Selah (A Christmas Song)

This is a poem I wrote last Christmas. It was meant to be set to music and then played at a Christmas Concert. It was set to music but it never got played. I really like the way Rita played it...slow, and methodical, and thoughtful. As if playing to an audience and asking them to digest the words being sung, but at the same time trying to play the song for a sleeping baby.

I don't think I've posted this before...if I have. Sorry.

I know that the Christmas "Season" is somewhat hectic and that people are going to be coming and going and buying and wrapping and whatnot and whatfor. I pretty much doubt anyone is going to be getting on their computer's on Christmas Day to read my blog. With that observation made, I figured I may as well post something now so that it can be up for a while in case someone stumbles across this blog.

And if you do happen to come across this blog, well, hopefully you can take a moment from the hectic pace of the next few weeks and just relax and think about God, actually living with us, as one of us.

Merry Christmas!

Selah (A Christmas Song)

A child is born
In a faceless farmhouse
A child is born
The Prince of Peace
Prophecy fulfilled
She holds him so close
To ponder what he means for us

Selah Selah Selah
Prince of Peace
Prophecy Fulfilled
Selah

She calls him Josua
And Emmanuel
God is with us
On this wondrous night
Savior for…
All mankind is here
Lying safely in his mother’s arms

Selah Selah Selah
God is with us
Our savior Emmanuel
Selah

Over yonder, above the fields
A choir of angels
Sings his praises
Dancing on the stars
Above the city of David
Our king is born
Resting safely at his mother’s breast

Selah Selah Selah
The angels sing
In David’s city
Selah

Oh sweet child
In your mother’s arms
The King of kings
And the Prince of Peace
Prophecy fulfilled
Emmanuel
O Josua, in your mother’s arms

Selah Selah Selah
Oh sweet Josua
In your mother’s arms
Selah

In this night
When you were born
The angels sang your praise
And filled the sky
Our savior born
For us to save
We can rest, in our Father’s arms

Selah Selah Selah
Oh how the angels sang
Selah Selah Selah
Our savior born
Selah Selah Selah
O Prince of Peace
Emmanuel
Selah Selah Selah

A Lonely Winter's Sleep

This is the last installment of the 38 years old version of Rob Stearns looking at his life like the four seasons.

I would like to explain this poem a bit. Maybe I should explain it a lot. Maybe I should see a shrink.

I don't like bothering people. I never have. The last two apartments I've moved into I've done virtually alone. I had a couple friends help, but mostly, it was just me. I don't want to put people out of their way. I hate that. So...at the end of my life, I don't want a funeral or anything like that. At this point in my life I'm happy with dying alone somewhere. No wife to have to worry about me (maybe this is why relationships and me are like oil and water), no kids to take care of funeral arrangements...nothing. Just let me die, toast a Guinness (or two) in my name and get on with life. No need to be sad. It won't bother me. Honest.

I don't need a funeral either. It's not like I'll be there anyway to critique it, enjoy it; I'll just be lying there. Dead. Most likely bored out of my mind. Just burn me somewhere...preferably on a bunch of rocks somewhere up in the mountains.

Don't make a fuss.

I think...

Here's the thing that's been bothering me about my own philosophy: closure. I want my kids to be able to say good-bye, if that is their wish. I don't care if my friends come to the funeral/burning, and I don't have any siblings. I guess my parents can come. Yeah, they can come.

I'd like to give my close family the chance to say good-bye...so this sort of bothers me.

Anyway...this poem isn't meant to depress. I'm just saying I prefer to die alone...again, I just don't want to bother anyone.

A Lonely Winter's Sleep

I see a tree, upon the hill's highest point
a silouhette of black upon a sky of gray;
no leaves, no life, brances rattling in the wind.
The birds of summer are gone, empty nests of brown,
the buds of spring ne'er more to return.
A lonely winter's sleep is upon this tree;
death upon me.

I see my life, upon my last breath's bed
alone in the daily; in my last days of gray.
No family, no friends, memories recycled in my mind
relationships of my summer gone, life's wish fulfilled.
Tomorrow's sunrise never more to rise
A lonely winter's sleep is upon my life;
death upon me.

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There, that was easy.

