A HUMBLE POET'S PEN

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 lowly poet’s pen,

Not out of duty’s call,

But out of Love for Jesus Christ;

He is great, and I am small.

So if my pen—His gift—is in

Accordance with His plan,

I want to share my God with His

Salvation for all men.

            --Monty Wheeler

A PRAYER LIES THERE

There waits a prayer everywhere;
there waits a talk with God,
and ask me why I'd pass it by
with just a cursory nod.

There waits a prayer; it's lying there
like a fresh picked rose.
And would I pause my busy day?
to bring it to my nose?

There waits a prayer and all God's care
like a heads-up penny,
and how much richer I shall be
with prayers that count to many.

                        --Monty Wheeler

UPON THE SHORE

Of lovers’ fights she thinks at night

And ponders on her own sad plight;

She walks the way shunned lovers will

When given naught to love but still

From loving him, her heart shan’t sway,

But lonely lives both night and day.

In love or lust the swoon’s the same,

The flutter’d heart, the whispered name,

But one shall die when passion’s fire

Would rage to ash, leave naught but ire

In lovers’ fights and wants to stray,

Then lonely lives both night and day.

She walks along the shore and sand,

Wondering why he cheated and

What’s a jilted lover do?

An angry sea of storm-tossed blue

Invites her but she stops to pray

For lonely living night and day.

                        --Monty Wheeler

*a varied refrain in the Stave Stanza where sestets built of couplets use the last line for refrain.

LET MERCY RAIN

Now I lay me down to weep;

I pray, perchance, for rest in sleep,

Where demons lurk beyond the dreams,

And stark reality's thin, it seems,

Where fears seem sure to win the fight.

How glad I am for cloak of night

Where no one sees the salted tears

Born of way too many years,

But then I think of Calvary,

The place of skulls where tears flowed free,

As Jesus died. Yet he would rise

And come to stand before their eyes.

While nightmares of my toil and tares

Play in midnight’s wide-eyed stares

Sleep would linger as a tease,

But granting no repose or ease.

Until I pray. “My God,” I say,
“Let Your mercy rain today

“And peace come unto me. Amen”

In faith, I close my eyes again.

                        --Monty Wheeler

INNOCENCE (KISSES LIKE THE WIND)

KISSES LIKE THE WIND

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

TO THE EDITORS

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

MINE HUMBLE PEN

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