Color it Irrevocable

The author of these poems is named Casey Allen. Maybe that's not his real name, but I'm not interested in knowing it. I just want to share some of the thoughts that he put into the verses below. Poetry is indeed a way of communicating - and very colorful way to do so. Many of his poems I have already posted on my blog, but I wanted a place to consolidate them; they just seem to require a place to themselves...

A Compass

I'm shivering inside my own desires

All I built

And all I tried to find

I wanted everything I left unsaid

My hopes and dreams

Lost me in the cold instead

Hope for Joy

Each person is looking

To live in the day

But behind every eye

Rests a still sleeping heart

What must it be

To loosen this captive

And free the chains

Binding our hope for joy

Crying Aloud in the Streets


Wisdom to know how to live
Wisdom to see who to fight
Wisdom to learn how to love
Wisdom to do what is right

Friends...

In life

God promised

That He would supply

My needs

As His child

To follow His lead

But God

Is not one

For somber procession

Instead

He delights

To bring out my smile

The promise

That He made

He went quite beyond

He gave

A good friend

He blessed me with YOU

A Friend

A friend is a person who stands

Back upon the shore

And calls our name to urge us

To came to land once more

A good friend, though, does not stay dry

But dives into the surf

And takes our hand amidst the waves

To guide us to the turf

I wish I were younger

When the sky was blue

and the sun was light

and the grass was green

and the moon was night

When 'gone' was short

and home was here

and help was close

and friends were near

When right was right

and wrong was wrong

and trust was true

and love was strong

But I know I've moved on...

With pensive steps

and choices made

and doubtful dreams

and decisions laid

With life before

and hurt behind

and lines so blurred

and eyes so blind

And with nothing of mine...

But a broken heart

and a mind unbold

and a Lord to trust

and a Hand to hold

I know I can proceed...

Insight

I'm gazing out the sitting room window. Behind me rests a shelf of books.

Each author resides upon his own spine, and out this window their eyes must look.

Their thoughts, each kept so quietly hidden, beneath each cover, upon each leaf;

Their silent banter, their own perceptions – of life and joy and pain and grief.

This window has no convection or tint – nor does it alter the light passing through.

Differing opinions, profound and unique, are fruits that grow from each author's own view.

“See? God loves them!”, claims Rice, “And brings lightness of heart.” “But,”says Van Braght, “remember the price.”

“To serve Him doesn't ensure life's a balm.” “And that”, concludes Golie, “is the cause for our vice”.

I presume there's a parallel to our own existence – since, it seems, no two people agree.

I guess what I most need is not better wording, but to be exchanged with the book next to me...