedspread in most of these places. The second quilt I still have was given to me as a wedding present. Amazingly, Grandma Jensen died two years before I was married (before I had even met Lina), but an incredibly conscientious and organized person, she had my marriage present quilt ready years in advance. 

2. This poem's prosody was inspired by Sergeant Joyce Kilmer's poem, Trees.

3.  This poem was a gift to my Mama on mother's day in 2002.  

4. This sonnet was a gift to my Mama on mother's day in 2005. 

5. Shannon had failed in her attempt to gain acceptance into a University she had applied to far from home. We (her friends) viewed this failure as a "win" for us because it means Shannon could stick around in Georgia with us.  

6. Isaiah 49:16

7. This poem was written following the completely unexpected death of my first cousin, Ryan Jensen Bucker. Only four months younger than me, Ryan and I lived across the street from each other and were in the same grade growing up. He died in an airplane accident while training a student to fly on May 23, 2005, in Conway, South Carolina.  

 

Chapter 9

Psalms of Love & Romance

A female cousin of mine once remarked to me: "You know, Jordan, I have such a hard time falling in love!"

I marveled at her comment because I have always been the exact opposite; I have always been overly prone to falling in love too easily. 

I became enamored by ROMANCE at a very young age—as early as second grade (age 8)! In fact, with my steel trap of a memory, I can readily return to grade two in my mind and name you every girl and woman I ever had a significant crush on from second grade... right on up to when I met my wife, Lina, at age 27!

Part of the early onset of this passion for romance stemmed from the fact that my father and mother were both hopeless romantics. For example, I'll never forget accompanying my dad in August 1991 as he rented a fancy hotel room and then prepared it with flowers and goodies in preparation for he and my mother's 25th wedding anniversary. That act of his, and others like it over the years planted seeds that would spring into similar actions on my part much later in my marriage to Lina.

I was further influenced by my five older siblings, who ranged from four (4) to twelve (12) years older than me. They were all dating seriously and/or getting married when I was in elementary, middle, and high school, so I was continually seeing romance bloom among my older siblings and their adored partners—long before I was old enough to date.  

I was also impacted by literature, movies, and television. Many of my favorite movies, such as Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, First Knight, Everafter, and The Count of Monte Cristo all had love stories forming key components of their various plots, something that was certainly not lost on me.   

Click HERE to read my blog post about Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves

Click HERE to read my blog post about The Count of Monte Cristo

Suffice it to say, from the age of eight-or-nine-on-up, I was more-or-less obsessed with romance in one way or another. For me, thoughts of romance were not only exciting and mysterious, but motivating as well.

In other words, thoughts and feelings of romance drove me to succeed, excel, and achieve in all areas of my life.   

For example, the epic "Robin Hood Group Date" that my friends and I organized and then carried out on Saturday, August 1, 1998, was motivated by one gal in particular. Like so many other girls and women, she didn't fall for me the way I fell for her, but I must thank her for providing me with the drive to organize and carry out that memorable production, which was enjoyed by 18 couples and several supporting cast. 

Click HERE to read more about our epic Robin Hood group date held on my dad's land in Monticello, Utah, on Saturday, August 1, 1998.  

Given these lifelong proclivities and propensities, it is no surprise that romance would find its way colorfully and prolifically into my canon of personal poetical works.

Of all the wondrous adventures and experiences one can have in life, few (if any) can match, much less surpass, the magical experience of romance—and especially when that romance is authentic and mutually-reciprocated. It's worth differentiating between one-sided and dually-shared romance because I have a great deal of experience with both; and my poetry was also inspired by both!

For me, there is just nothing else quite like the rapturous experience of having an authentic crush on, or being in love with a girl (when I was a boy) or a woman (when I was a man). And having that woman love me back just as tenderly and passionately is mystical beyond expression. That is what has made marriage so wonderful for me.  

Now, when it comes to being "properly in love" to borrow the words of Piers Morgan (1), I can honestly say that that truly magical experience has only happened ONCE—and that was, is, and ever will be with my Lina Marie.

With Lina Marie on South Beach
March 2007

However, I didn't meet Lina until I was 27 years old, and I'd be lying if I claimed I had not had scores of different "crushes"—some of them very deep, sincere, and prolonged—in the two decades before I met Lina. However, I cannot honestly say I was never properly in love with any of these girls (when I was a boy) or women (when I was a man) because none of these previous associations ever blossomed into a serious romantic relationship. Indeed, Lina is the only girl or woman with whom I have ever enjoyed that ultimate relationship status.  

Despite this fact, I confess that there were many others who, had they given me even half-a-chance, I might very well have been married long before I ever met Lina! At the very least, I would have had one (or more) serious romantic relationship along the way. But, as fate would have it, Lina was truly the only ONE for me.  

I am one who firmly believes that Almighty God plays a prominent role in the events in our lives—and especially the KEY events of our lives. Only HE knows the full story behind why things worked out with Lina and why they didn't work out with so many others.

All I know for sure is that I am so glad it all worked out the way it did!

Lina is my closest friend, and the romantic love of my life. I adore her. She has been, is, and will ever be one of God's choicest blessings to me. Nevertheless, before I met Lina, I went on several hundred dates with 100 different girls/women, beginning at the age of 16.

That's right... Lina was the magic number #101.

The next two chapters share romantic sonnets (Chapter 10) and poems (Chapter 11) I wrote before I met Lina. The chapter following (Chapter 13) will share poems I wrote either after I met Lina, and were therefore specifically inspired by her, or that were inspired along the way by "the woman I would someday marry," and would eventually be dedicated and gifted to Lina.  

Before sharing my own attempts at romantic poetry, I'd like to reprint a few of my all-time favorites from great poets of yesteryear. I begin with one by Walt Whitman, who succinctly summarizes both my experiences with and my gratitude for all the girls (when I was a boy) and women (when I was a man) who motivated me to think, say, do, be, and believe BIG—leading all the way up to the nonpareil pinnacle of my dating experiences—my wife to be: Lina Marie Tucker.

Some of these motivations sprang from the hope and anticipation of potential romance with a whole bunch of different gals over the years. And some of these motivations sprang from the smart and sting of rejection, which is something I experienced most of the time until I met Lina.      

Click HERE to read about Dr. JJ's Rocky Road of Romance

Old Uncle Walt
1819-1892

Sometimes with One I Love

Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I 

            effuse unreturn'd love,

But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay is certain

            one way or another,

(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return'd,

Yet out of that I have written these songs.)

—Walt Whitman

      (1819-1892)

Robert Browning
1812-1889

Summum Bonum (2)

All the breath and the bloom of the year in the

             bag of one bee:

     All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the

             heart of one gem:

In the core of one pearl all the shade and the

             shine of the sea:

     Breath and bloom, shade and shine,—wonder,

             wealth, and—how far above them—

                 Truth, that's brighter than gem,

                 Trust, that's purer than pearl,—

Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe—

             all were for me

                 In the kiss of one girl.

—Robert Browning

           (1812-1889)

Love's Philosophy

The fountains mingle with the river

   And the rivers with the ocean,

The winds of heaven mix for ever

   With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;

   All things by a law divine

In one spirit meet and mingle.

   Why not I with thine?—

See the mountains kiss high heaven

   And the waves clasp one another;

No sister-flower would be forgiven

   If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth

   And the moonbeams kiss the sea;

What is all this sweet work worth

   If thou kiss not me?  

—Percy Bysshe Shelley

           (1753-1844)

Edgar Allen Poe
1809-1849

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,

     In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

     By the name of Annabel Lee;—

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

     Than to love and be loved by me.

She was a child and I was a child,

     In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

     I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

     Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

     In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, by night

     Chilling my Annabel Lee;

So that her high-born kinsman came

     And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

     In this kingdom by the sea.

The Beautiful Annabel Lee
And other vestiges of Poe's poetry

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

     Went envying her and me:—

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,

     In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud, chilling

     And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

     Of those who were older than we—

     Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above,

     Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

     Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:—

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

     Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes

     Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide. I lie down by the side

Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride

     In her sepulchre there by the sea—

     In her tomb by the sounding sea.  

—Edgar Allen Poe

           (1809-1849)

William Shakespeare
1564-1616

Sonnet XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date;

Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometimes declines,

By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.

   So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

   So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.  

—William Shakespeare

           (1564-1616)

William Wordsworth
1775-1850

She Was a Phantom of Delight

She was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;

A dancing shape, an Image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A Creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;

A Being breathing thoughtful breath,

A Traveller between life and death;

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;

A perfect Woman, nobly planned,

To warn, to comfort, and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of angelic light.  

—William Wordswoth

           (1775-1850)

Chapter 9 Notes:

1. From 2011-2014, Piers Morgan hosted a television show on CNN called Piers Morgan Live. On this show, he would routinely ask his guests if they had ever "properly been in love." This nightly schtick unique to his show would promote repartee regarding the guest's romantic memories and relationships. 

2. Summum Bonum is a Latin term that means the "Ultimate Good." 

Chapter 10

SONNETS of Love & Romance

Since I was just a little boy, I have had great respect and admiration for the Immortal Bard. As previously shared, my father gifted me the Complete Works of William Shakespeare for Christmas in 1989, when I was only 10 years old! Around that same time, I read the entire play: The Merchant of Venice. I didn't understand a word of it, but was determined to finish what I had started.

