"In the century old cemetery, where cracks
Etch the features of the granite faces,
Monuments to moments lost in the dirt,
See how the leaves, drops of blood and gold,
Burn off the many names of the
Mossy stones.
See the trees of the cemetery!
See the sad green limbs and woody fingers
Bearing their burdens low,
With the chalky sky slowly creeping
Through the scars scratched
Between the leaves.
See the hands that hold their final
Sacrifice, a frail yet fine offering
For autumn's fires. See the shades
Of green, like a many faceted emerald,
Give way to the vibrant death
of fall.
See the golden blood sprinkled across
The doorposts of the earth, doors
Continually open to the winds of the
World, ever receiving and losing; green
Then gone.
See now! The fruit of the fire tree is a
Shimmering star that, like a
Candle before a canvas, makes vivid its
Object: the red curtains that drape across
The arms of bark.
When the world grows weary of itself
At last, it takes the cold autumnal heat
Into its bosom and is burned to death.
Then the pure white snow will come
And melt, bringing the resurrection
Of the dead.
So burn on you trees of jaded green;
Burn on you shimmering stars!
May the burning snow rattle the bones
Planted by one, who in fear
and trembling, leaves the dead and looks
To Spring."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
(Update: This is a revised version of the original. The original can still be found posted on Facebook.)
October 21, 2009
October 15, 2009
Nightlight
"A cloudy evening sky:
Smoky black, tinted purple,
Deep and dark like deadly pitch.
The only illumination is the
Electric orange glow of the
Chemical plant.
But in the west a dissipation
Appears, and in bleeds the night
Sky, a curious light, its ghostly
Gray hues shine like a beacon
Scratching through the silent
Ceiling.
It fades; the clouds resurge
Lazily, enveloping the sight in
Apathy. Yet the damage
Is done. I have seen behind
The smoky shell the edge
Of infinity.
Beyond the blanket that covers
This earthen bed lies the
Endless expanse, the great dance
Floor with innumerable participants
Twirling and twinkling
Without end."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Smoky black, tinted purple,
Deep and dark like deadly pitch.
The only illumination is the
Electric orange glow of the
Chemical plant.
But in the west a dissipation
Appears, and in bleeds the night
Sky, a curious light, its ghostly
Gray hues shine like a beacon
Scratching through the silent
Ceiling.
It fades; the clouds resurge
Lazily, enveloping the sight in
Apathy. Yet the damage
Is done. I have seen behind
The smoky shell the edge
Of infinity.
Beyond the blanket that covers
This earthen bed lies the
Endless expanse, the great dance
Floor with innumerable participants
Twirling and twinkling
Without end."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
October 14, 2009
Moonlight and Me
"As my eyes grow accustomed to
This midnight hour, the dark
Hues of the shadows deepen,
And I am troubled to learn
That the night is darkest when
It is brightest.
The moonlight is a curious thing:
Its light seems to be still.
It sits, like its source, without
Motion or gesture, bathing all
Without effort.
Moonbeams are lazy. Daylight
Is not so: it seems to dance
And romance everything that it
Touches, enriching all
With its fire.
But the silv'ry spill of that great
White throne covers all like a
Man collapsing into his bed. He will
Not be moved until the morning
Bids him 'Come'.
Yet never has something so
Static been so alive, enchanting
What it lands on: the billowy
Foliage of the near oak tree
Seems to me a giant; its branches
A low leaning hand.
The grass is given faces: every
Shadowy crevice is the rim of
Some eye or mouth. They gaze
At the tops of the trees, at the
Lingering giant, their mouths agape
As though to speak.
How I wish that they would speak!
That the lazy moonbeam magic might
Animate leaf and bark, and that the
Distant creaking that I hear would be
The old bones of the oak baron bending
Down to greet me.
But those creaks and crashes
Are but the fall of the dead
Branches: too heavy to remain,
Though leafless. They strike the dirt
Without a word.
The moon has magic; just not
The kind that I am looking for.
One day the trees will talk
By the light of the moon. They
Shall answer the grass and me
At last.
For now, let the silent influence
Fall where it may, like snow
The night before it melts.
I shall enjoy the stillness
Before the daylight wakes
And bids me 'Come'."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
This midnight hour, the dark
Hues of the shadows deepen,
And I am troubled to learn
That the night is darkest when
It is brightest.
The moonlight is a curious thing:
Its light seems to be still.
It sits, like its source, without
Motion or gesture, bathing all
Without effort.
