Jewels

If all the tears of yesteryear lined up to be wiped away,
They'd flood the earth and salt the ground and turn our sunshine grey.
But rather than build higher barns each year, to store our tears away,
we throw them up for God to bear, and wait for what he'll say.
Yes, each wet-streaked tiny handful, we offer up each day,
He takes from us, and keeps for us, in Jerusalem far away.

In some obscure sense of things, I don't think they shall ever fade;
but every tear shall be crystallized, kept on velvet, kept with jade,
placed on altars, revered, displayed-
And the saints will stride, like Solomon, with these jewels, all arrayed.

Every little child's cheek that feels a slipping tear,
shall feel the touch of he who holds his servant's blood most dear,
so know that he comes to wipe that tear, take it- store it away,
So that when gone are pain and fear, we'll find these jewels saved.

A poem for all the watchful eagles

Just this afternoon, I was walking down a somewhat secluded mountain slope, when a military plane flew over my position and discharged an air drop. I at first was somewhat hesitant to investigate the package as I may well have arguably strayed past the decaying fences that mark the limits of Area 51, but as no one, terrestrial or extra, approached the delivery, I finally decided it must be for me and went to investigate. I was not disappointed. The following 'poem', (so to speak) I arranged in no particular order from a series of telegraphs inside the air-drop. Whatever their meanings are, or why they were delivered especially to me, may remain a mystery for quite some time.


For all that is bright and beautiful,
for all things sane and wise,
for all who and kind and merciful,
let us clear for them our skies;
We can bring down wrath and fire,
we can sling down roars and smoke,
we can drop them food and blankets-
but can we give them hope?

We soar on celestial azure heights-
blessed to be free by God above,
we watch the world with an eagle's eye,
we descend down like a dove;
we claim the fortunes of the stars:
Fifty, dreams come true,
we plough the nations for fertile wars,
and spread our fearless tune.

From lofty, pristine eagle's view, we watch the world unfold:
fire, fear, ambition; strife,
we drop a crate, or take a life,
'till the smoke, with terror rife, proclaims that a war is told.

"What gives us such authority?"- we reason, from on high,
"why should we fight a stranger's war?"- we preach, while children die,
"who are our friends and who our foes?" we bluster to the wind,
"and why should we have hearts at all?" we muster, in our sin.

Oh proud, haughty, imperial eagle,
weep not for a crumbling Rome.
Shed not your tears for a witless land;
(lest they run from sea to murmuring sea,)
and salt the fields and flood your home, no.
Weep for those who know no flag,
fight for those who have known fear,
uphold those whose shoulders sag,
drain for them your lifeblood dear;
  
If those that loose their lives for love,
gain them back a thousandfold,
let us fight to stop this flood,
smite and strike their stranglehold;

Let rather our eagle fall for mercy, 
than be fatten, plucked, and encased in gold,
Rather we crack our talons smiting slave chains,
than watch as innocence is killed and sold.