I was blessed to have been born to a family who both understood and venerated the talent, greatness, and wisdom of that remarkable Briton's prolific pen. In addition to his 37 plays, Shakespeare also composed 154 sonnets. His sonnets were all crafted using the same style of rhyme and rhythm: 14 lines in iambic pentameter (10 beats or syllables per line) using the rhyming pattern of ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG. It is from a sense of pure, sheer, and deep veneration of the GOAT of English Literature and poetry that I chose to craft my own sonnets in this same format, as follows...

Sonnet 1   (Pure Unsullied Sweetness)

The pure unsullied sweetness in her face,
Unveils far more than just mere pulchritude.
Her every movement filled with perfect grace,
Hides inner beauty most have never viewed!
The eye alone so poorly judges light,
And oft ensnares mere senses in its grasp,
Rewarding far too much on simple sight,
Ignoring all that's held in a soul's clasp!
But when her inward majesty's revealed,
To one who recognizes Godly grace,
'Tis like a vision of a pure gold field,
Enriching outer beauty in her face!
   Alas, my most rewarding quest shall be:
   To find her grace and share eternity!

Sonnet 2   (The Best Kind of Me)

If I am to win the true heart of she,
And find victory upon the white shore—
Oh, then I must be the best kind of me:
Giving my all to a principled core.
There's no other way to woo and to win
The heart and soul of so mighty a dame.
Mere thoughts of her cause my young head to spin,
To marry such grace is better than fame.
There's no other way to equal the bill,
Than giving my all to the name of pure good,
Deomonstrating that I have a good will,
Doing my best to do all that I should.
   There's no better prize than her presence see,
   And nothing brings greater joy unto me!

Sonnet 3   (My Lovely Queen)

My lovely Queen to whom I give my heart,

Upon this day of promise I declare:

That I shall ever strive to do my part,

And vigilantly keep myself aware

Of your needs: I forthwith am your servant,

And equal partner in solemnity.

Witnessing that I shall 'ere be fervent

In the execution of my duty.

For as I kneel and make this vow to thee,

My promise is to more than just thee love,

Besides a witness to society,

This union marks an oath with God above:

   That I will dedicate unto the end,

   To honor, serve, and love my dearest friend!

Sonnet 4   (Long Distance Romance)

Of all the women I have ever met,

My (name here) tops the list for this lad's heart,

And on this day of romance I shall let,

My love for her begin to make its start!

Although it's true that we're a world apart,

And find myself away from her sweet soul,

I feel as though my heart beats with her heart,

To come nearer to her is now my goal!

And how I wish my presence soon will join,

With her great spirit now so far from me,

That somehow I might manage to purloin,

A tender kiss from her excellency!

   What bliss awaits for lovers true like we,

   It's like a taste of immortality!

Sonnet 5   (Romance in Old Age)

Though past by far her fair and tender prime,
And former silken locks have grown a-hoary;
While aged skin proves sovereignty of time,
And eyes blind, bereft the weight of glory
In store for this fair woman soon to be
Higher than the angels, yea—a Goddess—
Blessed again with matchless youthful beauty,
Putting mortal looks to shame. I'd confess
In this sphere has such beauty ne'er been viewed,
Even amidst the fairest in the land;
Yet grows by spades within women imbued,
With heaven's own goodness, so pure, so grand!
   That upon time's termination doth prove:
   That true love's beauty, and true beauty's love.

Sonnet 6   (Brightly Smiling Hope)

If hope still brightly smiles upon my chance,
And if her heart still lives within my grasp,
If somewhere in the future of romance,
We twain shall meet at last in spirit's clasp.
If light still boldly burneth at the end,
And she and I could yet be one in soul,
If she could condescend to be my friend,
In time, mid patience, we'd both find our goal.
If what appeared to be was a facade,
And burnished hopes triumphant voice did speak,
Proclaiming loud and clear the voice of God,
That anything can be unto the meek.
   My radiant heart would all but burst with glee,
   I'd with my Queen throughout eternity!

Sonnet 7   (Nothing Sweeter)

There is nothing sweeter than my Lady,

Whose blessed soul caresses me with love.

Her greatness and beauty is uncanny,

A selfless Angel sent from God above,

She emanates celestial majesty

To every child of God whom she doth see.

For me her countenance spawns ecstasy,

Burgeoning my heart residually,

Sustaining life and passion in my breast,

Inspiring me to always be my best,

And patiently await for what's in store.

   Alas, there's nothing purer than my wife!

   The sweetest single being in my life!  

Sonnet 8   (One and Only)

To the one and only woman of my dreams:

This day I pledge my heart to you!

No matter how drawn out the battle seems,

I will not faint nor falter; I'll be true!

Entirely dedicated thus to serve

You as my precious Queen you will remain,

Joined in a sacred union you deserve,

That'll ne'er be dissolved; I speak this plain:

That You, the tender sweetheart of my youth,

Whose name's inscribed in my heart next to God,

Shall sit upon a throne with me in truth,

Where I will heap glory, honor, and laud!

   Eternally upon your priceless soul,

   Whose light and life forever I'll extol!

Sonnet 9   (Richly Refined Elegance)

There is no finer woman on the Earth for me,

Whose richly refined elegance and beauty

Bespeak unto me the worth of her angelic soul.

My eyes they dance, and my heart doth melt

When in her presence. And what of my ears?

The sound of her voice supplies me with

Heavenly evidence of her majesty,

For which I rejoice! But deeper still is something

Much greater. To find and marry one such as her

Is the supremest of blessings to me.

How grateful I feel to be her sir—

The man she chose to love so tenderly.

   My love for her is like the burning sun,

   Excepting that our love will ne'er be done!

Sonnet 10   (When the Day Arrives)

When the day arrives and I see her face,

A face that doesn't turn away from me—

In spite of beauty, intellect, and grace—

I'll pause and softly question: can it be?

For after all the failure and the smart,

I'm hoping now for days of pure sweet bliss,

Beyond those days of old that broke my heart,

Where I can sit and savor her sweet kiss!

The joy I feel in making it this far,

Leads me to believe that I can finish

The journey that is leading to my start,

Where eternal joy will ne'er diminish.

   Perhaps the pain once felt too much for me,

   Yet enduring that pain has set me free!

  

Chapter 11

POEMS of Love & Romance

There are always two sides to everything in this world. ROMANCE—which has the potential for providing us with so much fulfillment, joy, and pleasure—likewise carries the possibility of enormous grief and pain. 

As I have amply chronicled, my journey to Lina was interesting and adventurous; but it was also very challenging and painful.

Along the way, I wrote a great many poems on the subject of ROMANCE. 

Some of these works were driven by my imagination's concoctions of "My Future Bride," and some of them were inspired by the many beautiful, wonderful, and virtuous young women I had the privilege of associating with and/or dating before I met Lina. This chapter includes the poems I wrote in the lead-up to meeting my Lina Marie. Then, in next week's chapter, I will share the poems and sonnets I specifically wrote to, about, and/or for Lina herself.  

Click HERE to read Dr. JJ's Rocky Road of Romance.  

My bride, Lina Marie (née Tucker) Jensen
is the Paragon of Perfection to me.
Next week's chapter's poems
are all dedicated to her.

The Paragon of Perfection   

She walks with pure nobility,
A queen of wit and grace,
She's majesty personified,
And light shines from her face.

My eyes are dazzled by her beauty,
Her figure makes my head swim,
Though all of that is nigh eclipsed,
By who she is within.

Aside from talent, brains, and class,
And a great attitude,
She has a Kantian good will,
Yet never plays the prude.

The wisdom that she cultivates,
The questions that she fields,
All this is pure evidence of,
The power that she wields.

And when my person and my soul,
In unity doth meet,
With her whose soul I love the most,
There's nothing else so sweet!

'Tis like a mingling with the Gods,
To be with one so pure,
The essence of our union sweet,
Is Godly love, I'm sure!

Lina Marie (née Tucker) Jensen
Bridal pics, August 2008

My Future Bride   

Sitting by the water's side,
I think about my future bride,
And fill my mind with her sweet soul,
Reflecting on my connubial goal,
And just how tender, pure, and sweet,
Will be the day I get to meet
That woman and my angel too,
Toward whom I'll always be true,
And how I'll bask in each moment
That God foreknowingly hath sent.
Such thoughts are just as sweet and pure
As this river and it's verdure.

The Soul's Beauty

Ah!  The sight

Of she so fair:

Her lips, her face,

Her fragranced air;

Her fitly form

And soft smooth touch,

Her silken hair

And other such...

Hath stole my senses,

Yet more sweet,

Is when my soul 

With hers did meet;

For while beauty fair ignites a fire,

Soul's goodness if my heart's desire—

That lasts beyond the external face,

To lifelong bliss and eternal grace.  

The Nameless Belle   

Although I've yet to learn your name,
Your picture casts a certain light,
That on my face a radiance rests,
A piece of heaven to my sight!

Amidst the throngs of gals I see,
All through this great vicinity,
Your lovely face, my eyes do fix,
And wish your heart and soul to see.

Oh how I wish that I could meet
Your mind and wit and all that be,
I shan't refrain, but just entreat,
With hope that you smile back at me.

And if you do, you'll ne'er regret,
And whether love or passion blooms,
You'll gain a friend, who's a poet,
And share life's odorless perfumes.

Hence this shall be my season's goal,
Yea, here's a Christmas wish I jingle,
That with your gorgeous, lovely soul,
I yet shall meet and mingle!  (1, 2)

I Wonder   

I wonder if she thinks of me

Like I do think of her.

I wonder if she feels for me

As if I were her sir.

I wonder if inside she feels

A love sprung up within.