Moonbeams are lazy. Daylight
Is not so: it seems to dance
And romance everything that it
Touches, enriching all
With its fire.
But the silv'ry spill of that great
White throne covers all like a
Man collapsing into his bed. He will
Not be moved until the morning
Bids him 'Come'.
Yet never has something so
Static been so alive, enchanting
What it lands on: the billowy
Foliage of the near oak tree
Seems to me a giant; its branches
A low leaning hand.
The grass is given faces: every
Shadowy crevice is the rim of
Some eye or mouth. They gaze
At the tops of the trees, at the
Lingering giant, their mouths agape
As though to speak.
How I wish that they would speak!
That the lazy moonbeam magic might
Animate leaf and bark, and that the
Distant creaking that I hear would be
The old bones of the oak baron bending
Down to greet me.
But those creaks and crashes
Are but the fall of the dead
Branches: too heavy to remain,
Though leafless. They strike the dirt
Without a word.
The moon has magic; just not
The kind that I am looking for.
One day the trees will talk
By the light of the moon. They
Shall answer the grass and me
At last.
For now, let the silent influence
Fall where it may, like snow
The night before it melts.
I shall enjoy the stillness
Before the daylight wakes
And bids me 'Come'."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
October 8, 2009
In Church
"Within these warm milky walls
Where hangs the brazen fixtures
With spheres of light, specks of white,
There hangs the satin curtain
Red like wine, dark like blood.
Upon it lies the golden icon,
The emblem of the amalgam
Of suffering and joy.
The rain clouds outside make
Gray the tall windows, but
The voice of the violin within
Warms like a fire in its hearth.
And as the bread and blood
Passes from mouth to mouth,
I pray that beauty and holiness
Adorns this house forever."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Where hangs the brazen fixtures
With spheres of light, specks of white,
There hangs the satin curtain
Red like wine, dark like blood.
Upon it lies the golden icon,
The emblem of the amalgam
Of suffering and joy.
The rain clouds outside make
Gray the tall windows, but
The voice of the violin within
Warms like a fire in its hearth.
And as the bread and blood
Passes from mouth to mouth,
I pray that beauty and holiness
Adorns this house forever."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
October 1, 2009
A Car Ride
"The sky slides slowly along,
Its clouds like a great stone wall
Etched with snow-filled cracks
And stained with indigo oils
Along the edges.
The last lingering glow of daylight,
A river of golden copper,
Underscores the solemn shroud
That sits like sackcloth on the
Shoulders of the sky.
And at the pinnacle peak of
That gray sky plane, a flare
Of white creeps along like frost
That clings to the car windows
In the cold.
The darkest shades of the sky
Spread far and wide like the feathers
Of some great and terrible bird
Of the night, chasing the sun
From her nest.
The gray cloud curtain holds
Bumps and bubbles like the
Laminate sticker that just won't
Hold its grip to the edge of the
Foggy glass.
A burst of orange on the horizon!
The high hilly clouds still hold
The daylight on their crests like
Crowns of fire, jewels beyond the
Wealth of kings.
The fiery hills peek out from
Amongst the deadened gray.
Their wispy influence stains
The sky with flakes of bronze
Warmly bright.
The burning snow of those highest hills
Puts to light all the blues and
Deeper hues of the granite vault.
The snow-tops burn quickly, like
Most fires do.
A gash of white streaks across;
Like a steam-filled crevice, its airy
Contents reach higher than its
Source, and inch into every nook that
They can find.
The darkest blues raise like a wave
Their presence, but halt their
Advance and linger without one
Word. They are fearsome, friendly,
And silent.
One great and dark cloud,
Like a spot of ink, hovers over
As a hooded specter lost in
Thought, its song made still by
Its hesitation.
The night now comes and colors all
With coal tinted blue; hinted through
The smokey puffs, the meager moon,
Like a headlight in mist, offers its
Blurry light.
And in the distance, beyond the edge
Where the night crawls and claws
Like a shadow across the ceiling,
The golden ribbon lingers just beyond
Billowy mountain tops."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Its clouds like a great stone wall
Etched with snow-filled cracks
And stained with indigo oils
Along the edges.
The last lingering glow of daylight,
A river of golden copper,
Underscores the solemn shroud
That sits like sackcloth on the
Shoulders of the sky.
And at the pinnacle peak of
That gray sky plane, a flare
Of white creeps along like frost
That clings to the car windows
In the cold.
