Sunday, December 22, 2013


I’m but a manger made of wood,
Inanimate object—misunderstood—
I’d feed the lowly beasts of burden,
Yet I’ve done more. . .I knew I could.

They said, “Manger, manger, shall you keep
“The Baby Jesus in His sleep,
“Warm Him in your earthen scents
“So Mother Mary shall not weep!”

My ancient wood, the grain, the hay
Would comfort Him until the day
When sunshine warms the newborn’s face
And they will take Him far away.

They called on me, said, “Manger, manger!
“Keep this child from want and danger;
For He’s the one, the Great Messiah;
“Hide him from King Herod’s anger!”

One moment caught in endless time,
One task they’d ask that’s so sublime.
I, Manger held the Baby Jesus
And watched the Star of Bethlehem’s climb.

                                --Monty Wheeler

FADES THE LIGHT (kerielle sonnet)

What waits for me, as eyes grow dim,
And from within slow fade the light?
Dark plays well, my final hymn;
Beyond the sunset hides the night.

As pale skin thins to bleed with ease,
And purple bruises win the fight,
As each step gives to rest and wheeze,
Beyond the sunset hides the night.

But yet with wing’d prayer upon
The God of all my fathers’ might,
Past the darkness waits new dawn;
Beyond the sunset hides the night.

What waits for me as eyes grow dim?
Beyond the sunset hides the night.

                                --Monty Wheeler

Sunday, December 8, 2013


What put him on his knees that day?
What gave him want to kneel and pray?
 Emotions' pain's a driving force,
and sometimes gratitudes, of course.
Yet mostly there is something there
on bowed knee and deep in prayer;
hearts will move when in God's care.
Whether alter or bedside,...
God will come when asked sans pride
and in the name of Jesus Christ,
who on the cross was sacrificed.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013


Gentle swings the breeze-swayed trees,
yet something lurks beyond the breeze.
Upon strong winds God's angels ride;
somewhere out there, there're souls that hide
behind a tear and desperate prayer,
and blow, ye wind, to carry them there,
those angels whom God's granted to
deliver solace overdue.
Soon the wind will calm; I know,
God's angels have been on the go...
and somewhere there's a soul at rest
from burden of some life's cruel test.
Returns the breeze; feel its caress,
another sign my God will bless.
Know man will ne'er control God's wind,
to tell it blow or make it end;
God is in control, my friend.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013


I can't get out of my mind, yesterday's experience. my morning had been joy and prayer filled with my preacher, but just down the road, I learned a close friend had lost a loved one. I didn't know the one God took home, but my prayers go out for those who knew and loved. as always with works I post here, feel free to click share if something should move*

I must remember in God's realm
It is The Father at the helm,
and we were never meant to be...
here for all eternity.
when I hear of one who's passed,
I well remember it won't last;
My days are numbered on this earth;
I pray I leave some note of worth;
I pray I leave some legacy;
Perchance in couplets it will be.
And when I hear that Death's stole one,
I pray, my God, it's rest hard won
and granted by The Father, Son,
and Spirit we depend upon.

                             --Monty Wheeler 

Sunday, October 20, 2013


Am I allowed to query God?
Is it wrong when mind will wander?
"Why's? and "Why now's"
"What for's?" and "What is Your plan?"

"Please take me as I am," man said,
"sure poisoned by a bitter dread
"yet ne'er I'd want to be mis-led."

And still it seems no anwers come,
no lightening bolts, no thunder rolls,
just more unrest and prayers to seek
answers as a dark bell tolls

 So walk, you weary traveler
into new day's dark night
where ghosts of yesterday still lurk
and time has dimmed Past's light.

                              --Monty Wheeler

Sunday, October 13, 2013


An ode to me and every "he" that lets the ink roll free

He shamed his pen; it rolled again
across the stark white page;
then hidden in some dank desk drawer
it yellowed with old age.

How years do tell a sordid tale;
and time is hell on man.
the fragile page outlasted him;...
Death was his final fan.
                 --Monty Wheeler


Ye, poetess, write on for me!
 And like the waves on open sea
roll that pen cross'd ocean's page
and give me travel as the mage
might wave the hand o'er heart and mind
and take me places I'd ne'er find!