I wonder if she yearns for me

Like I do yearn to win

Her heart and hand,

And tender touch,

And a sweet kiss upon,

Her rose-red lips so pure and sweet,

There couldn't be a better treat,

For this young lad of amorous passion,

I'd love her like love had gone out of fashion,

And spoil her deep with sweet, tender kisses,

And snuggling and cuddling and other such blisses,

And when we grew tired, we'd love all the more,

As we furthered our journey to see what's in store,

Oh, my blessed (put name here), to you I will thank,

For into your heart have I drowned, yes, I've sank,

Into a magical ocean so pure,

That ever, forever I'll always be sure,

That you are the one that is perfect for me,

And both you and me,

Together shall see,

Into the future

And eternity,

That thanks to our choices,

We'll always be free,

Clasped

   In

      Each

         Other's 

            Souls.

A Picture of Her Soul   

If I could have a picture of her soul,

I'd hang it on my wall amidst the rest,

And find light from the central piece had stole,

The glory from among the outward best.

And as it shone most brightly on the wall,

I'd notice that a flame would soon be lit,

And all around the picture soon would fall,

As fire engulfed the room and all in it.

And as the flames took hold upon the house,

I'd wonder what had happened to the frame,

And picture of her worth in heaven's blouse,

Would it too be destroyed within the flame?

Then I found an answer to my query,

As I saw the portrait rise above the smoke,

The sight of it was extraordinary,

A pure heavenly vision to this bloke.

That night I learned where beauty really lies,

As I saw her majesty light up the skies.  

She Was   

She was...

An angelic figure of embryonic divinity,

A guileless goddess of perfect pristinity,

My unmatched match throughout all eternity...

This girl that I met just today.  

The Cyclical Essence
of Love in Adolescence   

The cyclical essence
Of love in adolescence,
Oft invades the presence
Of an unsuspecting lot.

The always-foolish lad,

And the ever-clueless dame,

Deny that they are had,

By an ever-present game.

They feel quite enraptured

By the person that has captured

Their heart, which soon has fractured

That organ called the brain!

It all seems rather pleasant

While the epinephrine flows,

But the couple never dreameth

Where the madness often goes:

To the place it often ends—

in heartache, ill, and stew—

As they moan and grown and cry and howl

All day and all night through.

Then firm resolves are plainly made

With anger at the wheel,

Before they turn and start again

To replay the whole spiel!  (3)

I Dream About She   

Alone with my thoughts, I dream about she;

And all of the joy that she brings unto me,

Her very existence inspires me to be:

The greatest man here, or in eternity!

Her presence I long for, her touch I adore,

Oh how this far distance maketh my heart sore,

And longing and wishing to be at her door,

I sit and I ponder just what is in store!

Then dreaming and hoping I put down my fears,

And set my mind working to face pain and tears,

Decide once and always I'll conquer the years:

I'll dedicate hands, heart, eyes, loins, head, and ears!

There's nothing more precious than my (put name here),

My love for her's deathless, I'm her greatest fan,

With her in my thoughts, I'll do all that I can,

To strive for the best that's alive in this man!

Oh dear God in Heaven, please smile upon,

The union between us, which so soon will dawn,

I promise to cherish forever beyond,

Through the tears of all years; I'll always go on!

And it shall be easy with her by my side,

Though pain shall so often interrupt our ride,

Yet we'll e'er push onward, destroying all pride,

Through the falling and rising of life's daily tide.

Oh, THANK YOU my Love for with me being one,

This journey's been hard and this journey's been fun.

And we've had some daughters and more than one son,

And now heaven's bounty through Christ we have won!

Through all of eternity I can't wait to share,

With you whom I cherish, a woman so fair,

I'll love you forever, and always I'll care,

For you more than anyone else anywhere!  

Her Tender Smile   

The sweetness of her tender smile

Ignites my soul with true love's fire;

I gaze into her face awhile,

And swoon before my heart's desire!

Her Kiss is Bliss   

Her kiss is bliss,

Her touch, divine,

And how I miss,

And how I pine,

When we're apart,

It makes my heart

Give thanks to God

That she is mine!  

Love's Undulations   

The kiss of bliss is worth the smart,

The pain and angst that wrings the heart,

For once true love has made its start,

Your bound to take both sweet and tart,

And see the thing clear to the end.

But...

For those who do,

Rewards are fat,

These words are true,

And that is that!

Saints Like She   

Eclipsing youth with maturation,

   Rarely matched throughout all time,

My heart and soul finds saturation,

   In love's ardent, aged rhyme.

Love for pure ennobled virtue,

   Though the rose be barely blooming,

Such a vision, never I knew,

   Like a blessed omen looming.

Looming o'er my humble spirit,

   Seeking God's most prized possession,

Deep respect, no doubt I fear it,

   Yet I make this last confession...

My whole life I'd night surrender,

   Through all years of mortal dwelling,

For the victory of her tender

   Heart and soul, this vow 'tis telling!

And gives voice to my intention:

   Royalty she'll be to me,

And with God's profound invention,

   I shall prove a king to She.

Minus constant, loving action,

   All this speech proves vanity,

Fails to verify a fraction,

   Of a true sincerity.

Hence, my humble, heartfelt pleading,

   Asks of her a chance to prove,

From this point I'll start a-seeding,

   Sowing seeds of my true love!

For though woman ye are known,

   Yet a Saint ye are to me,

Since first sight of you I've grown

   Fonder of your unmatch'ed beauty!

Hair of silk and skin of olive,

   Clothe a most enchanting figure,

Covered so modesty may give,

   Evidence that you are pure!

Yes, my eyes they dance in wonder,

   As they view your comely presence,

Yet what threw my heart asunder,

   Was inner beauty's evanescence!

When compared to mortal glory,

   Inner Goddess-hood potential,

Tells to me a different story,

   Fills me with all things essential.

Full of deepened admiration,

   For this Princess 'fore my eyes,

An impassioned exclamation,

   Big as life, though quaint her size.

Though still young with life well 'fore her,

   She is destined yet to prove,

Noble greatness yet to enter,

   Hearts of men towards Christ she'll move!

As I waken from somnolence,

   Thoughts of such a woman linger,

Wond'ring 'bout all my life's events,

   At far side of future's finger.

Though the dream was not portentous,

   Of a living day to come,

And though I'm apt to be contentious,

   With a holy edict from...

A wise guide 'midst Heaven's plotting,

   Steering me towards other roads,

Teaching me of God's allotting,

   Gently showing me the codes...

Of my soul's true supplication,

   Guiding me towards future's bliss,

Sending forth my incantation,

   Leading to my chosen Miss.

Yet betimes for now and ever,

   When I view sweet Saints like She,

I will praise dear God forever,

   That a she like She liked me!

The Risk   

At once when in her eyes I gazed,

My heart did melt and I, amazed,

Took joy to see her tender glance,

I'm overjoyed I took the chance!

Love's Anxiety   

The anxious state of knowing not

   Just how She truly feels;

   My stomach turns, my mind it reels,

My soul's tied in a knot!

For her sweet kiss is perfect bliss;

   Her presence is sublime;

   Her voice is as a precious chime,

Oh, curse to lose all this!

For it to fail, Oh, thought depart!

   It pangs my inmost soul;

   This chilling angst doth take its toll,

And jolts my ardent heart!

To lose a love, while not the end,

   It smarts with poignant ache,

   Yet risk is always worth the take,

If not, why live my friend? 

For though it may not go your way,

   And though it breaks your heart;

   You're best prepped for the next start,

To do better another day!

This thought in mind doth ease the sting,

   But never takes away,

   The apprehension of the day,

That courtship's risk doth bring!

One must know pain to feel true joy,

   And so it's worth the trip,

   To launch upon the fateful ship,

Never being too shy or coy!

For if you always try again,

   One day you'll rise above;

   Your heart will meet your own true love,

You'll win at last and then...

You'll bask in true Love's holy state,

   And thank the Lord for all,

   En route to answering life's all,

With your eternal mate! 

And you'll embark on newfound lands,

   And tax your best efforts;

   You'll struggle through new pain that hurts,

And wade through love's quicksands.

But if you're brave and never let,

   Life's trials breech your vow,

   One day upon you're knees you'll bow,

'Fore God who ne'er forgets...

That those who give to Him their best,

   And love each other true,

   Will one day get an endless view,

And have eternal rest!

Whenever I Lay Eyes on She   

Whenever I lay eyes on She—

This lovely lass of destiny—

My heart doth pulse with panging angst,

The kind that makes me offer thanks,

For she of whom I love so deep,

Who thrills my heart and sweetens sleep,

Who's like a vision to my eye,

And gives me so much joy I sigh...

Oh, please dear Lord make me worthy,

Of this blesséd precious lady,

So that I can be the man who

Maketh her fondest dreams come true,

For what I want with all my soul's

To see her happy: that's my goal.

How fortune's filled my empty cup,

And raised my downcast spirits up,

For she is light and life to me,

God only has seniority,

And after all is said and done,

She be my first and only One!  

To Think that I am Hers   

Oh what bliss

   Is in her kiss!

And how I miss

   Her tenderness

When I'm away

   E'en for a day,

I always pray

   To God above

To watch my Love—

   That Pure White Dove—

Whose beauty fair

   Who lights the air

      Up everywhere!

And her choice form

   Doth grace

      Each face

She sees

   From place

      To place.

Then bye

   And bye,

In my mind's eye,

   I catch a glimpse

      Of her

         And sigh...

To think

   That I

      Am Hers,

         Oh my!

Sweet Angel pure,

   I am quite sure

If I'll endure

   As her worthy sir,

That time will prove,

   When e'er we move,

Or what our groove,

   That you, my sweet

Blesséd Help Meet:

   My Greatest,

      Grandest,

         Favorite

            Treat...

