Tuesday, December 23, 2014



Unlike the wind, a fleeing ghost,
That first kiss hangs upon its host
A tingle that should ere remain
In sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain.

Lay soft thy lips on virgin cheek
That burns of blush the innocents seek.
And lo, upon emotions’ crest,
Lips draw away and to the best,
For in that virgin kiss hides well
The secrets of some lovers’ spell
That would be known, but not to thee
Of lovers’ immaturity.

And yet forever and a day
Unlike the wind's temporal sway,
The memories of first kisses stay,
But like the wind, we’re blown away.

                             --Monty Wheeler

Wednesday, December 10, 2014


To every “ed” who’s stretched in mind
Who’s had to fly outside the box,
Who’s bit a tongue in speaking kind
Of words unorthodox

‘Tis torture in that stretch;
Machines ne'er did so much.
Those dread devices with the cranks
Can only stretch by touch

‘Tis mind o'er matter, thoughts to scatter
On raging desert wind.
O, ye, Eds, come chase our storms
Until our stories end!

We'd write to spite and write to please
And write to make ye think,
And giggle, we, as we’d sit ye
Nigh insantity's brink.

‘Tis bitter sweet that stretch ye'd meet
On verbose prose we’d write,
And on we’d type into the night
to lend ye eds a fright.

But dearest Eds, to all of you,
We’d fret not of your stretch;
The tenebrous mind can take the pain
That eds so often catch.

                --Monty Wheeler

Wednesday, December 3, 2014


I’d, humble, walk the narrow path
With Jesus, Savior, Lord,
And by His gift, I’ll praise Him with
The pen as my bronze sword.

I cannot sing or carry tunes;
No music can I play,
But God has blessed me with a gift,
A talent, so “they” say.

(And onward, Christian Soldier, write
As going off to war,
For God’s salvation set thee free
To walk His Golden Shore!)

I’d wield a humble poet’s pen,
Not out of duty’s call,
But out of Love and Faith in God;
He’s great, and I am small.

But I believe in altar’s prayer,
And promises He makes;
Perchance He’s chosen me to share
In spite of my mistakes.

Thus, if my pen and talent’s in
Accordance with His will,
I’ve want to share my God with all
In honing gift and skill.

            --Monty Wheeler

Wednesday, November 26, 2014


She walked a winter's day and--well?
‘Twas a real cold day in Hell,
For all around were shattered dreams
Like shards of ice from frozen streams
Where once flowed life’s eternal spring—
Forever dies, a fragile thing.

"Jesus loves me,” and she’d know"
That He walks where ere she'd go
And lo!  upon horizon's brow,
That wrinkled line twixt then and now,
Hope from God that now dim light
Will one day shine so full and bright,
But she knows, not, how it’ll be
One tiny candle lights a sea;
All she needs is faith to stand

On bedrock of The Father's land.

                       --Monty Wheeler

Wednesday, November 19, 2014


I am a child of God and son of man;
I wonder at God’s will and greater plan;
I hear “Amazing Grace” in angels’ choir;
I see the depths of Hell and Satan’s fire;
I want salvation; that’s my sweet desire;
I am a child of God and son of man.

I pretend that Jesus comes each day;
I feel He’s here with me in every way:
I touch the Lamb’s red blood that spilled for me;
I worry I’m got good enough, you see;
I cry at how He died for my dark sin;
I am a child of God and son of man.

I understand that God forgives.  Can I?
I say my daily prayers to God on High;
I dream of afterlife’s eternal span;
I try to live life pleasing to His eye;
I hope; therefore, I am, I loudly cry;
I am a child of God and son of man.

                         --Monty Wheeler

Monday, November 17, 2014


Yea, I walk through The Valley of the Shadow
With burning foot upon the hostile land,
A traveler protected by God’s hand,
I keep my eye on God’s eternal meadow.

Those times I feel so lost and God-forsaken
Surrounded by the blazing fires of Hell
That sweet temptation’s bellows tend so well,
My faith feels weak, so easily shaken.

Yea, I walk through The Valley of Despair,
Where stalks the devil’s beast that would consume
What Jesus grants in rising from that tomb;
I know my God walks always with me there.

I keep my eye upon my God’s green meadow,
Firm in my conviction Jesus saves.
He’ll release the devil’s sin-bound slaves
And walk with me through valleys of The Shadow.