* * *

She braves the heartache and the pain,
relives sad times for the refrain
that fits her poem and poetry
with hopes to set each reader free

Then comes the night and endless fright
as night goes on and on
and ne'er she knows the wrong from write
for ne'er comes telling dawn.

So wrong she feels and write she does
beneath eternal stars
that worship dark and night's black stain...
that leaves "forever" scars.

Yet like the ancient mariner,
she's bound to tell the tale.
Bound by fate and sin's dead weight,
caught up in writing's gale.

And so, ye poetess, take heed!
wield thy mighty sword;
ye'd find no wrong in write this night;
ye'd stay the devil's hoard

For chase thy demons in the night,
as they'll devour you
if not by pen and page ye'd write
to save your soul's adieu.

She sits to share; she writes for "care"
and braves the mental strain
of finding words that "dressed to nines"
the struggling writer's pain

And lo! upon a pen-swept page
thy golden word appears!
spawned of anguish and of age...
and nurtured by the tears.

So write, ye poetess, of pains
and hearts worn on a sleeve.;
perchance thy words shall ever live;
thy poem shall ne'er to leave!

                          --Monty Wheeler

Saturday, October 5, 2013


When writing seems so all up-hill,
And Talent’s doubt brings dark to dawn
Those thoughts of “quit” then plague my will.

Those times I ponder “why keep on?”
As hours turn to days and days to weeks,
And I grow old with lips tight-drawn.

So tell me what the poet seeks.
Be it fame?  For wealth’s not there.
Or tis the need to write that speaks?

If I’d but lay this pencil where
I’d never hear it beckon me,
Would the world perchance to care?

If I ignore the pencil’s call,.
I’d be less than true; that’s all.


                        --Monty Wheeler

Sunday, September 29, 2013


What pain to bear, yon hearts that share
a love entwined as those to bear
both rose and thorn; how sweet's that torn
and ravaged by shunned lover's scorn!

                           --Monty Wheeler


She laughed upon the mound of dirt,
and laughter's tears poured out her hurt.
 Lo, came the night she walked away,
yet left her soul where ghosts will play.
 She carried on though not by choice,
though day on day she heard his voice
and night upon each lonely night
she begged return of God's daylight.

                          --Monty Wheeler


Set soul to sail on ageless wind,
floating light as dead brown leaf
left to God where flights might end.

And where I'd land I'll show no grief
returned to dust beneath the snow
for spring shall bring it's warm relief.

 Then once again on life's green tree
I'l thrive as God renews what's me.

                      --Monty Wheeler

Friday, September 20, 2013


broken dreams like torn paper dolls strewn across the floor,
and in despair the child cries there begging for some more;
such is man--his shattered world--his cries, one can't ignore

                                            --Monty Wheeler


and from a distant mountain rolls,
"Walk this way, ye wearied souls,
"for nigh's the time the last bell tolls.

and to the one who'd chanced to hear,
who'd dared to turn a listening ear,
to him, the beast spoke loud and clear.

"And, bid, ye wanderer, cast thy net
"in barren sea of thickest jet
"then come to me to pay thy debt!

 "For secrets that ye've ne'er been told
"are mine to have, and still I hold
"thy fate in eyes that glitter gold!

"So walk, ye wayward one, to me;
"fancy pain as pleasantry,
"as price of man's dark legacy."

and turn, he did, as if sure-lost
toward that fate of debt and cost;
and might he wished Fates' paths ne'er crossed?

then toward that distant mountain's drone,
as if by spell and broken bone,
forever, he would stumble on.

                                   --Monty Wheeler

Tuesday, September 17, 2013


He owned the road, or so he thought
until the day his fate well-bought
the unexpected too-sharp curve
and old rear tire with want to swerve.
With none to hear--he rode alone--
the scream, the crash, the breaking bone,
he lay in blood but not for long
before the angels sang his song.