I'll ever have

   Whose love—like salve—

Has healed my heart—

   A brand new start

She did impart

   Her glorious art,

Transforming me

   Into a he

      Most blessed by She,

Whose sweet beauty

   Eclipsed only

By a spirit's free

   Enamored majesty,

And femininity,

   Transcending

      All

         Glory

I have known

   As I've grown

To be on my own

   Before

      Meeting

         Her.  

Heavenly Birds   

As the Birds in the Heavens

   Fly south o'er the sea,

So my ardent heart

   Flieth nigh unto Thee! 

Costly Habits, Golden Changes   

He casts his crowns into the coffers,

   Hoping that his purse will buy,

Then wonders why she never offers,

   Anything as she walks by.

So costly is his raging habit,

   Spent in such one-sided effort,

Tossed in vain into the ocean,

   Vainly spent 'spite true devotion!

And his tears that pour like rainfall,

   Sink in silent, unseen darkness,

Like the coins and jewels, they all

   Lose their value in such starkness!

Til one day when sad and downcast,

   This ardent boy became a man,

Lifting up his head to look past,

   All his fabled, foiled plans.

And with apathetic vigor

   He walked past all former losses,

Catching view of something bigger,

   Yielding humbly to his crosses.

Years gone by he viewed his treasure,

   Taking note of interest's blessings,

'Twas purely vain to try and measure

   Who he was, or count his pleasure.

Deep in sober contemplation,

   He thought back on days of yore,

His heart brim with sweet elation,

   He gave thanks to God who bore...

His soul on behalf of he,

   Preparing long his victory,

Yet all have choice, and all are free,

   How rich they'll get, and what they'll be.

It's all a willing gift from He;

   Bestowed 'pon every soul like thee,

Who cast their old man in the sea,

   To sink like cash spent foolishly.

So glad that I did make the choice,

   That was aligned with Thy true voice,

The gift Thou promised now is mine,

   Glad I chose the will that was Thine!

A Kiss in the Rain  

A lass knows I,

   Who's bye-and-bye,

      The finest lass around

And bestest of the best is this:

   The lass, she likes this clown!

The clown is me, just watch me dance,

   So sprightly through the rain,

As hand-in-hand, towards Her I glance,

   And watch her gaze remain...

All through the storm,

   Her sun-kissed form,

      Paused slowly facing me.

And then She's mute,

   And I've no words,

      Just hushed, silent are we.

Completely lost in her bright eyes,

   I wonder and I stare,

When then, just then,

   She puts her hand

      Straight up into the air!

Then 'pon my cheek

   Her hand doth grace

      While gazing silently;

Likewise my eyes drown in her face,

   That's so perfect to me.

Does this Woman know how beautiful,

   Or what angelic love,

She radiates to me and all?

   For Her, thank God above!

Our naked feet upon the sand,

   Reaching down I take her hand,

And raise it to my lips to touch,

   The fingers that I love so much.

Then gently do I touch Her face,

   And whisper in her ear:

"If Heaven really is a place,

   It's rarely been so near!"

Her soft tan hands caress my cheek,

   And wipe away my tears,

As prelude to the moment of

   The instant of the years...

When with her lips my lips do meet,

   Consuming all my fears!  

Forever to Enjoy   

I can hardly wait to kiss the lips

   Of my beloved, cherished Mate.

My hands will soon rest on her hips,

   A sensation to satiate

My ever longing for her touch,

   And bliss of her embrace.

I love to watch her sexy gait,

   As likewise I appreciate

The pure, sweet beauty of her face,

   How fortunate a man am I

To have such communion

   With One such as She!

I sit and watch the clouds dance by

   And contemplate our union,

That boasts a bliss that's rarely matched,

   And carries true love's joy,

Thank God almighty our love hatched,

   Forever to enjoy!  

Mildred Wong's edits on my original poem.
As the poem itself reveals, I included several
of Mildred's excellent suggestions. 

Chapter 12

Psalms of Lina Marie

My Beloved Bride
Lina Marie (née Tucker) Jensen
Bridal Picture, August 2008

It is with satisfaction, joy, and a enormous sense of personal fulfillment that I arrive at this final chapter of my romantic poems.

Why?

Because all of the poetry in this chapter is either inspired by or dedicated to my dear wife, Lina Marie Tucker, who, in conjunction with being my only sweetheart, precious lover, and wife of 15 years, is also my best friend, closest confidant, and greatest supporter.

As I have amply chronicled in the past, courting and winning Lina's heart did not come quickly or easily. 

Click HERE to read Dr. JJ's Rocky Road of Romance.  

Indeed, along the pathways of this unusually circuitous and painful—albeit richly rewarding—quest, I often felt like Jacob (Israel) of old who had to labor 14 long years for the hand of his cherished Rachel. My journey to Lina Marie Tucker was similarly long and laborious; it simply didn't come quickly or easily—nothing in life worth having does—something my dad once taught me: Nevertheless, because  I can, in hindsight, echo the sentiments of that great Prophet and Father of a mighty nation as recorded in the Holy Bible:

"And Jacob served [14] years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her" (Genesis 29:20).  

It took me 13 years from the time I first started dating at age 16 in August 1995 until the day I married Lina in August 2008. And like Jacob's patient wait for Rachel, it was worth all of the required labor!  

I proposed to Lina in a Restaurant across from the

King and Queen Towers in Atlanta, Georgia, USA, on

March 22, 2008.  I placed this sign at the base of the

Queen Tower and had her look through binoculars

immediately before getting down on one knee

officially pop the question and display her

engagement ring.  

 

Along the way, I was similarly inspired by Jacob's mother, Rebekah, whose beauty, character, and confidence made her the apple of Isaac's privileged eye and heart.

Throughout my teenage and young adult years, I often displayed on my bedroom wall a copy of a famous painting of Rebekah drawing water for Abraham's servant, Eliezer, and his camels. It was an intentional move on my part because I deeply desired to someday marry someone with the beauty, character, caring, capability, and confidence of Rebekah. In my mind and heart, anything less than Rebekah would be settling in the marriage department.

Despite these stirringly high standards, I succeeded spectacularly in somehow, someway convincing the lovely and remarkably Rebekah- and Rachel-like Lina Marie Tucker to take an eternal chance on me!   

As magical, mystical, and magnificent as ROMANCE can be for the individual and couple involved, it ultimately has an even high purpose than individual or relational joy, pleasure, satisfaction, and fulfilment. That higher purpose is, of course, PROCREATION, which makes it possible for even more people and their immortal souls to eventually experience the joys and wonders of romance... and all the other magnificent experiences, knowledge, and things available to us in this world—and beyond!

Lina and I in front of our Florida home

in 2022.

Fifteen (15) years into marriage and I'm still crazy about my Lina Marie. Not only does the ROMANCE continue and deepen, but our relationship is much richer and more mature than it was in 2008. Don't get me wrong... no one in this world has a perfect marriage; Lina and I are no exception. Under the best of circumstances marriage still requires work and selflessness to succeed. As we've mutually committed to such a lifestyle, it's worked out pretty well! Plus, making up after a disagreement or difficulty is divine! 

Perhaps some readers may be thinking: "This is all well-and-good, Dr. JJ; but why publish something as private as a love poem to one's intimate partner?"

Good Question, and my answer is two-fold.   

First, these poems are all appropriate for a general audience. In other words, details of our intimate relationship are not shared. Second, it is my sincere hope that whoever reads these poems might find inspiration that will influence and empower them to more fully realize the heavenly potential in their own lives and romantic relationships—including (and especially) their marriages.

After all, I was once just a young, jejune juvenile who was fortunate enough to be introduced to the work of Byron, Poe, Shakespeare, Shelley, and Wordsworth, who collectively influenced and inspired me a great deal!

While my work may never be appraised as being on-par with such masters, I have nonetheless derived an enormous amount of pleasure, satisfaction, and fulfillment from following my heart to make the attempt.  

ENJOY!  

Finally   

The tender kiss of lips so sweet,

   The sweet smell of my precious dear,

Her saintly presence is a treat,

   Oh how I love to have her near!

Of all the girls that I have thought,

   Were better than the rest for me,

Among all those for whom I sought,

   I knew that still I'd not met She.

For every time I'd like a lass,

   There'd be a deep and inner sense,

That though this woman was first class,

   Eventually she'd be past tense.

How painful and how deep the smart,

   When each time I would bid adieu,

Or be shut down, my bleeding heart,

   Did ever long to just meet YOU!  

There was no shortcut through the years,

   The price was set, I had to choose,

The game was mine to win or lose,

   The cost to win: time, sweat, blood, tears!

It seems now like a dream to me,

   As I reflect upon that choice,

That proved to shape my destiny,

   And led me unto thy sweet voice.

May God be thanked for faith and will,

   And the power that lifted me,

And made my natural self the kill,

   'Pon altars of eternity.  

Worth It 

When I meet my bride,

I shall know it; and she

Lina doing homework in her
dorm room at Georgia Tech

Shall sense it like palpable rain,

As it falls down from Heaven,

Like glistening leaven,

Assuaging and healing my pain.

Oh the years that I worked,

With Her sweet soul in mind,

Trying hard not to slip or to fall,

Working hard to improve,

Yes, I watched every move,

For I knew what was best above all!

Yet the price I must buy

Seemed so dauntingly high,

And without her face singed in my eyes,

I often would wonder,

Had the deal gone under?

I was always aloof of the Prize!

For we never supposed

Long before I proposed,

How great I would often be tried.

