Makalani: 2020

For He Alone Is Life

If fire could live, ‘twould be a flame,
Which grows and shrinks, never the same
But always there. ‘Twould make a game
Of every changing wind, nor tame
It’s fierce desires, yet take the blame
When love does not fulfill her name.
‘Twould make the highest airs its aim
And never let the mountain claim
A height over it. Always frame
It’s hopes, ambitions, unto fame
And glory that is self-acclaim.
Brighter than all, ‘twould think that lame
The person is who takes a maim
And bears not through. So would the flame –
But fire cannot live.

If water could live, ‘twould be a sea
Filled to the brink with memory
And waves that whisper poetry
Unto the world eternally.
‘Twould share the deepest mystery
Of tide and deep. Fore’er to be
The same, though face change constantly
From wind and waves. Impossibly
‘Twould bury every injury
Forgiving all, protectively
Allow for our humanity
And all its flaws. ‘Twould musically
Show that all is not what we see:
Night has glory. So would the sea –
But water cannot live.

If ether could live, ‘twould be an air
Lifting the heart to heavens where
‘Twould freely dance upon the fair
White backs of clouds, and show that rare
The feeling is of pure release. Bear
Every burden and every care
Away. ‘Twould teach that when we share
By song and words of hope, we dare
The dark to flee. ‘Twould blow the tear
Back to a seal, and whisper scare
Be gone. ‘Twould never wear:
Within, without and round fore’er.
‘Twould cleanse the past from every lair,
And breathe new life. So would the air –
But ether cannot live.

If world could live, ‘twould be the earth
So vast, yet putting greatest worth
In what is small. Though mighty girth
Of land it hath, still giving birth
To little things: beast, plants. ‘Twould mirth
In life espoused from every turf
Proving how dear each is. No north
Nor south, nor east, nor west-born serf
Should claim the mastery. Imperf-
Ect are all livings things and dearth
There is of mem’ry that the berth
Of every life can ne’er be sure, hath
Founding, ending, and the firth
Through which we float unto the surf
Leads dust to dust. So would the earth –
But world cannot live.

Since we can live, our passion’s claim
May be that it resembles flame.
Since we can live, our harmony
A kind which looks just like the sea.
Since we can live, our every care
Be high and light as windy air.
Since we can live, our foremost worth
In how God took us from the earth.

For God made everything and more
Than we can understand, before
The sons of Men breathed life. And for
Our lowly race He, living, bore
The pain of our sin; paid the score;
Died, and dying, the veil He tore;
Is seated now forevermore
In Heaven. Of all brethren fore-
Most, He redeems from sin to glor-
Y in the place were made for.
This is the God who made the shore
The sky, the streams, the sun. Though poor
Our sinful selves are, He is more
Than rich in mercy. So does God.
For He alone is life.

Without Love - Contemplations

From this poem

Though I give until I’m empty,
There will still be those who need
For my love is not sufficient
And my purpose incomplete.
Give of my strength, I will waver,
Thus I give but from my Savior.

Though I strive for all I’m worth
In the end, my fight will founder
For the enemies I’m facing
Are much greater – are much stronger.
My own strength to fight will waver,
But my Savior waver? Never.

Though I heal the wounded gently,
My hands cannot reach all hurts.
My own wounds won’t be forgotten
Nor the heart-ache of the earth.
My own healing is not worth it.
But the Savior’s health is perfect.

Though I rise and save the earth
Yet myself I cannot save
And the saving I would rise to
Proves a pathway to the grave.
My own saving damns my soul,
But my Savior saves the whole.

Though I make a crown of glory
Yet will life be short to wear
And after the grave has bound me
I can take no circlet there.
Crown of mine so quick to sever
But my Savior’s is forever.

Though I win the final race
This race is not worth the winning.
Glory of Man’s praise has ending
And my race prove ground for sinning.
Race of mine but runs to sorrow.
Savior then, today, tomorrow.

Though I tell the greatest story,
That story could not be mine
For the story of the ages
Is a tale far beyond time.
Thus this story, but my taking
What my Savior is still making.

Though I teach the sinner grace
I may have no grace in me
And my teaching prove, though saving,
In my life, hypocrisy.
Thus the grace I preach may never
Change my life without the Savior.

Though I heap a mount of treasures
Yet I cannot take a dot
Of that treasure past death’s doorway
For of spirit it is not.
Thus the treasures I should gather,
Are in Heaven with my Savior.

Though I serve and bend the knee
Yet my heart may still be standing
For my pride is without waver
And so weak my understanding.
Kneeling outward, standing inward,
“All your heart” the final password.

Though I find the truest pleasures
And in finding, make men glad,
Still the deeds of earth are passing
Quickly happy, quickly sad.
If true joy I would endeavor,
I find nowhere but the Savior.

Though I make no enemy
And the world approves my all
This will be but void in me,
And the groundwork of my fall.
Jesus said “The world will hate thee
For my sake, because you love me.”

