Long Time

Dear Readers,

I know I haven't written any poetry lately or published any. I have had a bit of a battle with cancer. I have won round one and will start writing more in the near future. Give me a week or two more.

Paul

Struggle

I wrote this as a comment on stuggle. Struggle with belief systems, not a thesis on theology. As you can tell from my biograph, I am a person immersed in religion. So I write about it.

Through The Years

Through the years I wondered why
Jesus chose to die the way he did?
I know the reasons faith gives
about our sins and sacrifice,
salvation of the human race,
the way Romans punished crime.

God died that day upon the cross
in excruciating pain, a bloody death
Why would he choose to die that way?

I know by faith he rose from the dead
to spread his teachings throughout the earth
for centuries to come until the end
for all mankind to emulate
embracing death instead of fear.

Through the years I wondered why
so many people on this earth
have never heard of his death
or don't believe he died.
What of those people
in other univers,
will they be saved as well?

I have so many questions
about our life, death and
what happens at the end.
I don't know what to think
I am told to just believe.
It is hard as Thomas knows.

Through the years
I have strggled
with all this
doing the best I can.
I know the answer lies
in how I treat my fellow men,
who stand with me
before a loving God.

Paul Wolf 5/10/09

Waiting

If you have had the experience in the poem, "Medical Test", then you will have had the following experience.

The Phone Call

Have you ever felt death's shadow
sitting beside you,
trying to hold your hand
like a lover you reject.
Persistent.

You wait and wait
days and hours pass,
hoping it will disappear.
Knowing all along
a single call, the right words
will banish it to some other dark place.

You hope and hope that call will come.
Wait! It could be the message
that marries you to the frightful specter.
You don't know and you won't
until the phone rings.

Paul Wolf, 4/30/09

Visiting the Doctor

I am sure most of you who are older have had this experience.

Medical Test

Have you ever been in between
with nowhere to move
knowing the way
afraid to go.

Time stands still
like a movie in pause.
It has to continue
to know what will happen,
your life in its hands.

You talk to your mind.
"Stop that worry!
Don't obsess,
creating images, fantasies,
nothing more until you have the facts.
You have to take that test."

As slowly as icicles melt
on a cold winter day
warmed ever so slightly
by a winter sun,
time moves again.
You are afraid.

Nobody knows.
The results will bring
either relief or pain.

More Poems

I have not been keeping this blog up to date. My writing has bent to another area. But I am back today. The poems I am leaving are short and occurred when I was in a hospital room in a place far from home. I hope you enjoy them.

Little Brown Mouse

A little brown mouse came scurrying in
singing to God a little hymn.
Bringing with it a little joy
to a sad and lonely day.

I wondered why that liitle mouse
entered into my troubled life.
Did she enter to spread some cheer
to move my fearful thoughts
away to places of hope so dear?

Then I wondered all the more,
Why was I here in this place of woe?
Did I do something so very bad
that punishment was needed to change my path?

The hymn she sang was one of love.
The tune was light
lifting my spirits high above.
Then I knew why I was here
to learn how a little mouse
can spread in a troubled life
the cheer needed to survive.

Eddie

On a lonely day in a lonely place
I sat down to a meal.
There I met a gentleman
whose smile drew me like a bright tune.

The man was old, hearing impaired,
intelligent, wise and quick of mind.
I knew he lived a long long life
I listened as he spoke.

He told of a life of grief and good times
of fear and facing death in war
when he was a youth.
He talked of the loss of his first wife
and a child, a boy so dear.
There were other children who lost their way,
the hurt caused furrows above his eyes.
He praised his present wife of many years
who cared for him so well.

He spoke about his accomplishments,
the pride was in his voice,
of working steadily all his life
of loyalty, what was right.
He didn't understand where
all these values have disappeared.

But most of all he talked about
a little dog he loved
small enough to fit his lap
and snuggle under his arm.
His pleasure brightened the dreary room

And then we talked of facing death,
of being tired of holding on.
The fear and strange attraction death brings
as age creaps up our spine.
Some small things that holds us here,
keeps us hanging to a thread
such as a little dog, whose love
gives such cherished need.

Paul

My Lady

Nutmeg brown the color of her eyes,
Silver-black her hair
a smile that opens like a rose
greeting the morning air.
A blossom slowly opening
on a century plant.
A river of bluebells with
a forest for its banks.

A chipmunk shyly peaking out
ready to scamper under the leaves,
or a couple of squirrels
on the ground searching for their burried food
worried about losing what they have,
in constant motion to feed their brood.

Waves lapping on the shore
smooting jagged pieces of stone
like water flowing over a cliff
forming its cup in the rock below
creating a basin of foam.

Or a Grandfather Clock in a hall
ordering time by its pedulum swing,
never stopping its persistent march
to never ending dreams.

Constantly thinking of ways to please
like getting a kiss from a springtime breeze.
Catching fireflies on a summer night to place in a jar
watching the eerie green light.

These images and memories past
are brought to life by her acts
of kindness and generosity.

P.J. Wolf

The Robbin's Song

Each spring I listen
for the Robin’s song,
hoping and straining
to hear it’s unique trill
which lifts my spirit,
renews my will.

When I was a young man
walking the woods
listening to the sparrows
squawking in the bush,
watching the cardinals
flit in the snowy brush
singing their songs in the
morning’s blush.

It was the Robin’s song
that said winter is past,
spring would be here
with its color and warmth.
I never forgot how pleasing it was.

Through the years of worry and work
when doubts of survival touched my soul,
never knowing what madness the day would bring
I listened for spring and the Robin to sing.

Like a horse that’s burdened
with a wagon’s load,
plowing ahead step by step,
never knowing when it will end,
expecting the rights to become wrong,
listening then to the Robin’s song.

When nature took the good things away
leaving of life an empty loft,
nothing existed that brightened the day
and darkness settled into my bones.
I remember what I learned
when walking as a young man
listening to the Robin’s song
until the sadness fades away.

P. J. Wolf