But with Father's own blessing,

My soul kept progressing,

Past gulfs that seemed endlessly wide!

And so often it seemed,

As I wrestled and dreamed

Of the battles in which I took part,

That success only dallied,

While rejections rallied,

Vestigially vexing my heart!

After never succeeding,

My heart always bleeding,

I wondered if all was in vain?

How could I rekindle

The flame that would dwindle,

And turn so much loss into gain?

And there were those times,

When the umptieth woman

Made it clear that she wanted no more

Of my face or my presence,

Unmistakable evidence

That far outweighed any implore!

Yet something remained,

Though my soul often pained,

All through those vexatious years.

He managed to handle,

Kept relighting my candle,

And managed the worst of my fears.

He kept me prepared,

While my burden He shared,

So that when she'd finally meet me,

She'd feel it and ponder,

No longer look yonder,

For there in the flesh would I be!

Then we'd both understand

That the pain had been planned,

With His loving Hand there to guide it.

And humbly we'd say

As we knelt down to pray,

Thank You Father above; it was worth it!

Then something amusing

Will grace our perusing

As we contemplate all that had passed.

And we'll sigh several sighs,

Wipe a tear from both eyes,

And hold onto each other fast!

And midst sunset's grandeur

I'll view her with candor,

And recognize something anew.

Though her looks still a prize,

Always thrilling my eyes,

Yet my eyes cannot see what's most true...

For the purest of gems

Isn't found in her face,

Though a breathtaking face she possesses;

For when beauty's bright glimmer,

With old age grows dimmer,

Her spirit my soul still caresses!

Thus when youth's bloom is fading,

I'll still be awaiting

The best time of all to arrive.

After so many years,

Filled with joy and with tears,

We'll never have been so alive!

Living for one another

More than sister or brother

In a bond that shall always abide.

More in love than ever,

We'll forge through forever,

Eternally we'll be side-be-side!

Sonnet 11  (Pure Unsullied Sweetness)

She is a Princess; when I'm around Her

I cannot feel less than a prince—a king—

Endowed with a rich virtue apt to stir

In my bosom a pure light, which doth bring

Out the best gifts of my nature; indeed,

Inside of me I find a man renewed,

A soul prepared like soil for a seed,

To thrive and grow a crop that is imbued

With Heaven's light exposing its goodness,

And richly flowing back unto the two

Of us to whom the sweet harvest doth bless,

As daily its rich nutrients renew:

   Giving strength to run the race to its end,

   A task quite possible with one's best friend!

Sonnet 12  (Prepossessed Beauty)

Her beauty is prepossessed, and I think

That perhaps 'fore the world was I adored

Her o'er others, as mine eyes they did drink

In the sweet fairness of She; my heart soared,

Augmenting the meaning of life to come,

Where I would meet her and fall into love—

Transfixed I'd be—considering the sum

Of all that She is, sent down from above.

Such goodness, and such beauty, I would find

Her worth to surpass all other pursuits,

With a face and a form to match her mind,

I'm still at a loss to measure the fruits,

   Yet to spring forth from such a connection,

   Gifting me sweet e'erlasting reflection. 

Sonnet 13  (A Cornocopic Concatenation)

A cornucopic concatenation

Was triggered for me one fine Georgia fall,

Ushering in a delayed elation,

Catharcting some former ingested gall.

What was it? Power, or money, or fame?

Nay! It was something far longer lasting,

A subject summed up in just one word: Dame!

A friend who could help bring life everlasting,

And oh! What wonder it brought to my world!

So poignantly contrasting times of yore,

An unbroken streak of fortune unfurled,

Unlatching at last the lock to that door!

   Browning made his point; and did so quite well,

   My life's now been kissed, as I'm here to tell!  (1)

Early on in our relationship—when we were still just friends—Lina mentioned to me that she liked limerick poems. It will come as no surprise then, that I wrote several of them for her!

Sweet Lass from Homestead 

There once was a sweet lass from Homestead,

My South Florida girlfriend
climbing a palm tree

Who became a Georgia Tech Coed,

Where a lad from Utah,

Met and fell in awe,

Now sweet thoughts of Her swirl in his head. 

Genius of Beauty 

I once met a genius of beauty,

A brilliant and talented cutie,

Whose keen sense of fashion,

And life filled with passion,

Has caught my attention most truly.

Girl Named Lina 

There once was a girl named Lina,

Who's mind was akin to Athena,  (2)

With pure soul and heart,

Lina at her dorm room computer

And her beauty, like art,

Now my heart's docked in Her marina!

Finest of Girls 

I now date the finest of Girls,

Who makes my heart do flips and twirls,

So proud to be her sir,

I'm so in love with Her,

Her worth's beyond diamonds or pearls!

Exquisitely Cast 

I love her to a depth ne'er plunged before,

Midst all gals known in days of yore,

With Lina at church in 2007

Her character's a thing well wrought,

For such a lass I've always sought,

Whose beauty, though exquisitely cast,

Yet somehow, is still surpassed

By Who she is on the inside:

A Queen, a goddess, who doth abide

So pure within the realms of truth

And virtue, I must say, forsooth,

That in her presence I feel a prince!

An heir to a throne that doth evince

That I could ne'er settle for less

Than a true Princess: the very best!

A true Princess indeed You are,

Like a pure, rare gem mined from afar,

For whom I'm searched my whole world through,

Just to find someone like YOU!

A search that's oft been a troublesome trek,

Wherein I've sometimes felt shipwrecked,

Or moored upon a desert isle,

Bereft of a rare and royal smile,

Or a soft, sweet kiss, or a tender touch,

A comforting hug, or other such,

So natural in a Gal like You:

So pure, so precious, and so true!

And now to your sheer pulchritude,

Which ranks among the best I've viewed,

Your pure silk hair and soft smooth skin:

A color that's pure perfection!

Your feminine figure dazzles me,

All adding to the ecstasy

That fills my heart when I behold

Your perfect form, like perfect gold!

A smile that shineth like the sun,

Your lighted eyes make you the One

Gal I seek in the world,

Let flags of my heart now be unfurled,

With bended knee I humbly bow

In deep respect I do know now,

That you're the right woman for me,

Being yours sets my young heart free!

Sum and Substance 

Whenever I am in her presence,

I find it hard not to sit and stare,

Not just because she is so pretty,

But because of something deep down

Inside of her that draws me in

With Lina on South Beach
March 2007

Like a bee to the most precious

And gorgeous of Roses!

Like a mountain climber seeks out

Everest's elusive peak,

I seek Her hand, and

   Her heart,

      Mind,

         Soul

            Goodness,

               And LOVE...

To be one with Her,

   And commune with Her spirit.

If I were a champion athlete,

   She would be the world record.

If I were a politician,

   She would be the office of President.

If I were an artist,

   She would be the Mona Lisa,

      Or even the Sistine Chapel.

If I were a royal heir,

South Beach
March 2007

   Or even if I wasn't,

Still, she is a Princess

   Whose blood is bluer

      Than the aqua waters of

         Miami Beach or the

            Florida Keys

Near her

   Childhood home.

Whose heart is not easily won;

No true Princess's ever is.

But perhaps with a true knight's valor,

   Courage,

      Patience,

         Kindness,

And a chivalric

   Consistency

      Over time,

I might win

   The fairest gift in all the world:

Her eternal

   Love,

      Affection, and

         Promise

            To

                Be

                    Mine!

This Woman is a Queen,

   Whose elegant gowns,

        And gold and jewel-bedecked adornments;

            Whose scepter and throne,

                Castles and land,

                    Entourage and army,

                        Power and influence,

                            Beauty and grace,

Are all as mere tinsel

   On the Christmas Tree

        Of Her virtue,

          Character,

             Integrity,

                Intellect, and

                    Spirit.

Yes...

Words are but dull,

   Empty, and

      Insufficient

Means of capturing the

   Celestial essence of Her noble Being.

Nay, nothing in mortal realms

   Can ever compose a worthy description

      Of Her,

Least of all

   My

      Paltry

         Pen!

Wordsmith though I may be,

Still I sense my utter fallibility,

And my profound failure

To paint a literary likeness

   Worthy

      Of a Being so

         Divinely conceived!

The effort is like trying to reconstruct

   The Twin Towers

      With Tonka Toys. 

Well might a kindergartner attempt

   To mingle with the mind of Hawking,

Or my laughably

   Lanky an

      Limited limbs

Put themselves forth to swim the vast Pacific,

   Or traverse it in a canoe!

Such is any attempt of mine to

   Articulate the worth of

      She,

Of which any price,

   No matter how high,

      Would still be too low

         In estimating

            HER value!

Still...

   

    I must try!

I must make use of all means at my disposal,

   Paltry and pathetic though such means may be.

YES!

Though I will always fall short

   Of the goal,

I will never cease to

   Try

      My

         Best

In making

   The attempt!

Though my efforts will

   Perpetually

      Prove

         Inadequate,

I shall never

   Relinquish

      The Quest

To capture the

   Wonder,

      Glory,

         Beauty, and

            Majestic celestiality

Of the lovely,

    Pure, and

        Precious WOMAN

          I have grown to love

             So

                Much!

Behold, the

   Consummate magnificence of...

Lina

   Marie

      Tucker!  

Sweetest of Them All 

Of all sweet gifts that God can give,

She's by far the sweetest of them all!

For her I'd die; what's more I would live

And each day answer Heaven's call.

A nobler Woman I've never seen;

A prettier Being I've ne'er beheld!

I'm humbled before such a Queen.

Soon to be Sealed with God's own weld.