You see, I figure if I become an author of a best seller, I won't have to work anymore. It's not that I don't mind working...it's just that I've been at my new school for a little over a week now and we already had our first school shooting scare.

Over the weekend someone spray painted "School Shooting. 11-24-09" on one of our school building's walls. Naturally, we weren't too excited about this. Half the kids weren't in school today, everyone was on edge, the only thing the kids could talk about was the ensuing "attack" and the police were everywhere...checking bags, bikes, cars.

The only thing missing was a "You're now leaving the American Sector" sign and bomb-sniffing dogs.

Eventually, the police nabbed the two kids who did it. They were just playing a prank, was their argument. This prank will cost them an expulsion and they have to pay for the services of the extra police force. (Seriously, whatever happened to T-Ping a school? Isn't that sort of a non-threatening prank? Inconvienence but harmless?)

I don't mind being a teacher. I enjoy it. But I don't feel like getting blown up.

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Autumn's Life

Autumn is a beautiful time of year. Colors are vivid, the smell of burning leaves fills the air sometimes, crisp mornings are refreshing and not yet cold. There is a twinge of death in the air...yet it is peaceful, colorful. You know winter and her whites and grays are coming, you know the trees will be bare, you know the nights will be long and it will be cold.

But for now. In this season. Death is not scary.

I'm getting older. I realize that I'm still somewhat young and my life isn't going to end (hopefully) in the next few years...but still. I'm at a point in my life where I'm thinking along the lines of "Ok, I'm here. Somewhere. What do I do with my life now that I'm getting older? What do I with all that I have left of my youth? How do I build on what I've done with my youth--the good and the bad? What's next?"

I'm not afraid of getting older. I've already lost most of my hair so going gray doesn't scare me. Getting wrinkles? Too late. Have those. Creaky knees and ankles from too much basketball? Check. I am old. It's here. That's life.

This next poem deals with this.

I'm actually looking forward to this part of my life. To pick up broken pieces and build something new. To pursue dreams that were packed away in a suitcase somewhere. To not be so concerned about being "strong" and "youthful." But to let my leaves change colors. To realize I haven't much time left...to let my influence be felt beyond just me. Beyond my branches. But to let the colors of my leaves fall and let the winds spread them about.

I hope this poem conveys that.

Autumn’s Life

The days shorter will be.
The cold of the night
with every breath seen.
But the sun will shine
and the warmth will heal
and the colors of my life
will bleed
from greens to reds to yellows;
to colors of warmth.
My branches will spread
though weaker surely be;
no longer able to carry the summer
growth of my youth.
But flames of color;
burning, dancing flames will glow.
Shining even through morning’s fog
and evening’s rains.
Fires of passion, fires of desire;
flames of life
flickering—but not out.
And when this s season ends,
when winter finally calls
my branches will drop, as my eyes close.
They shall close—
in peace, in pride.
My leaves,
my colors,
my life,
will have fallen from the branches of my youth
and they shall fall.
They will fall at my feet,
at the foot of my deathbed
and winds from Heaven will descend
and the winds of winter beckoning
shall scatter my leaves abroad—
to horizons yet unseen.
My leaves.
My fire.
My life.
In reds and yellows
in colors of warmth
in colors of passion
in colors of life
will fly away and further beyond
the branches of my youth ever reached.

Summer of My Discontent

This was a very difficulty poem to write. I wanted to show contradiction(s) in my life. To show I wish things were different but at the same time to offer hope for the future. It was also difficult because I wasn't sure how to analyze this part of my life. I can look back at my "Spring" and write about that from a reminiscent point of view. I can look to my future "Autumn" and "Winter" and try to imagine what it will be like. But to write about my "Summer," a "season" of here and now and yet still happening and not just a quick point in time...well, that was hard. I personally found it difficult and as a result I'm not too happy with this poem. But still...it needs to remain as it is.

Like I wrote earlier, who knows how I'll look back at these times in my life in the future. Makes me just wonder.

As I said, I'm not really happy with this poem but I'm standing by it. Two reasons:

A) I want to see how I change my outlook to this part of my life when I'm older. So, whether I like this or not...I sort of have to stick with it.
B) I didn't feel like I could go on and write about my "Autumn" or "Winter" without crossing this river, so to speak.

