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