Amidst all of life's blissful joys,

She remains to me first and foremost,

E'en above our girls and boys,

Of She above all will I boast!

For as a steadfast, hopeful youth,

I daydreamed of one like She,

Yet hard it has been in truth

To see Her tangible actuality,

To think that somewhere in Earth's wide space

A precious woman is becoming

A spirit more beautiful than her face—

So gorgeous—my senses are numbing

In preparation to take it all in:

The glory of merging my life

   Someday

      With

         My

            Wife!

Another Failed Attempt 

There is nothing sweeter than my precious Lady,

Oh, how I've longed to meet her!

And from Her acquire the key into Her life and heart

That opens up our world

To where life really begins!

Thank God for giving me the strength

To grow grace-by-grace

Into a man of stature

Sufficiently

   Worthy

      Of

This precious Woman,

   This royal Princess,

      This Goddess-like being of

To me...

Unmatchéd majesty!

This Lady of

   The utmost elegance

      And

         Refinement,

Possessing a:

Heart of gold,

     A brain of brilliance,

          The patience of Job,

               The selflessness, goodness, and honor of Rebekah,

          The wisdom of Deborah,

     The kindness and forgiveness of Christ,

And the beauty and purity of Rachel.

With a soul filled with pure passion borne of

Character

   And

      Enthusiasm.

Then least of all her amazing traits—

At least in terms of moral import—

Comes one of my favorite ones.

Though 'tis mere icing on the cake

When compared with her

   Character

      And

         Virtue.

Nevertheless,

There still remains...

   Her

      Striking

         Beauty,

My own Aphrodite!

And though I often try to capture in words

The majesty of she of whom I love so much,

I always fall so terribly short,

And

   So

      Would

         Shakespeare.

Nevertheless,

God hath forever blessed me to be

One with

My eternal Companion,

     My Lady,

          My Wife,

               My Sweetheart,

          My Joy,

     My Friend

My Joy and my Queen.

Thus in ink it is now emblazoned:

Another failed attempt

To articulate the

Majesty of

   My

      Precious

         Wife.  

A Perfect Match 

Somehow these two

   Just look right together.

In puzzle-like fashion

Their natural fit emerges

From photographic images

Like an artistic, fictional portrayal

Of lovers meant to be.

It's like they're siblings

   Or close cousins,

But of course they're not,

So...

   What accounts for such a fit?

Though scholars may surmise the scene 

For hints of a logical explanation,

And poets may peruse

The nature of idyllic attraction,

Neither can justly ascribe

Or adequately articulate

The perfection of

Their match.

They just are:

A perfect,

   Natural match

Made

   By

      God

In

   His

      Heaven

         Above,

A signal and sign

Of His eternal love.  

Gratitude 

Gratitude.

It's all summed up in the assessment and attitude

That I now possess a gem of all gemstones

In HER.

It's seeing all other achievements

Wane in their luster

When compared

To the honor

Of being

Her sir.

It's seeing romance—the greatest conundrum,

Frustration, and challenge

Of my young life to date—

Work itself out miraculously

In the warmth of her embrace.

It's seeing the imprint of God's own Hand

Gently,

   Yet Firmly

      Intervene

In a matter of such weighty importance.

It's being filled to overflowing

With my love for Him

And my lover for Her—

Consummating my everlasting affection—

For

   Both!

Holding Hands 'Neath the Covers 

Of all sweet affection

Exchangéd between lovers,

There's nothing quite like

Holding hands 'neath the covers.

Concealed from others' eyes

It's more than mere show,

This token of true love

That's destined to grow.

While all things erotic may

Take place 'neath the sheet,

Even between strangers

Just met on the street.

Purchased with the lucre

Of lust's appetite,

And climax comes quickly—

A vice tricky to fight.

It lasts just a moment—

A swift, fleeting turn,

Thus anything greater

A person must earn!

Oh, the sweet tender molding

Of true lovers' hand-holding,

Takes time to engender

Such pure love to send her.

It can't be attained

Without pure faithfulness,

Mutually sworn—

The union to bless!

Yet it's worth the effort

In patience and time

Required to gain it

And make her heart mine!

Revealed by the sweet clasp 

Of my hand in hers

Where no one can see it;

I pray it endures!

I'll love her forever,

And e'er take her hand,

In light, dark, and shadow;

'Tis a privilege grand!

That plays a sweet melody

On my heart's strings;

A tune so endearing

It trumps most other things!

I'm Thankful for Pictures 

I'm thankful for pictures,

For pictures of She.

I'm thankful for romance,

And dates yet to be!

I'm glad I have eyes,

Two of them that can see,

That I might drink deeply

Of her sweet beauty!

A beauty that melts me

And brings my heart bliss!

Her gorgeous reflection,

Oh, how I do miss!

Her salty sea green eyes

And pure olive skin,

A brow that is so wise

It lights from within!

A face so well fashioned,

Her cheeks full of life,

With ears cuter than puppies

Yes... this is my Wife!

Her face lights my world,

Her form makes my heart race,

Her figure's a wonder

Bespeaking beauty's grace.

That makes Her an Angel,

And Goddess to my heart.

A Being that I loved

Right back from the start.

When I first laid eyes on

The wonder of She,

And since ne'er recovered,

So glad She chose me!

And now that she's away

Apart from my grasp,

I'm thankful for pictures,

Since I cannot clasp

Her form to my bosom,

And cuddle her close,

And tenderly kiss her:

The One I love most!

So until I see her

Again soon to come,

I'm thankful for pictures

Of my chosen One.

And til we meet again

I daily will pore,

O'er pictures of my Love,

The One I adore!

I'm thankful for pictures,

For pictures of She.

I'm thankful for pictures

Of She who loves me!

I'm thankful for two eyes,

That baskingly gaze

Upon the sweet Angel

Who's mine all my days.

I'm thankful for this

Blesséd blessing in life,

I'm thankful for pictures 

Of my precious Wife!

The Make-Up Poem 

I didn't know holding her hand again

Would cause such an internal reaction.

Heart beating faster.....

Yearning for Hers to beat again in sync with mine.

Stomach fluttering...

Worrying She might not want me back.

The unspoken awkwardness of the first few moments of that planned picnic.

Worried like craze she might not be on the same page as me.

When . . .

Drawing closer in, 

I go out on the limb of my life,

Hoping with all of my soul that

The magnetism of True Love might once again

Bring us back together.

Then . . .

To the jubilance of both our souls

And countless generations yet to come,

Our lips join together softly

Sweetly,

Purely,

And passionately

In an affectionate token

And experience

Of the Heaven on Earth we have come to know together

During the past six months,

And I get the impression that

It may not be over

After

All!

Her Unmatched Beauty* 

Sitting up four stories o'er-looking the beach,

Our Wedding Day
August 8, 2008

It seems I can almost feel Her reach

From the other side of the world,

As though She were right here curled

Up next to me on this lodging loft

With Her skin so soft

And softly

Brushing gently up against mine.

Oh, how I do pine

For this sweet angel's

Presence,

So purely divine,

Who very soon will be mine!

Though it's only memory's pure apparition,

I cannot conceive a more precious cognition,

A visage kept sacred above any other,

More valued than father or sibling or mothing,

A Woman I value above my own flesh,

Whose body and soul with mine will soon enmesh.

For a spirit, mind, and heart as perfect as she,

I would do anything required of me.

So deep in my mind's eye, all day I shall stare,

Ever increasingly keenly aware

Of the unmatched beauty she offers to me,

With skin color of sand,

And sweet eyes like the sea!

* Composed on a hotel balcony in Daytona Beach, Florida, after dark.  I was in town teaching a professional seminar.  Lina was in Shanghai, China studying abroad.   

What a Magician! 

Dancing at our Wedding Reception
August 8, 2008

How is it

That as time goes on

I only love my GIRL

More

   And

      More

         And

            More?

How is it

That the more time

I spend with HER,

The more I miss Her

When

   We

      Are

         Apart?

How is it 

That a woman

   So beautiful,

Can just keep getting

   Prettier

      To me

With every passing

Glimpse,

     And glance,

          And stare?

I say stare,

Because I can't

   Really help it.

My eyes catch hold

   Her gorgeous face,

      And sexy form,

And I'm completely

     Entranced,

          Transfixed,

               Submerged

Beneath the spell that HER

   Beauty and

      Goodness and

         Intelligence has

            Cast upon me.

And oh!

   What a

Wonderful,

     Marvelous,

          Glorious,

               Spell it is!

Yes, what a

   MAGICIAN

                      Is She!

Unique Perfection 

Her striking eyes of perfect class,

And soft look of unique perfection;

All things told this sweet, young lass

Vancouver, British Columbia, CANADA
July 2017

Transcends all in my recollection.

Outward She radiates light,

Like a soft beam lathereth,

Her footsteps increase my sight,

As watching Her I gathereth

Inner strength inside my soul,

So inspired I am by HER,

Her dazzling charm has ta'en its toll,

Drawing me in closer.

Midst such magical delights,

In love I cannot help but fall,

Never have I seen such sights,

As Her eyes, form, face, and all.

Being amidst her glorious wonder,

I am honored and subdued,

In Her love I'm torn asunder,

And my soul with heav'n's imbued.

Mingling with her precious presence

Is an unsurpasséd pleasure,

Oh, sweet solid evanescence...

I'm in love beyond all measure!

  

Lina leaping in the air at South Beach
March 2007

My Favorite Floridian *

How sweet, how sure,

How tender and pure,

How beautiful inside and out

How unique and rare,

How stunningly fair,

How fun to learn all about.

