His Darkest Moment

In his darkest moment
All alone
Falling towards the pits of hell

He cried out
To his oft ignored God
For an end

In a flash of light
His pain faded
His distress gone

And he heard a voice speak
Not a booming voice
Not a voice to fear

But a voice of comfort and love
A voice that arose from nowhere
And everywhere alike

With a loving
While chiding message
“I never asked you to walk alone.”

For it was he
who had wandered
Not Him.

©2017 M. G. Cooper

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I Went for a Walk

I went for a walk

In the woods

To see what I could find.

No cell phone service

Denied me

The ability to speak

No radio signal

Denied me

My ability to hear

No data hookup

Denied me

My ability to see.

 

Agitated in unfamiliarity

Feeling lost

Unable to breathe

I wanted to run

But needed to stay

To see what I could find.

 

Slowly it emerged

The breeze

Created a ballet of leaves

For me to see

Birds singing to their mates

Created music

For me to hear

Small animals skittering

All around me

Invited me to speak.

 

The lack of bustle

And the sounds

Of manmade busy-ness

Opened my mind,

My heart,

My soul.

 

I went for a walk

In the woods

To see what I could find

And I found me.

©2017 M. G. Cooper

 

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Into The Night

Into the night we all must ride

On a steed of blinding light

Headlong onto our judgment day

Having fought and lost to life.

We stand before the final Judge

Our deeds weighed against our sin

No appeal will be given that day

No mercy can we beg or win.

If you war and kill in His name

No favor will you gain

For those who violate His law

The fires of hell will reign.

Live your life with passion and peace

Put all others before your own

Live according to the law

And your goodness to God will be known.

©2017 MGC

 

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The Monster

The artist paints the world
Through rose colored glasses
With a fantasier’s soul
And it is a pretty street urchin on the canvas

The realist sees
The hideous monster
As it is and always will be
While it poses for the artist to paint

The artist cries out at the realists words
Burdening him with labels to load him down
To break his spirit
But it is to no avail as the realist does not waiver

The realist tears the glasses
from in front of the artist’s eyes
Only for the artist to turn his head
until his glasses protect his view again

As long as the artist will not see
And the realist will not waiver
Nothing will change
And the monster laughs

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The Book That Never Was

The writer stared at his creation lying on the desk

The desk that had given him years of joy with its handcrafted beauty

A story almost completed, but held back by a loss for words

The missing pages eluding his mind for too long now

The anguish of not being able to perform his trade

Had brought him to this moment on this day.

Slowly, the center drawer of this desk slid open with ease

Without looking down, his hand explored the contents to find his prey

A .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol meant to protect

Was now destined to destroy

He chambered a copper jacketed shell

His eyes closed and guided the pistol into place

The index finger started to squeeze the trigger

A lone tear emerged from his now tightly clenched eyes

Seeking relief from this paper beast

The deafening report of the projectile exiting the gun

Startled neighbors all around

And the pistol silently slipped from his grip

Resting now on the desktop

As the pages of the story fell to the floor

It was done; he had found peace.

Eventually he arose

Picking up the pages and admiring the hole

That perfect hole left in each page by the bullet

That had silenced his writer’s block

He had killed his tormenter

And he thought to himself

“Maybe I’ll be a carpenter.”

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The Compass

With 360 degrees of choice

To seek out my future course

No matter which direction I steer

The winds bring me back home to you.

 

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Here a Farm, There a Farm

I own a farm

but do not farm

to a farmer it’s easy to see

That on that farm

where I don’t farm

there is no farmer in me.

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