                      --Monty Wheeler

Monday, September 16, 2013


 And, verily, I say to thee, My Child,
Give soul to rest upon thy wearied knee;
Tis when the clouds loom dark and ocean’s wild
You’re tossed about on Life’s high roiling sea.
If callused of thy heart, ye’d most need Me,
It’s ne’er that should ye walk with want to pray,
For I am timeless and the cost of prayer is free,
And I am here in dark of night or day.
But come to me so humbled in the way
Small children seek the Father’s lap, warm smile,
And reassurance all will be okay;
Seek comfort in thy Father’s love awhile.
Thus share your worst, but Child, your God’s desire
Be both the good and bad, the calm or ire.

                                         --Monty Wheeler

Sunday, September 15, 2013


She eased her scoot up on his side;
he glanced and gasped, "Man, what a ride!"
She smiled and twisted her right hand;
those pipes would sing like some rock band.
Not one word from him she heard
before the green light set that bird
into the wind again to sail,
and naught he saw but red light tail.

He gave to smile and watched her fade
into the night--the angel's shade.

                          --Monty Wheeler


He tapped the brake and dropped a gear,
hit that curve sans caution's fear.
Thunder rolled on that asphalt
from two chrome pipes in full assault.
With hard left lean, he hugged that line,
that yellow barrier of man's design.
 Half way in, he hit the gas
and felt the skid as if on glass.

                       --Monty Wheeler


She bade him stay; he walked away
 and fired his Harley's ire.
 She heard his rage in those chrome pipes
 and in the burning tire.

He hit the street with throttle held;
 he'd show her anger's skill;
 and never did he turn to see
 the cage with bulk to kill.

She buried him one rain drenched day
 upon a green hillside
 and on his cross, an albatross
 hung for his ghost's last ride.

The day passed slow; while moon was low
 the sky began to clear,
 while still she knelt at that dirt mound
 and spent her final tear.

Across the sky, a thousand Harleys--
 all in black and chrome--
 rumbled as the long-dead riders
 called a brother home

The ground would shake and open up;
 one more would ride the skies,
 and ride to chase the demon spawn
 of rage with glow'd red eyes.
                        --Monty Wheeler


Just for today, My God, I pray;
Tomorrow's but a dream to me,
And one that I might never see;
Yesterday’s a fading memory.

My will be Thine; thy will be known;
Make Thy rightous path my own,
Just for today, My God, I pray
Please Guide in what I’d do and say

And humble me; let pride be gone,
as night relents to Thy new dawn.
I come to You through your one son,
Through Jesus Christ my prayer is done

And still I kneel in solitude
And listen with a gratitude
For all Your blessings You’ve bestowed;
How large the debt that You are owed!

Just for today, My God, I pray,
Grant that I should walk your way.

              --Monty Wheeler

Sunday, September 1, 2013


Make merry night, ye gentlemen,
for demons spawn in night's soft den,
and wise the foolish man who's lies
keep secrets of his own demise.
for walks the imp upon this land
to quench blood thirst by its own hand.

                    --Monty Wheeler

The Gift Horse

The Gift-Horse (a work in prose poetry)
By Monty Wheeler

           Melinda stood outside the barn, just where her daddy said, and waited with just one part hope and three parts of pure dread.  She hated surprises for too many times her hopes were shattered and scattered like broken roles of shiny, thin dimes.  The worst was when Daddy took Mama to that germ free place; she didn’t come back to dry the tears from one scared little face; they said she was dead and gone to God’s grace.   But Melinda knew better, and so many nights Mama held her with care. 

The big barn door opened, and Daddy walked out.  She peeked through the fingers of hand-covered eyes; she couldn’t imagine what was her surprise.  Daddy led out a huge dappled gray, and oh, how she loved that horse right away.  Even his gait had some special sway.  The gleam in his eye gave Melinda to cry; but happy tears she spilled.  Her uncle asked her, “How many hands?”  All she could muster was clapping with joy; her hands were for petting, not measuring that boy.

She’d never been of lace or yarn, no pearl one, knit two, she’d urge to learn.  She loved the farm and barnyard scents at dawn.  But how they laughed at her in school; they always said, “Your daddy dresses you funny!” when she wore her little girl Roper boots and Wrangler jeans and snaps on shirts, and oh, how those snaps always shined so nice, like little bitty chips of colored ice in full sunlight.  Some days she cried and others denied her wounded, hurting heart. 