Summer of My Discontent

I've spread my arms to reach the stars,
I've spread my drams to cover my life.
Grown strong from the help of many,
grown weak from my pride and ego.
The light of the sun has warmed my face,
has allowed me to stand fest in my hopes.
The rains have watered me, the winds have strengthened me;
grown harder to take on life's next storm,
self protected in cynicism where honesty recognize I not.
Tall I've grown in ways I've never knew
small I remain in ways, to admit I refuse.
My days have been long
--what do I have to show? To share?
My nights have been short
--What have I wasted away?

My days grow ever shorter, for seasons do change.
My life's days passing by, for life's seasons for no man do wait.
Now my days grow shorter, cooler winds prevail,
my shadow stretches long, yet how far I must ask.
I stand here--somewhere--anywhere;
rooted and uprooted and planted and replanted.
I stand here strong, I stand here weak.
Many plans withered, many dreams torn away.
So much I've given away, so much just given up.
Yet stand I still, for better for worse.
Stand I yet, though the expected not the norm.
Summer days disappearing into Autumn's nights,
the changing of the seasons, the changes in my life.
Not where I hoped, not how I dreamed;
yet growing still do I remain.
Life's coming storms to survive.
Life's unexpected to expect.

Man, I'm Old.

My friend Lisa told me I had to write something on the blog that was "happy." She must be a mom. "Stop arguing. Be nice. Write something happy." Yes ma'am. I feel grounded.

Well I took my kids to KFC tonight and KFC had some TVs running with old videos on them. Nothing like a little Luther Vandross and extra crispy chicken!!!! Well, "Summer Night City" from ABBA came on.

My daughter said, "I know them. They have really funky outfits."

I said, "Yeah...ABBA was the first group I really liked. They were the first band whose record I bought."

Not missing a beat...both kids: "What are records?"

Well, that's not really "happy" but, although it means I'm old, it's sort of funny. I hope this suffices the "happy" seeking moms out there.

Did You Look Me In The Eyes

I wasn't planning on writing something like this. It just sort of came to me. Hit me out of the blue. A subtle, yet vicious, blast from the recent past.

I posted a few months ago about a friend of mine trying to raise awareness for child sex slavery and trying to stop it. Yes, I realize this is a horrible topic and, as a parent, literally scares the crap out of me. My mother once told me when I was a child that if anyone ever "touched" me she would kill them. You have to realize my mom is not a very intimidating person. And I never really understood her...until I had kids. Just the idea of my children being molested or raped will probably mean there will be one less person on this planet and I'll be serving time (of course, I'd wait till the perv got out of prison--I would want him to truly have justice served).

And yet...child molestation...let's call it like it is: child rape happens all the time and many people are profiting from this "trade" financially.

This youtube clip tackles this problem: The Story of Love 146. (Just type this in on youtube...warning: very disturbing. Nothing explicit...but if this video doesn't disturb you...I really don't know what to say if that's the case). It's the story of a little girl who was labled 146. She didn't even have the dignity of keeping her name.

Men come to these child sex warehouses and order the boys and girls like ordering from a freakin' value meal.

The thing that the narrator says stuck with him was the fire in the eyes of this little girl. She hadn't given up hope yet. Yet.

I hope you check out this video. I hope you help do something about this problem.

This poem is written for Love 146 and the thousands of other children forced into child sex slavery.

I hope you are disturbed.

Did You Look Me In The Eyes

Did you look me in the eyes?
when you came to seek me out?
when you came to find me?

Did you look me in the eyes?
when you came to buy my body?
when you came to sell your soul?

Did you look me in the eyes?
when you touched my body?
when you stole my innocence?

Did you look me in the eyes?
when you raped me of more than my youth?
when you slipped yourself inside me?

Did you look me in the eyes?
and see my fear?
see my hopelessness?

Did you look me in the eyes?
and still see the fire in me,
see revenge burning from my soul?

Did you look me in the eyes?
and see my broken heart?
or see my life destroyed?

Did you look me in the eyes?
and never feel an ounce of guilt
when you forced yourself on me?

Did you look me in the eyes?
when you brought me back
to be rented and raped by another like you?

Did you look me in the eyes?
then take a closer look
and see your mother, your sister, your daughter.

I’ll remember the look in your eyes
when I’m looking down on you
as you’re burning in Hell.