The darkest shades of the sky
Spread far and wide like the feathers
Of some great and terrible bird
Of the night, chasing the sun
From her nest.
The gray cloud curtain holds
Bumps and bubbles like the
Laminate sticker that just won't
Hold its grip to the edge of the
Foggy glass.
A burst of orange on the horizon!
The high hilly clouds still hold
The daylight on their crests like
Crowns of fire, jewels beyond the
Wealth of kings.
The fiery hills peek out from
Amongst the deadened gray.
Their wispy influence stains
The sky with flakes of bronze
Warmly bright.
The burning snow of those highest hills
Puts to light all the blues and
Deeper hues of the granite vault.
The snow-tops burn quickly, like
Most fires do.
A gash of white streaks across;
Like a steam-filled crevice, its airy
Contents reach higher than its
Source, and inch into every nook that
They can find.
The darkest blues raise like a wave
Their presence, but halt their
Advance and linger without one
Word. They are fearsome, friendly,
And silent.
One great and dark cloud,
Like a spot of ink, hovers over
As a hooded specter lost in
Thought, its song made still by
Its hesitation.
The night now comes and colors all
With coal tinted blue; hinted through
The smokey puffs, the meager moon,
Like a headlight in mist, offers its
Blurry light.
And in the distance, beyond the edge
Where the night crawls and claws
Like a shadow across the ceiling,
The golden ribbon lingers just beyond
Billowy mountain tops."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
September 28, 2009
Memoirs from the Vansihed Horizon (Second Draft)
This is an update to the original poem found here. The following changes were made: I have set each line (save one) into a strict 10-syllable meter, giving it a needed sense of control and structure; I have changed/added various words; and I have added an additional stanza at the beginning. The word changes/additions and the addition of the stanza were to give the poem smoother transitions, something that the first draft sorely lacked. Enjoy.
I.
"Oh Jerusalem! Oh unreal city!
City of man! City of dust and blood!
Hear, oh hear! The lord your god, the lord is
Bits of hair and lint in your coat pocket!
Streets stand silent with the noisome static
Of cars and the falling of fretting feet.
The sewage smell comes up from the gutters;
It comes, and seasons the food vendors' wares.
The dead ditch-diggers etch the street with graves.
(Even in death we are not left alone!)
See now! Their sweated backs are pictured much
By the plastic youths with plastic cellphones.
And the old clock-tower was tightly wound,
Its hands sit spinning; they spin to no end.
The coal black swords that carve out the hours
Are accompanied by the man in black.
There he walks the edge of the gray stone ledge,
There on the old clock-tower's meager lisp.
He casts down words that crack the hat-ed heads
And shatter, shatter, shatter on the ground.
'Misery, misery! Misery all!'
Croaked the clarion cry from up below,
'Misery! Misery!' raised the voice
That fell like glass onto the passers-by.
'Come down, strange fellow!' cry the passers-by,
'You'll trip. You'll fall. You'll break your foolish head!'
'Oh, broken, broken! Oh, all is broken!'
He cried anew before he fell as dead.
The grisly gravity did its best work
As it dashed him against the earthen floor.
The onlookers did scatter; voyeurs did hide,
When the man kissed the world and broke to bits.
'Misery! Misery!' his final cry,
The final call he let fly as he fell.
And the passers-by, inconvenienced, knew
For certain that he had gone straight to hell.
'A special hell!' they all seemed to agree
With many talks and nods and committees
That they formed just then, on the bloody street,
The dead man's head sitting fresh at their feet.
'Misery! Misery!' the head did cry,
And the committees did argue and flatter and lie.
Soon every man and woman heard the news
Without ever leaving their office seats.
The Internet had pictures, film, and words
Before any feet left the bloody street,
Filing the empty heads of soulless meat
With information devoid of knowledge."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
I.
"Oh Jerusalem! Oh unreal city!
City of man! City of dust and blood!
Hear, oh hear! The lord your god, the lord is
Bits of hair and lint in your coat pocket!
Streets stand silent with the noisome static
Of cars and the falling of fretting feet.
The sewage smell comes up from the gutters;
It comes, and seasons the food vendors' wares.
The dead ditch-diggers etch the street with graves.
(Even in death we are not left alone!)
See now! Their sweated backs are pictured much
By the plastic youths with plastic cellphones.
And the old clock-tower was tightly wound,
Its hands sit spinning; they spin to no end.
The coal black swords that carve out the hours
Are accompanied by the man in black.