            Out came the tack; Melinda stepped back and screamed, “No!  Don’t want that stuff, Daddy; it hurts my new horse!”

            “Without the saddle, I can’t let you ride,” her daddy said in voice just as soft as goose down bed.  “And without the bridle, there’s no way you can guide.”

            “I don’t care, Daddy,” Melinda pouted.  “Don’t want that shiny thing hitting his teeth, and don’t want those straps to go tight underneath!”

            “But, Melinda, you can’t ride—“

            “Just watch me, Daddy,” Melinda cried.  She led the large steed to the old well house, climbed the rock wall, and with handful of mane, she went for it all.

            The big, gentle breed of remarkable steed—as if he knew the little girl’s need—walked to the fence but stopped to return to the bucket, as Daddy rattled the corn.  But Melinda had none of that corn-spoiled fun.  A cowgirl’s instinct tugged at his mane; he turned down the fencerow as if it were plain the big, ol’ horse the little girl wanted much the same thing.

            “Melinda!” her daddy called and started their way.  She set him to trot; it bounced her a lot, but with both hands deep in his natural mane, she stayed on his back, ne’er noticed the pain of bouncing on his hard knobbed spine.  At canter he smoothed the rough-on-her ride, and more she urged by rubbing his side.  His gallop was smooth as riding on air; Melinda clung tight to his neck and cackled, for freedom was hers, a cowgirl unshackled.

            She failed to see with her wide-eyed stare the far north fence across the “out there.”  But oh, how her horse could set a girl free; ne’er could she run as fast as he.  And bigger he grew in her mind’s eye until he loomed large as big ol’ blue sky.  And nearer the fence, but still they’d not slow, and nearer the fence at full gallop they’d go.   “Now Dasher!  Now Dancer!  Now Prancer and Vixen!”  She cried reindeers’ names, and none seemed to fit; her horse was a dasher, but that name was not it. 

            She felt her steed tense, and then came the sense of dangerous barbs in that five-stranded fence.  He drew his legs under and gathered his force, t’was naught she could do but hold fast to her course.   Behind Melinda, she heard Daddy scream, “Hold on to him, Baby!”  His voice seemed extreme, for ne’er had she felt so lighter than air, as the horse cleared the fence with inches to spare. 

             As Pegasus rose, he caught an updraft, and far below, she saw Daddy’s arms waving so fast like he tried to fly.  Melinda waved “bye” and called “I love you!   I’m going to see Mama!  I’ll kiss her for you and tell her you love her and miss her lots too!”

Pegasus flew into the bright morning sun.  A horse and a cowgirl—two to share one dream of forever, and friendship begun.
The End


She braves this world with dress unfurled
and billow’d in the wind.
As ghost or angel, one or both,
she walks the breeze, my friend.

And as the wind through oak trees cries,
friend, you’ll hear her sing.
And listen with your lonely heart;
you’ll hear her fluttering wing.

Upon the pure white of the cloud,
she sails the sea-blue sky.
Of nature’s call she hears it well,
laments its mournful cry.

Soon comes the time, my friend, you see,
her ghost shall cry no more,
for God shall end this man-made Hell
with the final war.

                     --Monty Wheeler


*The first in ballad and sequal in villanelle, my story of frustrations*

He held the book—the one he’d writ—
So high above the pyre;
A life of sacrifice to art
Would die in hungered fire.

No more to write; the poet quit;
No more of life he’d lose;
No more he’d put a pen to page,
No hours with some muse.

He fired the wooden kitchen match
With thumbnail and a flick.
“Ye’d burn!” he cursed his published work,
And ne’er he felt heartsick.

The match’s life devoured it—
The page that bore his name;
With callused look, he dropped the book
Into that red-orange flame.

He watched it burn with hopes to learn
Of life that passed him by,
While by the desk lamp’s meager light,
He’d penned his every lie.

The fire burned long, fueled by his book,
But came the time, it died
The blackened symbol of his work
Lay in the ash of pride.


The paper lay with pen in silent plea;
I should have burned the notebook and that pen;
As if the pen had eyes, it stared at me.