God’s promise that He’ll walk that path with me,
Then carry me when I would balk in fear,
Consoles when I would salt the land with tear;
He is The Way, The Truth, The Light I see.

Yea, I walk through The Valley of the Shadow,
I walk toward God’s promise of green meadow.

                                  --Monty Wheeler

Thursday, November 13, 2014


I walked away with want to pray,
And fear raced through my heart;
And verily,
I say to thee,
The fear raced through my heart.

No way could tears tear me apart
where others might well see;
Give me a place—
A private space—
For others should not see.

But God will deal with me and sin;
I’ll pray in dark disgrace.
The good folk say.
There comes the day,
I’ll pray in dark disgrace.

If peace would come, let God begin
To let me cry that way.
Ask Him impart
His grace to start
A let me cry that way

            --Monty Wheeler

*The Roundabout is a four stanza poem, with each stanza consisting of 5 lines. The poem is written in iambic and the lines have 4 feet, 3 feet, 2 feet, 2 feet and 3 feet respectively. The rhyme scheme is aBccB/bCddC/cDaaD/dAbbA. Roundabouts can be on any subject*

Wednesday, November 12, 2014


*simple yes?  but simple no.  as short form poetry will go*

I pray
With faith He hears
This day.

The Father’s grace
Shan’t leave

I ask
What He would have—
My task.

         --Monty Wheeler

The Musette, created by Emily Romano is a poem that consists of three verses of three lines each. The first lines have two syllables; the second lines have four syllables, and the third lines have two syllables. The rhyme scheme is a/b/a for the first verse; c/d/c for the second verse, and e/f/e for the third verse. The title should reflect the poem’s content.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014


What bonds mankind to animal
But perfect love that none might break,
Two unlike creatures’ hearts can make
A kinship more than bestial.

Perchance that perfect love between
Two beings not of like and kind
Transcends the logic of the mind
And ere remains pure white—pristine.

So might that beast mankind would love
Wish how much like man he’d be?

And I would wish the same, you see,
When I would look Toward God above.
I would be the four-pawed beast
With gaze upon my master’s face;
Beside God’s throne I’d find my place,
And in my eyes, He’d read, “I’m blessed.”

My God, I pray, grant me that bond,
Imperfect creature that I am,
Through Jesus Christ, The Holy Lamb
Take me to what will lie beyond.

                     --Monty Wheeler

Friday, November 7, 2014


She walks upon a midnight dreary, as
Lost spirits wail in tortured agony,
And join in waiting; yes, The Reaper has
Captured all her hope’s ability.
There’d been a time when none would dare, you see,
To challenge her strong faith in God and prayer,
But life’s dark turns led to apostasy
As, slow, she drifted from His love and care.
She wishes on a star and in night’s air
Asks God to claim or send her soul to Hell;
How tired she’s grown of life’s hard wear and tear.
But that small, still voice says He still loves her well,
Even though from God she’d been away,
She knows He holds for her another day.

Thursday, October 30, 2014


If peace should come as Death would prey,
It’s peace I’d beg to come my way;
Silent walks the hungered thing
With scythe in hand and peace to bring.
And now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray that peace leaves not to weep
A saddened lover in the mist
With sobs to lend a heaving chest. . .

But God would say who dies or lives
And almost all, my God forgives,
But it’s that one dark sin, you see—
The urge to run, the want to flee,
The giving up and giving in
When life’s hard times would seem to win—
That even God would ne’er forgive.

For 'tis His gift, the want to live.
Father, take me as I am;
I’d ask to be but one more lamb
Tended by The Shepherd’s care
Through darkest times and pure despair;
Hold my spirit in your hand
Until I walk in Heaven’s Land.


Wednesday, October 29, 2014


If ere there were an empty chalice,
If substance ere were formed of malice,
If will were ill and easy poured,
Then ever shall I pray, “My Lord,
“Never let me be that vessel
“That’s malice filled, but be my trestle
“Across a deep and dark crevasse
“Of hate. . .don’t let me be that glass.

“And never let me harbor that
“Christened ship Resentment at
“My port and dock of future’s dreams.”
(It’s devil’s cargo, so it seems.)
And should thee waltz along the deck
Of Resentment, ye’d best check
For bodies of that ghost ship’s mates
Strewn ‘crossed the deck like empty crates.