Though many friends gather ‘round me
Yet my circle be a cage
Where the Savior is not welcome
And I justify my rage.
Two or three should be sufficient
And our faith combined efficient.

Though my family be whole
I may be far from my Father
Who’s in Heaven, and the Spirit
May be further than my Brother.
So in happiness not blind:
Careful to keep Heav’n in mind.

Though the world would fail without me
Would this failure not be proof
Of how much the world is needing
Mercy, Grace and risen Truth?
Not too eager to be savior
Of a world that needs The Savior.

Though I save the broken soul
In the duty of my calling,
‘Twill not justify my soul
For my own recurrent falling.
Right with God, foremost to be
Then my Savior works in me.

Though I have the purest virtue
One sin is enough to damn.
I cannot earn back redemption
Though I try with all I am.
So this virtue proving aimless
I accept the Lord’s forgiveness.

Though my hands are free of blood
Yet what hearts have I bruised heedless?
What hurts are my tongue’s cruel doing
And my negligent thoughtlessness?
Murder but the outward sign
Of a hating heart within.

Though I speak only what is true
Am I sure that I believe?
Do I speak the truth with mercy
Or to goad lost hearts to grieve?
Not just certain in the truth, for
To “speak with grace” is much more.

Though I stem the killing flood
Earthly bodies still will pass
And the ones I saved from drowning
Curse their unsaved souls at last.
First the soul, for it’s eternal:
Trade no flood for an inferno.

Though I seek for all that’s lovely
Even Solomon’s great throng
Of the beauties all this world has
Were no better than a song.
So possess beauty not outward,
For the purest soul is inward.

Though I gain the greatest height
Yet who have I left behind me?
It is more to help the weak climb
Than to win the mountain solely.
Leave no brother lost to founder
For your Helper is the Savior.

Though I stand as none cane move me
Yet my foundation may move
If it is not proven founded
Upon the Gospel of Love.
Sure of where I stand, I’ll never
Doubt the Word of my own Savior.

Though I always do the right
Yet what are my thoughts and feelings?
Deeds are good in their own power
But the heart is more revealing.
Feel no evil, think no ill
This is first the Savior’s will.

Though I believe without waver
This does not quite equal faith
I may say I know the Savior
But surrender not my place.
So the thought must be the action
And the result is salvation.

Though I pray to God above
Yet without a heart, my prayers be
Nothing more than chanted mantras
And will do no good within me.
With thanksgiving, pray in earnest
And the Savior bears my burdens.

Though I magnify the Savior
With my word and deed and thought
I must also do His bidding
And accept my every lot.
Praise is good, but love is better
And they both glory the Savior.

I am nothing without love
But my God is Love, and in me
He is working to create a
Masterpiece of Love and glory.
Nothing I am without God
But through Him I can be Love.

The Patriot

Slowly he walked down the brown, dreary lane.
The morning was late and soft was the rain
Upon his scarred face and hands all stitched o’er
With marks he had earned when he fought in the war.
His brown eyes were heavy with memories from
The times after he had left behind his home:
The battles and gunshots – the face of each friend
Who’d fought by him bravely and died in the end.
So many now gone who would nevermore see
The land and the people they’d left to keep free.
How little they knew – the ones home and safe –
How great was the sacrifice their soldiers made.
But how sweet the air for this home-coming last,
And blessed the great ground o’er which his feet passed.
He’d do it again, if threatened by war
His country was. Yes, he would do it once more.
Yet now he was sad, for though he gave all
Nor shrank from his duty when raised was the call
For soldiers to arm, yet still those back home
Were set to forget all the pain he’d come from.
They would not admit that he’d fought the great foe
To save them from bondage and slavery. No,
Instead they reviled him, blamed him for the war
That he never started nor ever wished for.
They said that he killed the helpless just for fun,
When that was what the other side had done.
They said that he tried to conquer and enslave,
When all that he had done was defend and save.
They called him a villain, a murderous scum
And he wondered why he had ever come home.
Slowly the sun pushed itself through the rain
And lit up the mountains, the trees and the plain
With splendor so vibrant they all seemed to sing
With joy at their freedom and his home-coming.
The soldier stood still and looked down the lane
Where over a house all wet with the rain
There waved a bright banner of red-white-and-blue
Which, seeming to greet him, said “I trusted you
And you never failed me. Through bullet and bomb
You carried me high for those back at home.
Do not be worried or hurt by their blows;
Remember you fought so that they would not know
What pain really is or fear, or despair.
It is not right, and may never be fair,
But you know, and I know, and even more God
In whom is our trust, knows the battles you fought.
Thank you for fighting – never giving in.
Thank you for helping your brothers to win.
Thank you for caring and bearing me through
The storm. I fly only because of you.”
And there, in the lane, beneath the bright sky
Where freedom was free and the flag still could fly,
A man was seen standing, saluting with a
Tear in his eye and “God bless America.”

QUIET!

My mental scream only seems to make the fan buzz louder. The clock ticks more thunderously. The breathing sleepers roar like lion-voiced vacuum-cleaners. Ban, bang, bang – time is measured. Uzz, uzz, uzzzzzzzzzzz – air is moved. Shuuh-ahh, shuuh-ahh, SHUUH-AHH – breath roars.