I’d vowed to ne’er repeat my history;
I’d killed by fire and burned what might have been.
Still.  Paper lay with pen in silent plea.

Each time I dared to sit, the pen could see.
“And burn, ye lover’s stare into my skin!”
As if that pen had eyes it stared at me.

And if I dared return that stare, I’d flee
Into myself, away from some past sin.
The paper lay with pen in silent plea.

Long nights without repose, and what could free
A prisoner of verse and writing?  Then,
As if the pen had eyes it stared at me.

And late one night dawned the epiphany;
My soul should burn!  It’s damned to write again;
The paper lay with pen in silent plea;
As if the pen had eyes it stared at me.

                            --Monty Wheeler


*Written from a challenge to include 10 days worth of prompts in a single work and for well or ill, I done 30 bold words in single poetic work*

Thirteen days and thirteen ways
To die, my friend, you’ll find
Dark verse of note and word well-wrote
And joys of every kind.

Take rest, ye merry poet folk
Before ye’d toss the dice.
Search quiet place and ties that bind
The call and sacrifice.

Keep by thine side the poet’s tools,
Lead or that machine
That clicks and rolls the tiny ball,
Leaves ink with luster’s sheen.

And from thy dream and deep repose
Thy pen may drop a line
From that long year that bitter tear
Was thy only prize.

Then blow thy horn and celebrate!
Write!  For comes the day
Thy paper floats like leaf from wood
And burns to ashen gray.

I beg ye merry architects,
Press on and then return
With rose and reason to remember
Each love of which ye’d yearn.

                        --Monty Wheeler

Wednesday, July 31, 2013


the poet cried upon the page;
in black ink tears he spilled his rage
and from the inkwell's nigh dried pit,
came a funny, a humorous bit.
and grief spewed forth as ink's black stain
on a mission of purge the pain.
so varied is the poet's work,
a nap's escape would let him shirk
his duty. . .that's the writer's quirk 



And play, ye ancient mariner!
play on inside my head!
For long, your rime with death's sublime
albatross breeds dread.

 And play thy rime one more time
of how those sailors died,
and how you wore that great white bird
around your neck with pride

"Water, water everwhere
and not a drop to drink."
Sing thy baleful song again,
and make me stop to think!

 And play, ye ancient mariner!
play on inside my head,
and with each verse, your taint and curse
stain's darker with blood's red!

                         --Monty Wheeler 

Wednesday, July 24, 2013


Onto a windswept grave, he wept,
as if some magic tear
might well give drink unto the ground
and life to who rests there

 for more of same; the hooded one came
and leaned upon his scythe.
 He told the one who cried upon
the grave, "t'was just a tithe"

"The ravages of Father Time
"will one day do for you
"what is to all evenutally,
"that's give to me my due.

"So cry, ye merry gentleman!
"Tears for the grief ye bear,
"yet comes the day, and come what may
"I'll find you anywhere."

                        --Monty Wheeler


I am the poet's lowly pen
and who's to know where all I've been.
 If you'd but ask the poet tell,
by ball and ink, my task will swell
until the sweat of poet's palm
is wiped on me and left him calm

                          --Monty Wheeler

Tuesday, July 2, 2013


Walk gentle under cobalt skies of night
As July’s stars caress, and moon’s soft kiss
Lay bare two hearts that ne’er shall want to miss
God’s angels bound for Heaven’s Gate in flight.

Lay gentle down in verdant fields of green,
And while the dim, soft light of Kissing Moon
Hides not the scents, it leaves sweet hues unseen;
Hold my hand, for dawn comes all too soon.

Caressed by cobalt skies of night’s undress,
We’ll whisper like two children hiding here,
While angels sing off key but just to us,
And ere I’ll watch for you to shed one tear.

Rage, rage against the coming of the dawn;
This moment burns with July’s rising sun.

                                    --Monty Wheeler


Make merry night, ye gentlemen,
for demons spawn in night's soft den,
and wise the foolish man who's lies
keep secrets of his own demise.
for walks the imp upon this land
to quench blood thirst by its own hand.

