He will be gracious to me when
The voice of my cry hears.
He says that He will answer me then,
and not wait for years.
And though adversity’s my bread
and water of affliction.
Yet teachers shall not be removed;
My eyes shall see conviction.
My ears can hear the words behind me:
“Here’s the way walk in it.
Right or left hand you will be
led rightly”. I’ll submit it.
Distill all of my motives Lord
and bring me forth as gold.
On my own it is too hard,
I want Christ as my mold.
©2007 P. Johnson
In Noah’s day, God’s mercy took a pause;
while judgement then took over His just cause.
Lot’s brethren, that were righteous…there were none.
including his salt-wife…the wistful one.
Nadab and Abihu were burned ‘til dead.
They had not done the way that God had said.
Jonah was dragged way down into the sea,
‘til he gave in and asked for clemency.
Sampson repented but both eyes gone, still,
and his life ended as he did God’s will.
Israel was exiled after years of warning,
for 70 years reproach, before returning.
The prophecy of Eve, fulfilled in time,
to Mary: fearful, obedient, sublime,
Those ancient lessons teach, though some conversely,
Judgment doesn’t triumph but rather- Mercy.
I lost my cherished daily friend
one morning late when she
went far too near untimely end
and courted immortality.
No prayers would change or keep,
nor tears as tribute alter
her final churchyard sleep
and all those left to falter.
There was no help or counsel,
no arguments to end.
All youthful bliss had taken wing,
reality to bend.
Changed autumn to a spectre;
with colors muted gray,
corporeal days had faded,
with every one that way.
Time has not replaced her.
The season still looms dark,
though not as chilly as before,
the deepness, not as stark
I did not solve that riddle
for years and ages, hence
the end of summer always will
be daunting, as a fence.
How much coffee does it take
to, during church keep me awake?
I thought that I had had enough,
to open keep my eyes
I’m pretty sure that that is where
the whole defiency lies…
©Pam Johnson 2011
Laundry hanging in a row,
Why does catbird mock me so?
Praying prayers it cannot see,
Assenting quiet woe is me.
Faithful Witness, give me grace
for this next test that I must face.
Am I not strong enough to bear?
Lines on face show me the wear.
Going where I should not tread
Captive thoughts I will not dread.
I am afraid to offer me
But that I do, it must be free.
Please take, my Lord, all thoughts of mine
and bend them to the will of Thine.
If given not, I may betray
leading off the narrow way.
I need great wisdom and I ask
to be made stronger for my task.
To die in service, simple sounds
Compared to living here, earthbound.
So I must trust that Faithful You
When I am faithless You stay true.
©Pam Johnson 2007
“When my anxious thoughts multiply within me, Thy consolations delight my soul” (Psalm 94:19)
I think that there shall never be
a poem written again by me.
Or if there is it won’t be good
or deep or thoughtful as it should.
It isn’t that I do not want
to write some prose in lovely font
Meaningful words in clever ways
arranged all in breathtaking lays
or rhyming, funny, laughing verse
even pointed lessons terse.
These things I want to flow from me
But alas, I fear ’twill never be.
© 2011 P. Johnson
Each Spring is winter’s absolution
Past winters long forgotten
those things that winter killed are laid to rest.
Survivors bloom with graciousness;
holding no grudges,
keeping back nothing for vengeance’ sake.
The Drone is a bee quite hilarious.
His purpose, to workers, nefarious.
They make him for one reason
kick him out after the season
But meanwhile he is very gregarious.
As I age before my very eyes
I find myself superfluous and blue.
And with this notice, I hereby apprise
you: do not worry, as I am in queue.
Not silence, but restraint is my “new” aim.
It may not look so different to some
who see the surface and inside the same.
They wonder where this bother cometh from.
But words do not come from no place at all,
though outwardly they seem such little things.
To casual observer – even banal,
or possibly – of cabbages and kings.
From that deep place this eidolon keeps on;
laughs and cries and listens as a sage,
re-reading of the Snark, or Kubla Khan,
and all the things that now become my age.
The worker bee is sweet to me,
diligent in her stealth.
Her gratitude is plain to see
as she works to gather wealth.
With tattered wings she carries on
in loyalty prodigious.
I watch her working ‘cross the lawn,
with intensity almost religious.
Late flowers attract a summer sound;
a buzzing so symphonious.
More than just noise, it is profound,
sweet bee voices, euphonious.
And when the nectar’s gathered in,
since ever days of olden;
they concentrate as if to spin
it into honey golden.