There he walks the edge of the gray stone ledge,
There on the old clock-tower's meager lisp.
He casts down words that crack the hat-ed heads
And shatter, shatter, shatter on the ground.
'Misery, misery! Misery all!'
Croaked the clarion cry from up below,
'Misery! Misery!' raised the voice
That fell like glass onto the passers-by.
'Come down, strange fellow!' cry the passers-by,
'You'll trip. You'll fall. You'll break your foolish head!'
'Oh, broken, broken! Oh, all is broken!'
He cried anew before he fell as dead.
The grisly gravity did its best work
As it dashed him against the earthen floor.
The onlookers did scatter; voyeurs did hide,
When the man kissed the world and broke to bits.
'Misery! Misery!' his final cry,
The final call he let fly as he fell.
And the passers-by, inconvenienced, knew
For certain that he had gone straight to hell.
'A special hell!' they all seemed to agree
With many talks and nods and committees
That they formed just then, on the bloody street,
The dead man's head sitting fresh at their feet.
'Misery! Misery!' the head did cry,
And the committees did argue and flatter and lie.
Soon every man and woman heard the news
Without ever leaving their office seats.
The Internet had pictures, film, and words
Before any feet left the bloody street,
Filing the empty heads of soulless meat
With information devoid of knowledge."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
September 23, 2009
Sonnet for the Thoughts that Plagued me Sunday
"Happy people feel the strength of Your peace.
Every mirror shows no reflection. They
Love to lose themselves, forgetting the face
Plastered against the glass, a mere doorway
Made to the house of God. How often I
Yearn to unmake myself, let the tap'stry
Unravel, each thread let loose to fly on
Never-ending winds. Hope in the myst'ry
Breaks all stability not found in You.
Everyday my atheism breaks loose,
Leaving me a wretched wretch and less true.
In truth, my promises lie in a noose
Ever ready to fail again, again!
Forgive; fearing to fail has been my sin."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Every mirror shows no reflection. They
Love to lose themselves, forgetting the face
Plastered against the glass, a mere doorway
Made to the house of God. How often I
Yearn to unmake myself, let the tap'stry
Unravel, each thread let loose to fly on
Never-ending winds. Hope in the myst'ry
Breaks all stability not found in You.
Everyday my atheism breaks loose,
Leaving me a wretched wretch and less true.
In truth, my promises lie in a noose
Ever ready to fail again, again!
Forgive; fearing to fail has been my sin."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Memoirs from the Vansihed Horizon
This one is a bit more experimental for me. I'm trying my hand at my own kind of narrative poetry. Let it be know that I appreciate those who willingly submit themselves to being my guinea pigs.
I.
"Oh Jerusalem, Jerusalem! Oh unreal city!I.
City of man! City of dust and blood!
Hear, oh hear! The lord your god, the lord your god,
Is bits and pieces of hair and lint in your coat pocket!
The ditch-diggers etch the street with graves.
(Even in death we are not left alone!)
Their sweated backs are pictured much
By the unpensive youths with plastic cellphones.
The old clock-tower was tightly wound,
Its hands that spin without an end,
Coal black swords that carve the hours,
Accompanied by the man in black.
He walks the edge of the gray stone ledge,
The old clock-tower's meager lisp.
He casts down words that crack hatted heads
And shatter, shatter, shatter on the ground.
'Misery, misery! All is misery!'
Croaked the cry from up below.
'Misery! Misery!' raised the voice
That fell onto the passers-by.
'Come down, strange fiend!' cry the passers-by,
'You'll trip. You'll fall. You'll break your head!'
'Broken, broken! All is broken!'
He cried anew and fell as dead.
The grisly gravity did its work,
And dashed him to the earthen floor.
Onlookers scattered; voyeurs did hide,
When he kissed the world and broke to bits.
'Misery! Misery!' his final cry
He did let fly as he fell.
The passers-by, inconvenienced, knew
For sure that he went straight to hell.
'A special hell!' they all agreed
With talks and nods and committees
They formed just then, on the bloody street,
The dead man's head fresh at their feet.
'Misery! Misery!' he still did cry,
And the committees did argue and flatter and lie.
Every man and woman heard the news
Without ever leaving their office seats.
The Internet had pictures, film, and words
Before any feet left the bloody street,
Filling the minds of soulless meat
With knowledgeless information."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Someone Asked Me Why I Read
"Line upon line, precept upon precept,
Image upon image, theme upon theme;
Conceits and words wedded together
Fall soft along the sharpened beam
Of light, the white refracted blade.