                                 --Monty Wheeler

Monday, July 1, 2013


come tell me, sir, what ye'd infer
by how she smiles at me
and share your thought of rose I brought
to beg her sympathy

and while we talk; tis ere I balk;
I'm shy to women folk,
but tell me, sir, what ye'd infer.
her smile is but a joke?

please tell me, sir, what ye'd infer
of woman's wily guiles,
of why I'm weak'o kneed each time
she flashes those big smiles.

I'm not the matrimony type,
but hunger for her look.
oh, tell me, sir what ye'd infer;
there's naught in any book.

and tell me, sir, what ye'd infer;
she's smiling at me now.
I fear I must be going, sir;
her smiles scare me somehow.

                   --Monty Wheeler

Thursday, June 13, 2013


with gift of gab upon her lips
just one time, I'd silence her
with lingering kiss, hard-pressed
but'er's the time she'll ever know
my thought each time, she speaks with me;
for fear's the force of silent spree
I'll settle. . .just to listen. . .

                        --Monty Wheeler

Friday, May 24, 2013


My father’s grave—a solemn place;
Still yet, I see his haggard face,
His pain—the suffering—at his end;
My God!  Spare me that dark fate’s friend!

And on I walked across a field,
Once grass and rocks and dirt;
Each step through granite stone and bone
Gave wince with someone’s hurt.

And grieve, ye son!  Tis time of death;
Hold fast Dad’s hand with his last breath;
There’s chance to mourn and time to cry. . .
And kiss the soul with last goodbye.

At last I saw it tinted pink,
The stone that bore her name
I came to stand at Mother’s grave,
Filled with useless shame.

They crowded round his bed and prayed;
I held his hand and long I stayed
With brother talking of our Dad
Until we knew his soul had fled.

But Mother died alone with God;
It shouldn’t be that way.
No tears I’ve shed; I choke them down,
For guilt might wash away.

One day comes tears for Mom deserves the best;
I cried as Dad joined God in final rest;
I know that both are Heaven touched and blessed.
I can’t forget the lonely way Mom passed.

                                    --Monty Wheeler

Monday, May 20, 2013

Babbles: many shades

Babbles: many shades: from: POET’S SWORD I’ve unkempt hair and wild-eyed stare; On paper’s white and callused glare, My pencil flies like winded kite, And ...

Saturday, May 4, 2013


*dark’s the place I wander in;
walk where stark reality’s thin
and darkness lights the fears within*


“Come nigh, My Pretty; bow to me,
“And give me of sweet misery,
“For on your tears, I feed, you see;
“Now come, My Pretty, cry for me.

“And bleed for me; I’ve want to hear
“Your silent screams of agony.
“And run away, but you’ll come back
“To know me more in secrecy.

“Now come dark angels in the wind;
“You’re naught but carrion;
“Into the depths of Hell, they’ll bring
“Your fears I’ll always feed upon.

“Come nigh, My Pretty, don’t you see
“I’ve need; I’ve set my hunger free
“To roam within your soul’s dark place
“And eat of your last sanity.”

                        --Monty Wheeler


Friday, April 26, 2013


rambles of the darkened place,
not void of light but on my face
tears that Mercy can't erase.

and loud the wails of silent pain
yet stoic sits this thing again
to ponder souls in poison rain.

and loud the screams though heard by none
the tortured damned stripped and won
as prizes of the dark man's fun.

and lo, I walk the valley of the shadow
walk with me through this dark meadow
live as if you're his dark widow.

and give me place in your warm heart
for cold I live and cold's the part
I suffer through and then to start

the pencil flowing till the end
and death shall be the one to rend
the pencil from my clutching hand.

                                     --Monty Wheeler


“Come lay with me,” she said, “and in this bed
“Whisper those sweet bits of poesy;
“In voice of Love and Lust’s mixed harmony
“Sing low, Sweet Chariot. . .or wish you had.

“Where love can lie, love, too, can surely fly
“Let not this chance for love escape like Night,
“As Morning’s dawn will open her gold eye.
“Will fade away like birds in northward flight.

“Dark verse of moon and velvet nighttime brings
“A heat to lonely heart to breed the lust
“That in a tidal wave of passion sings
“Of giving over self with utter trust

“Breath the words with fingers in my hair
“And take me to another place somewhere.”

                                    --Monty Wheeler