I probably have a fever, and a headache, and a few other things (insomnia anyone?), but these are all dwarfed in comparison to my massively short temper. How can a temper be massive and short? you wonder. Oh, leave me alone.

I stumble out of bed and stagger to the bedroom door. As I turn its handle, a click shoots through the air like the sound of a bullet. I wince. My teeth grind like millstones as the cursed hinges wail ‘eeeeerieeeeee’. The door closes behind me. Stillness.

But it is only the stillness of change.

A whole new array of sounds lurk in the hall. The screaming whine of digital clocks from the kitchen. The murderous boom of the giant living-room clock. Bang, bang, bang, BU-ANG-

ARGH.

I collapse through the bathroom door (no, not through it, dummy! The doorway-). It closes behind me. Another bullet-blast. Silence.

I hate my heart. Bu-doom, bu-doom, bu-doom it stomps in my chest. Literally! The sound crushes me. I feel like a dinosaur is planting its huge, gnarly, reptilian foot on my chest and brain and eyes and stomach all separately but at once and over and over and over-

I hold my breath. Doesn’t help. I plug my ears. So much worse. I hit the floor in random patterns to drown out the incessant beat, but my blows always conform to it. Bu-doom, bu-doom, bu-doom, BU-DOOM-

QUIET!!!!!!!!!!

Is there NO way to solve this? My eyes stray up the sleeping-pills on the bathroom shelf. People say sleep is silent. No, not that kind of sleep. Breathing-sleep means dreams, and they are SO much noisier than life. Non-breathing sleep would be nice though. They say the grave is so silent, so silent . . .

Forget it. The grave is so silent it hurts. But I need to find something! Some sort of sound other than this forever clamor that I cannot change and cannot conquer, nor can I escape or find something more, and-

AGGGGHHHHH!

Don’t worry, the screaming is all in my head. Wouldn’t want to wake the family up. Need to survive until morning. In the morning, this nightmare will pass. In the morning I’ll laugh at my current craze. Right now, I need to survive. Breathe. In – out. In – out. Hsshhh-nuuuuh, hsshhh-nuuuuh, hsshhh-nuuuuhhhhhh.

I sprawl across the bathroom floor, staring blankly at the light-bulbs above me. They flicker softly. I frown. I listen. They’re . . . buzzing? No, there’s a note in there. Each one a different kind: white, yellow, and . . . yellow-white. They’re singing, each a different tune. I close my eyes. I listen. How lovely. It almost sounds like that thing comic-artists use for when their characters are sleeping.

Zzzzzzzzzzzz . . .

It is one of the strangest things I have ever seen, and for a guy who grew up in Los Angeles, that’s saying a lot. Sure, you can find the same sort of things in YouTube videos and horror-films, but there’s a big difference between seeing something on screen and through the front wind-shield of your car.

I was in the Minnesota boondocks. While the ‘land of a thousand lakes’ may be pictured as some kind of polka-dot Vienna, it is actually more than 50% fields. In the summer, you can drive along the highways and backways for hours and there’ll be houses, silos, farm equipment, and the occasional old wreck at the head of some dirt road – but people? Not unless you’re lucky. Maybe Minnesotans turn themselves into starlings in the summer time. There were certainly plenty of those blue-black, yellow-eyed birds around.

But back to what happened. I had been in Minnesota for about four hours. The sky had grown slowly grey-blue in the East and red-pink in the West as the big sun sank behind a bank of clouds like fuzzy skyscrapers. I was driving through softly-rolling fields of summer-green crops. It was at a junction of railroad and highway that the strange event happened.

For a while, there had been trundling along behind me a dusty, navy-blue pick-up. As I neared the junction and braked for the stop-sign, I saw two people, one on either side of the highway.

The left one was a kid on a bike, wearing a yellow t-shirt and black soccer shorts. The right one was a man in jeans and a grey, Old Navy hoodie. The hood was up. When the kid on the bike saw me slow down, he started across. I stopped fully to reassure him I had no intention of running him over. The man in grey did not move.

A rubbery shriek slid through the air as the blue pick-up swerved around and past me. He must have had somewhere to be. The kid was directly in his path. There was no time to react on anyone’s part – or so you’d think.

Then it happened. My eyes had strayed to the man in grey, and just as the pick-up was about to plaster that kid all over the tracks, he moved. Well, not exactly. He didn’t move in the sense that he started walking or running. He didn’t start doing anything. One moment he was standing to the right and the next he was a streak of shadow which zipped across the highway, took the kid with it, and reappeared, completely stationary, on the safe side of the road.

The pick-up roared on. I stared through my window, asking myself if I had drunk anything and not realized it. Do Minnesotans put alcohol in their gas-station coffee? I later confirmed that they do not.

But somehow, that kid had been rescued from certain death, faster than light, and here’s the strangest thing.

The man in grey? Gone.

Makalani

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