The empty page, like mirror of nickel,
Catches the falling coals of fire:
Rose red petals, cracked like a jewel
Whose facets house the sunset's orange.
The page, a drum the embers strike;
Its vibrations send sparks flying upwards.
Breathed in, purging tongue and mind and soul,
They fit a fool for the enfolding Flame;
His language fire, and Love His name."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Image upon image, theme upon theme;
Conceits and words wedded together
Fall soft along the sharpened beam
Of light, the white refracted blade.
The empty page, like mirror of nickel,
Catches the falling coals of fire:
Rose red petals, cracked like a jewel
Whose facets house the sunset's orange.
The page, a drum the embers strike;
Its vibrations send sparks flying upwards.
Breathed in, purging tongue and mind and soul,
They fit a fool for the enfolding Flame;
His language fire, and Love His name."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2009
Art (and other things) as the Continuance of the Incarnation
"Surely I will not come into the chamber of my house, nor go up into my bed. I will not give sleep to my eyes, or slumber to my eyelids, until I find out a place for the Lord, a dwelling place for the mighty God of Jacob." Ps. 132:3-5
The desire of David expressed here should be the desire of us all, i.e., to give the Almighty a residence amongst men. Having been indwelt by the living God (II Cor. 6:16-18), it should be our goal (whether in preaching or evangelism, art or service) to manifest in our mortal flesh the God who is there. Our lives (regardless of our personality or talents, occupations or preoccupations) are to be a continuation of the Incarnation. Too often our words and witness, our worship and work, are about the manifestation of maxims and moral lessons, or (perhaps what is worse) ourselves. As good as maxims and morals may be, they are not the best thing, the needful thing. What people need is not platitudes, but rather a holy God and His forgiveness; and if that is not what we are manifesting in whatsoever our hands find to do, then we are merely wasting time.
"Sir, we would see Jesus," said the Greeks to Philip at Passover (John 12:20-21). That is the key: to make Jesus "see-able". As temples of the Holy Ghost (I Cor. 6:19-20), all that God is is ours, and we are being transformed into His holiness (II Cor. 3:12-18; I Pet. 1:13-16), into Christ-likeness, which is God-likeness. Such an internal activity cannot and should not be hid, but we try anyway. What bushel is there that we have not tried to utilize in hiding the light of God within us? Some even have been utilized in the name of making the light brighter! Oh, how we fail! But grace is greater; grace is constant; and grace will not be satisfied until the work is finished (Phil. 1:6). And herein is the work: to build a dwelling place for the mighty God, to make the place where men can see Him face to face. Whatever we say (from the pulpit or the streets), whatever we do (from the feeding of the poor to the writing of the poem), all is to be done for the glorification and manifestation of God to men.
-Jon Vowell
The desire of David expressed here should be the desire of us all, i.e., to give the Almighty a residence amongst men. Having been indwelt by the living God (II Cor. 6:16-18), it should be our goal (whether in preaching or evangelism, art or service) to manifest in our mortal flesh the God who is there. Our lives (regardless of our personality or talents, occupations or preoccupations) are to be a continuation of the Incarnation. Too often our words and witness, our worship and work, are about the manifestation of maxims and moral lessons, or (perhaps what is worse) ourselves. As good as maxims and morals may be, they are not the best thing, the needful thing. What people need is not platitudes, but rather a holy God and His forgiveness; and if that is not what we are manifesting in whatsoever our hands find to do, then we are merely wasting time.
"Sir, we would see Jesus," said the Greeks to Philip at Passover (John 12:20-21). That is the key: to make Jesus "see-able". As temples of the Holy Ghost (I Cor. 6:19-20), all that God is is ours, and we are being transformed into His holiness (II Cor. 3:12-18; I Pet. 1:13-16), into Christ-likeness, which is God-likeness. Such an internal activity cannot and should not be hid, but we try anyway. What bushel is there that we have not tried to utilize in hiding the light of God within us? Some even have been utilized in the name of making the light brighter! Oh, how we fail! But grace is greater; grace is constant; and grace will not be satisfied until the work is finished (Phil. 1:6). And herein is the work: to build a dwelling place for the mighty God, to make the place where men can see Him face to face. Whatever we say (from the pulpit or the streets), whatever we do (from the feeding of the poor to the writing of the poem), all is to be done for the glorification and manifestation of God to men.
-Jon Vowell
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