“Come walk with me along the path
“Of sweet, self-righteous wrath,”
The devil croons in listening ear,
And such a tempting song to hear.
Black’s the rose of ill repose
That Forever—laughing—chose,
To lay me to rest in that rose garden;
God shan’t offer Holy Pardon.

So naught remains that I might do
If I’m to see His Light shine through
But lay myself at My Savior’s feet
As did Ruth pull back the sheet
Of her redeemer way back then
And ask he take her wholly in.

Jesus, Savior, take my soul
In broken shards and make me whole!
I’d walk with you, and by your hand,
Lead me to The Father’s Land.
If ere I were an empty chalice,
Please fill me with the Holy Ghost;
For all I’d pray, I crave that most. 



Forgiveness from a heart of stone takes flight,
And ne’er will peace find lasting home unless
Somewhere along the way a wrong’s made right.

As man would stand to fellow man in fight,
The hardened heart can’t see the uselessness,
When forgiveness from a heart of stone takes flight.

Sore wounded pride ne’er heals inside despite
Time passed, as man seems ne’er to learn or guess
Somewhere along the way the wrong’s made right.

How long’s the day and long’s the callused night!
As deeper into self man will regress,
When forgiveness from a heart of stone takes flight.

If man should keep forgiveness in his sight,
And man would but to ask his Lord to bless,
Somewhere along the way a wrong’s made right.

If God would live in man and shine His light,
And in a whispered prayer, man would confess,
“Forgiveness from a heart of stone takes flight;”
Somewhere along the way, a wrong’s made right.

                               --Monty Wheeler

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

The Chair (flash fiction)

100 words of flash fiction that plays to two hearts, that of a prose poem and the heart of fiction

The Chair
by Monty Wheeler

The Chair

The Chair sat there, and so did he, the little boy lost in a world no man called free.  The Chair consumed—so small was he; not bad to be swallowed by The Chair.  He hid his tears with little boy pride, for boys don’t cry, he’d heard that lie.  He curled himself into a ball and prayed to God and Grandpa too.  What else could any little boy do when God takes Mom and Dad from you?  God and Grandpa both reached down to touch the boy whose tears would drown.  Sorrow’s pain stabs again.

Monday, October 6, 2014

There Really Is a Gifthorse

The Horse
By Monty Wheeler

          Melinda stood outside the barn, just where her daddy said, and waited with one part hope and three parts of pure dread.  She hated surprises for too many times her hopes had been shattered and scattered like shiny bright dimes.  The worst was when Daddy took Mama to that big, germ free place; she didn’t come back to wipe the tears from a scared little girl’s face; they said she was dead and gone to God’s grace.   But she knew better; her mama was there, right with her always to hold her and care. 

         Her daddy led him out; and right away, she loved him of course.  Not just any giant horse; the big dappled gray had some special sway and swagger to his gait.  the gleam in his eye gave Melinda to cry; but oh, such happy tears she spilled.  Her uncle asked, “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.  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 him!”

     “Without the saddle you can not ride,” her daddy said in voice as soft and gentle as goose down bed. 

     “And without this bridle, you sure can’t guide.”

     “I don’t care, Daddy,” Melinda pouted.  “Don’t want that awful shiny thing in his teeth, and don’t want those real tight strap things underneath his big, soft tummy.”

     “But, Melinda, you can’t ride—“

     “Just watch me, Daddy,” Melinda cried.  She led the large steed to the old well, climbed the rock wall, and with handful of golden 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 and set to return to the bucket of corn Melinda’s daddy rattled.  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 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, even with her wide-eyed stare the far north fence way out there.  But oh, how her horse could set a girl free; ne’er had 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 called reindeers’ names but none seemed to fit her horse was a dasher, but that name was not it.  She felt her steed tense and finally she sensed the dangerous barbs of the five stranded fence.  As 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!”  Daddy’s 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, they caught an updraft, and far below was her daddy waving arms to his girl.  Melinda waved “bye” and called “I love you!   I’m going to see Mama!  I’ll tell you love her and miss her lots too!”

      Pegasus flew into the bright sun.  One horse.  One cowgirl.  One dream of forever and two friends hath begun.

Friday, January 17, 2014


what takes place on long days when not much is happening around home or net.  sensless drivel in meter and rhyme, but. . .perhaps not so senseless