She's special. She's fun.

She's brilliant. She's one

Girl that's captured my attention,

And on Christmas Day,

Though She is far away,

I think I will willingly mention...

How this fine Woman,

Somehow has caught,

The heart of this lad,

Who now likes her a lot!  

* This poem was one of several that I wrote to Lina as part of a Twelve Days of Christmas e-present in December 2006. She traveled home to South Florida to celebrate with her family. I remained in Atlanta at my cousin's where I lived at the time.  

My Baby's Face 

I love to see my Baby's face,

Queen Tower
Atlanta, Georgia

When visiting our special place.*

I love to see her figure fine,

And realize that she is mine.

This precious Princess, oh, so rare!

I'm lost amidst a pleasant stare

At her angelic countenance,

That makes my inward spirit dance,

And sing and praise and shout and sight,

As cuddling close the clouds roll by.

A place of passing, prescient peace,

Portending joy that will not cease.

Through days of life and far beyond

This water dwelling in our pond,

Wherein the pool's reflecting trace,

On clear days paints for met the face

Of my best friend and lover true,

The Girl I've pledged my whole life to!

* Our special place was at the base of the King and Queen Towers in Atlanta, Georgia. 

Not So Strange 

How strange it is

   That they should come together,

Our Engagement Photo
Spring 2008

      Indeed!

How is it that a 27-year old country boy

   With redneck roots,

      Poor grades,

And an even poorer

   Track Record

      With the ladies...

Should attract

   A 1590 SAT hottie from

      South Beach?

Well...

   Maybe not literally from SB,

      But close enough.

He, ironically, as formal as a British heir,

And she as casual as a refined cowgirl

   From the fly-overs.

She not looking for anything

   But friendship and fun,

      While he ardently pursued conjugality.

Yet, somehow, it still happened

   Over time.

And now they're the closest thing

   On God's green Earth

      To a Perfect

         Match!

I s'pose that's cuz God had something

   To do with it.

And besides, deep down,

The roots of both ran a little country,

Wearing second-hand clothes,

   Fearing familial impecuniosity

      And jockeying for space and/or

Whatever prized pudding

   Might be in the fridge...

      But not for long!

And isn't it something

   How they both ultimately

      Want the same things?

And see eye-to-eye

   On what really matters?

No matter that they were raised

   On different sides of a continent.

They remain as similar 

   As they are different.

And the passion!

Such attraction's fiery draw'll

Make it difficult

   Deal and

      Seal to ever

         Sever

Without even mentioning

Their fidelitous pledge

   To each other,

      The community,

         And to God—

            FOREVER.  

So, I guess it's not really so strange

   After all.

I mean

   It works!

And like magic

   At that.

It must be divinely appointed.

It's me and Her.

   It's Her and me.

      It's us

For ETERNITY...

   

And it's not so strange

   After all.  

Royal Blood 

Royal blood is hard to find,

A quest that's stretched my heart and mind.

So, it's not wonder, when I found

Her heart, once She had come around.

It filled my soul with pure delight,

And made love in my heart ignite!

To think that such a Princess fair,

Considers me as also rare!

'Tis a privileged state to dwell,

Methinks I've never felt so well

As when I find Her in my arms,

Or 'neath the spell of Her sweet charms.

With every kiss my lips are giv'n,

A precious little piece of Heav'n.

Each hug a glorious, sweet embrace,

To body—like to eyes—her face.

Her precious touch is home sweet bliss,

Augmented by each tender kiss.

And sometimes I just sit and stare,

In disbelief to be aware

That this sweet Woman's heart is mind:

A miracle from God divine!

The Lovely Lina Marie 

(Ode to Her Outer Beauty)

Our Wedding Day
Salt Lake City, Utah
8-8-08

Her gorgeous eyes and radiant smile,

I think perhaps I'll take a while,

And bask among the pleasant view,

Of all things glorious 'bout YOU!

Your pure sweet face and soft smooth hair,

Of catch me in an ardent stare,

And then there are the little things,

Like soft smooth hands and cool earrings.

I love the color of your skin,

A perfect olive that's within,

Such well-fashioned styled attire,

That's hot, yet ne'er doth cross the wire

Of pure sweet modesty's request,

Perhaps 'tis this that I love best!

A super figure and nice arms,

My knees get weak amidst such charms.

I love her sparing use of paint,*

Too much of it would only taint

The stunning natural looks She's got,

The stuff that cant' be sold or bought.

With lovely legs 'pon which She stands,

Her outer looks are simply grand!

* Makeup

Chapter 13

Psalms of SAL

Dr. JJ as a wee lad
Mesa, Arizona, Circa 1988 (age 8)

Rising to the fullness of my potential has

always been my life's greatest desire.  

In conjunction with ROMANCE, Self-Action Leadership (SAL) is my favorite poetic topic to explore as both a reader and writer. 

My SAL Journey began when I was very young—just eight (8) years old (see picture to the right). As a human being, I have many weaknesses & shortcomings that make the journey difficult and onerous at times. Despite these challenges and obstacles, I have always had a deep and penetrating desire to grow, improve, overcome, and ultimately become the best and most highly developed person I can possibly become.

Poetry has played an important role in this journey.

As a teenager and young man, I derived incredible inspiration and motivation from poems in the self-help and personal leadership genre. For example, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's The Builders and A Psalm of Life are two of my favorites. Similar works by other poets, like Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Rudyard Kipling, George Washington Doane, and others whose work appear in Roy J. Cook's concise anthology, One Hundred and One Poems, lit a raging fire underneath me that has been fueling my own personal life, professional career, and poetic pen ever since. 

Click HERE for a complete listing of SAL-oriented poems that have inspired me over the years.

It was therefore natural that I would eventually start plying my own pen in personal leadership-oriented topics and themes. My Muse has been very generous in providing me with inspiration in this regard. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I usually don't have to work very hard to create my best stuff because my finest work as a poet typically just comes to me, compliments of my Muse. In admitting this, I don't mean to imply that producing my best work doesn't require a measure of creativity and effort on my part—it does—but often that key first line or two—and vital other aspects of a given poem—are simply placed in my mind by an external, metaphysical Source.

My Muse is real, and always elevates my 
work above my own finite capacity.

Artists and writers have different ideas about the ontological and etiological nature of this Source. I'm a simple man and believe it comes from God. And I am most appreciative to my almighty Creator for blessing me so bounteously with inspiration as a poet, writer, thinker, and leader.  

All major religions and philosophies promote the importance of self-mastery and leadership. Christ taught to check one's own eye for a beam before judging another for his or her moat. Muhammad explained that, "the most excellent [struggle] is that for the conquest of self." The Buddha expounded, "As an irrigator guides water to his fields, as an archer aims an arrow, as a carpenter carves wood, the wise shape their lives." In the Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu wrote of "the power ... [and] strength of character." (1)

The Confucian moral ethic forms a sound
basis for the character education of our youth.

The philosophy of Confucianism has influenced wide swaths of East Asia. In his fascinating book, Confucius Lives Next Door, T.R. Reid reported the following about his experiences in Japan:

"Just about anywhere you go in China, Japan, Korea, Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, Taiwan, Tailand, etc., you find moral instruction right before your eyes—often in letters (or characters) ten feet tall. ... These countries are constantly preaching values, morality, and good citizenship to their citizens in the form of slogans, posters, billboards, advertisements, and TV commercials."  (2)

Reid further explained the pervasive presence of this Confucian-moral ethic in his daughter's public elementary school.

"The strongest lesson our kids took away from [their] Japanese school was something we hadn't counted on. They were taught to be little Confucians. That public school, like all Asian public schools, devoted endless time, energy, and ingenuity to the teaching of moral lessons: community virtues, proper social conduct, appropriate behavior as a member of a group. Confucius and his followers, after all, had insisted that virtue can be taught—indeed, must be taught if the society as a whole is to be a virtuous and civil community. Moral education was too important to be left to parents, churches, or Boy Scout troops [alone]. It was a job for the whole society to engage in. And this is what schools do, to this day, in East Asian societies. They teach reading, writing, arithmetic, science, and so forth, but at the same time they are busily turning out Confucian citizens, ... [learning] Confucian lessons considered just as essential: working hard, following rules, respecting authority, taking responsibility, and getting along with the group. ... There is no conception in East Asia that music and math belong in schools but moral values do not. Learning to do right is considered just as important as learning to add right."  (3)

Dr. James G.S. Clawson, an Emeritus Professor at the University of Virginia's prestigious Darden School of Business has "come to believe that one of the biggest leadership issues is the inability of people—even and especially managers and executives—to lead themselves."  (4)  Whether we are discussing executives and managers, front-line employees, new-hires, college students, teenagers, or children, the universal importance and need—nay, the necessity—of character education and moral instruction is self-evident and never diminishes. Ironically, this self-evident reality is largely ignored by public and other schools throughout the United States and Western World. That is where Freedom Focused comes into play. It has been our single-minded focus for the past 20 years to model, teach, and promote character education and moral instruction in the West. So far, the West is not very interested in what we are offering. But, I am an eternal optimist; moreover, all things must come to pass in their time.  

Thoreau once optimistically wrote:

"I know of no more encouraging fact than man's unquestionable ability to elevate his life by conscious endeavor. It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts."

One of the many exciting things about SAL is that "what we achieve inwardly, changes our outer reality." (5)  In other words, we have the power to improve our external circumstances by virtue of our inward achievements of character, effort, and focus—regardless of the challenges we may face externally. This fact does not negate or diminish the presence, reality, and challenge of forces beyond our control; but it does spawn enormous hope for positive and productive personal change, both internally and externally over time.  

