What moves forward but stays still at the same time?
Knowledge, technology moves on, primitive instincts remain.
Thank God for those who still think they can make a difference for the common good.
Hope is still the best motive.
With the deluge of knowledge
Information becomes a plague,
A never ending stream of books,
By those who are clever,
Engaging us with their page.
Their themes are all the same,
Enticing the curious mind,
Conspiracies, intrigue and sex,
The life blood of mankind.
There is plenty to pass the time
While waiting for our death,
With conscience occasionally stirred,
But soon returns to the slumber of death.
Please, don’t get me wrong,
There is a master plan,
The brain makes demands of us,
A lifetime to understand.
The pinhead is never crowded,
You too, can take your place
Where the analogue becomes the digital,
You may call it
Saved by grace.
R. de L. 30/06/2014
Dapper of Battle, East Sussex
Beyond the ridge there is a bridge
Where a ghost is said to appear,
I ventured out one misty night,
There was nothing there to fear.
For with knowledge comes the antidote
To the mysteries of the dark,
For Christ has overcome “the Thing,”
The owl became the lark.
The bird of fear has flown.
R. de L.
Round and round the theorist thinks,
It drives him round the bend,
For every time the theorist thinks
Reason’s no more his friend.
Round and round the theorist walks
With his hands behind his back.
The theorist tries so desperately
To make his theories fact.
Round and round the theorist walks,
Suddenly a light’s switched on,
If every theory found it’s fact
Life would lose it’s charm.
R. de L.
Lynda would rather be flying than thinking. I just want to land safely in my mind.
God and the devil are having a laugh,
The disciples of each drink champagne in the bath.
Their liver and kidneys are rotting inside,
And the stir-fry of hell will always oblige
To indulge the sons of men, dear boy,
To indulge the sons of men.
The church and the chapel preach out at the dead,
But Sabbath days are spent laying in bed.
A rest for the body but O, what of the soul?
The funeral’s on Friday when they bury old Joe,
Words will be said,the conscience aroused,
The widow of Joe unbuttons her blouse.
Drinks and the buffet will be handed around,
And few will remember the clarion sound.
Mourners in black, lust is the theme,
Old Joe gives account of all that has been.
Tomorrow a mourner will hear the bell toll
And God and the devil will fight for the soul.
There’s silence in Heaven, the pieces are set,
The blood of the Lamb has paid the full debt.
It’s a particular redemption, the elect made to know
Their sins all forgiven, whiter than snow.
A footnote to prose, is it not this,
The reader of such might unclench their fist.
The author confesses it’s a mystery to him,
But knows in his heart that the Lord called the Christ
In the end always wins.
Immortal, invisible Satan will lie
To keep us in chains ’til the time that we die.
Don’t wait for answers, you’ll be waiting in vain,
The wind of God’s spirit is blowing again.
Think it a mercy if it blows upon you.
To be serious in word just was not my intent
But words have their mood, the night is far spent.
It is a mercy of love if we find we are blessed,
To die happy in Jesus, at peace and at rest.