Speaking of HOPE, I hope you might find some inspiration and motivation from the following SAL poems I have written over the years. After all, Hope Springs Eternal!  

Dr. JJ, before he was a doctor, leads the

pack 600 meters into an 800 meter race

at Weber State University in the spring

of 2003. Running and racing has been an

important part of my life and identity.

The Power of the Present   

Our grand business is not to see

what lies dimly at a distance,
but to do what lies clearly at hand.

 ~ Thomas Carlyle

Beyond the haze of what we face,

There lies the track on which we'll race;

But what we often soon forget:

It's also 'neath our current pace.

We always look beyond the mists,

Squint through the fog toward future lists,

And rarely opt to seize the day:

In the best shape of my
life while running track
in college.  Spring 2003.

The here, the now—so often missed!

For what we fail to contemplate,

The present's where we carve our fate,

And future's bliss' only secured,

By mastering what's now on our plate.

But if we grasp on to what's ours,

That's how we'll break our prison bars,

And rise in ways we'd never thought,

To mighty deeds and distant stars!

O man, no longer cast your view,

On things that aren't in front of you,

Do your best now, and trust in faith

That all things in their time shall find you.  

Note: this poem was written while sitting alone in the bleachers overlooking the Pope High School track in Marietta, Georgia, on a warm Sunday afternoon following church.

Progress  

Alas, my inmost heart breaks free,
From all that has been stopping me,
And I exult in all that will
Break forth into my life yet still.

There is still so much more to learn,

Things to achieve and things to earn,

Folks to meet—my heart doth burn—

As for it all I greatly yearn!

This anxious state amidst it all,

Oft seems to be my life's true call,

Yet spite the pain and petty pelf,

I'll still claim vict'ry over self.

And meantime I'll enjoy the ride,

And bask in the abundance here.

My life will be serene inside,

And outside I'll emanate cheer!

The Slaying of the Beast  

What holds me back from casting off?

"Why nothing," I said with a laugh.

But won't they sneer and scorn and scoff?

"Of course!" said I, and that's but half

Of all the calumny they'll heap,

Cov'ring me knee, waist, and chest deep.

"When covered all, what then of you?"

The skeptic asked, his motive true.

"Will not they smother all the good,

And spoil God's gift of daily food?

Will not your efforts yet prove vain,

Leaving you with naught but pain?

And 'pon your soul, will not remain

The deepest, darkest, blackest stain?"

"Nay, not so, dear friend, you're blind,

And I'm bereaved you've yet to find

The one great truth that lights the mind,

And with this truth I'll now remind

You of this elementary right:

That God's endowed me with a might

That's free to those willing to fight,

And with the weaponry so real,

I've got an everlasting sight

That cuts deep through this earthen plight,

And lifts me up beyond the night

They'd gladly cast me ever toward—

A death incurred by my own sword."

The beauty of seeing clearly,

And recognize the foe 'tis me—

Not you, but me! Yes, yes, it's me!

To think that they're the enemy

Is fiercely falsified foolishness.

And knowing now the facts, the sum,

I've nothing outside me to fear,

The real demon's much more near,

Insidiously inside my own ear,

Yes! Each one plots their own dam, fall,

But, for those who come to see,

The devil's alive in you and me,

And makes the choice: a firm resolve,

To kill the beast that doth evolve

Inside ourselves, then vict'ry's won

In utter solitude... alone!

No shouts or cheers,

No joyful tears,

No thundering applause,

No commendation and no praise,

No rave reviews, 

No front-page craze

Accompanies the slaying of

The Beast

   Inside

      Myself.

But once the demon has been slain,

The onward march of time makes plain,

The end of it 'tis the start of me,

My pending public victory,  (6)

And my eternal destiny.  

Change Yourself  

Try not, my friend, to change what's life,

For life cannot be changed,

And trying only brings you strife,

And leaves your mind deranged.

Instead, work hard to change YOURSELF,

And as you do, you'll find,

Your life will gain all kinds of wealth,

Including peace of mind.  

My first book on SAL, published in 2005,
carried this phrase I am so passionate about.

I Am Sovereign  

I Am Sovereign.

Today I affirm that

I am the captain of my own life.

As such,

I am fully responsible for:

My attitude,

   My decisions,

      My life's results, and hence—

My life's long-term direction.

No one can take this power away from me,

Though I can give it away to 

Someone, or something else.

This I will never do,

For there is but one me in all history,

And I will not waste

My one shot at life!

In the past I have

Blamed,

   Named,

      Gamed, and

         Shamed.

No more!

For now I know that I cannot control

   Anyone but

      Myself.

Yet, in that control

   I create my world,

      Design my destiny, and

         Conquer the enemy within.

I Am Sovereign.

I Am Sovereign  (Classroom Version)  

I Am Sovereign.  

As the Captain of my life,

I understand that I am responsible for

My thoughts,

   My words,

      My decisions,

         My grade, and ultimately,

My future.

Knowing this gives me power—

Personal Power—

To make good choices,

   Do the right thing, (7) and

      Be successful at school and beyond.

No one can take this power away from me,

Though if I choose, I can give it away

To someone, or

   Something else. 

This I will never do.

For their is but one Me in all history,

And I will not waste

   My one shot at life.

Just for today,

I will respect myself by respecting:

My school,

   My teachers,

      My classmates, and

By doing my best to master

What I am supposed to learn.

I know that I cannot control

Anyone or anything

   But myself.

Yet, in that control,

I create my world,

   Design my destiny, and

      Conquer the enemy within.

Today, I choose to be successful

In school

   And in

      Life, because...

I Am Sovereign!

Thresa Brooks
Middle School English Teacher
Mableton, Georgia, USA

The above poem was inspired by another, similar poem, entitled I Am Special, written by Thresa Brooks, an English language arts teacher at Tapp Middle School in Mableton, Georgia. Mrs. Brooks would teach her poem to her students who, in-turn, would memorize and then recite it every day before class would begin. A consciously-crafted series of positive affirmations, her poem would set the tone for a positive and productive learning environment for her students each day. I have not, before or since, observed a teacher of any age-group (much less middle schoolers) who commanded more respect from her students than Ms. Brooks. It was remarkable to observe the power of poetry effectively employed in the daily lives of her fortunate students.

I Am Special  

By: Thresa Brooks

I am somebody,

I am very special,

I am here today because

I want to learn something that I did not know.

I promise I will not cause problems for my teachers, 

classmates, school, friends, or myself.

I will let nothing stop me from achieving my goals.

I will not let you stop me from achieving my goals.

I will help you to achieve your goals.

I will achieve the goals that I have set for myself.

With you or apart from you my friend.

Freedom Focused

I am Freedom Focused—

Focused, that is, on Freedom.

Freedom from tyrants,

And evil and terror,

Freedom from bias, 

Injustice and error,

But most of all...

Freedom from myself,

And the devil within—

A fiend far more fearsome

Than the author of sin.

Freedom in all its glorious majesty

And liberating bliss

Will be mine forever

If I'll remember this:

Universal Laws exist and govern

Outside of all human opinion or arbitration,

And Serendipity

Has my back and yours—

As long as we do our part.

Therefore:

I truly

   Am

      Sovereign

And by extension—

FREE—

To be

The kind of Man

I want to be

In this life,

And throughout 

Eternity.

I am, therefore, Freedom Focused—

Focused, that is, on 

Freedom—

Now,

   Tomorrow,

       &

Forever.   

Well folks, that's all she wrote—or I guess in my case, it's all he wrote!

I hope you have enjoyed this book of original poems. If reading this work has provided you with a fraction of the pleasure, satisfaction, inspiration, and joy that writing it has provided me, then it will have been well worth your time.  

I also hope that the experience will remind you that as human beings, poetry is not just a pleasant pastime or academic pursuit; it is a quenching agent of a very real spiritual thirst that we as human beings often have in this very physical world. After all, in the words of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin: We are not physical beings having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a physical experience. 

“We are not physical beings having a spiritual experience;

we are spiritual beings having a physical experience.”

–Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

If my poetry has done anything to elicit within you a greater sense of your spiritual heritage, self, and potential, then it was well worth my time and effort composing it all.  

THE END

—Dr. JJ

August 16, 2023

Palm Beach Gardens, Florida, USA

Author's Note: This is the 340th Blog Post Published by Freedom Focused LLC since November 2013 and the 160th consecutive weekly blog published since August 31, 2020.   

Click HERE for a compete listing of the other 339 FF Blog Articles 

Click HERE for a complete listing of Freedom Focused SAL QUOTES  

Click HERE for a complete listing of Freedom Focused SAL POEMS   

Click HERE for a complete listing of Self-Action Leadership Articles

Click HERE for a complete listing of Fitness, Heath, & Wellness Articles

Click HERE for a complete listing of Biographical & Historical Articles

Click HERE for a complete listing of Current Events, Cultural, Philosophical, & Miscellaneous Articles

Click HERE for a complete listing of Dr. JJ's Autobiographical Articles

.........................

Tune in NEXT Wednesday for another article on a Self-Action Leadership related topic.  

And if you liked this blog post, please share it with your family, friends, colleagues, and students—and encourage them to sign up to receive future articles for FREE every Wednesday.

To sign up, please email freedomfocused@gmail.com and say SUBSCRIBE, or just YES, and we will ensure you receive a link to each new blog article every Wednesday.  

Click HERE to learn more about Freedom Focused

Click HERE to learn more about Dr. Jordan Jensen

Click HERE to buy the SAL Textbooks