TMBMT 's Poem of the Day Archives


          My God, I heard this day
That none doth build a stately habitation,
    But he that means to dwell therein.
    What house more stately hath there been,
Or can be, than is Man? to whose creation
          All things are in decay.

          For Man is every thing,
And more: he is a tree, yet bears more fruit;
    A beast, yet is or should be more:
    Reason and speech we only bring.
Parrots may thank us, if they are not mute,
          They go upon the score.

          Man is all symmetry,
Full of proportions, one limb to another,
    And all to all the world besides:
    Each part may call the furthest, brother;
For head with foot hath private amity,
          And both with moons and tides.

          Nothing hath got so far,
But man hath caught and kept it, as his prey.
    His eyes dismount the highest star:
    He is in little all the sphere.
Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they
          Find their acquaintance there.

          For us the winds do blow,
The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow.
    Nothing we see but means our good,
    As our delight or as our treasure:
The whole is either our cupboard of food,
          Or cabinet of pleasure.

          The stars have us to bed;
Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws;
    Music and light attend our head.
    All things unto our flesh are kind
In their descent and being; to our mind
          In their ascent and cause.

          Each thing is full of duty:
Waters united are our navigation;
    DistinguishŤd, our habitation;
    Below, our drink; above, our meat;
Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty?
          Then how are all things neat?

          More servants wait on Man
Than he'll take notice of: in every path
    He treads down that which doth befriend him
    When sickness makes him pale and wan.
O mighty love! Man is one world, and hath
          Another to attend him.

          Since then, my God, thou hast
So brave a palace built, O dwell in it
    That it may dwell with thee at last!
    Till then, afford us so much wit,
That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee,
          And both thy servants be.

-- George Herbert

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The Gospel According to You

There's a sweet old story translated for men,
But writ in the long, long ago
The Gospel according to Mark, Luke, and John
Of Christ and His mission below.

You are writing a gospel, a chapter each day,
By deeds that you do, by words that you say.
Men read what you write, whether faithless or true.
Say, what is the gospel according to you?

Men read and admire the gospel of Christ,
With its love so unfailing and true;
But what do they say, and what do they think
Of the gospel according to you?

'Tis a wonderful story, that gospel of love,
As it shines in the Christ-life divine,
And oh, that its truth might be told again
In the story of your life and mine!

Unselfish mirrors in every scene,
Love blossoms on every sod,
And back from its vision the heart comes to tell
The wonderful goodness of God.

You are writing each day a letter to men;
Take care that the writing is true.
'Tis the only gospel some men will read,
That gospel according to you.

-- Wallace E. Norwood

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The Precious Book

Though the cover is worn
And the pages are torn
And places bear traces of tears,
Yet more precious than gold
Is the Book worn and old,
That can shatter and scatter my fears.

When I prayerfully look
In the precious old Book,
As my eyes scan the pages I see,
any tokens of love
From the Father above,
Who is nearest and dearest to me.

This old Book is my guide,
'Tis a friend by my side,
It will lighten and brighten my way;
And each promise I find
Soothes and gladdens my mind
As I read it and heed it each day.

Oh, wonderful, wonder Word of the Lord,
True wisdom its pages unfold,
And though we may read it a thousand times o'er,
They never, no never grow old.

Each line hath a treasure, each treasure a pearl,
That all, if they will, may secure;
And we know that when time and the world pass away,
God's Word shall forever endure.

God's Word is like a deep, deep mine,
And jewels rich and rare
Are hidden in its mighty depths
For every searcher there.

-- Bernice Peyman

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Eau d' La Colombia

Look at what they've made of us:

cut-up cutoff cut-down
copycat contract
disillusioned disolution
due to dense-packed
bombs, stacked
here and there; under the floor
some might share a neutron core

shut up shut off shut down
side tract sad sacked
so paper-backed
inflationary disentary
teachers pair shacked
brain wracked
save on taxes paid in full

-- Fred Davis ©1987

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anyone lived in a pretty how town

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.

Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died I guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk burried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

-- e e cummings (©1940)

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I need a release
To hit
To break
To kill

Make the anger
The frustration
The violence

Is peace
Behind the hate?
Is love
Behind the rage?

If I let them go
Will they leave?
Or will they grow..
I am deceived

-- Written by and copyright Sam Carey

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A little white dove

A little white dove
A symbol of love

this little white dove,
he once told me,
to open my eyes,
and believe what i see,

this little white dove,
was a colorfull fellow,
whispers of secrets,
he was always quite mellow,

this little white dove,
he took me away,
to a land of beuty,
where the angels play,

I talked to an angel,
it had beutifull wings,
I watch it have fun,
i listen as it sings,

This little angel,
it once told me,
to feel with my soul,
and let my mind free,

this little angel,
it brought me here,
to a play of anger,
hatred and fear,

it told me to wait here,
for what i didnt know,
then along came a creature,
a slender black crow,

this little black crow,
was a terrible bird,
it showed me a mirror,
and spoke just one word,


this little black creature,
such a sorrowfull sight,
it was an abused bird i could see,
its wings been stripped for flight,

i thought it was evil but maybe im wrong,
so i petted its feathers and sung it a song,
The white dove then apeared as the black crow cried,
the dove took him away as i sat and sighed,

they played and they flew happily in flight,
the black crow was beutifull & happy, as they flew out of sight,

just then the angel came,
it told me the crow was merely in pain,
but just as i thought,
all it needed was love,
and away it flew,
with the beutifull white dove,

-- Copyright 05/00 by Joseph W. Sadler.

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I ran away three weeks ago, needed to be alone
packed my car with all I could
and left to start on my own.

I ran away three weeks ago, no one understood
I didn't know what else to do
but cry in the night as I sat on my hood.

I ran away three weeks ago, went with option two
I struggled with myself for awhile ...
it was something else I wanted to do.

I ran away three weeks ago, hoping all the while
that I'd be gone alone forever
with nothing and no one to defile.

I ran away three weeks ago, wanting then to sever
enough relationships and ties
to justify returning never.

I ran away three weeks ago, good way to avoid the lies
of those who say they love you
but refuse to look you in the eyes.

I ran away three weeks ago, I'd always wanted to
but Someone always stopped me then,
...this time He let me through.

I ran away three weeks ago, planning to start again
knowing all the while
I'd either lose more -- or win.

I ran away three weeks ago, drove 3000 miles
saw many friends in several towns
...had a few laughs and smiles.

I ran away three weeks ago, hoping to be turned around
or somehow stumble on the blessing
of a love I'd never felt or found.

I ran away three weeks ago, away from everything
from memories and God and man
and all the worthless hopes and dreams.

I ran away three weeks ago, without much of a plan
I'd go 'til all my funds were spent
then find a place to land.

I ran away three weeks ago, stopping as I went
along the way to visit friends
...allowing two last weeks to vent.

I ran away three weeks ago, I thought I could pretend
that I could live out my whole life
with nothing and no one on which to depend.

I ran away three weeks ago, in pain anger and strife
confused and angry at the One
I'd followed for most of my life.

I ran away three weeks ago, I had a little fun
providing that I didn't share
that I was wishing life were done.

I ran away three weeks ago, and just after I reached dispair
I stopped in Dallas for the night
and found my Father waiting there.

I ran away three weeks ago, and damn it they were right
but I still couldn't believe it...and
I would not follow without a fight.

I ran away three weeks ago, didn't happen like I planned
my will to run was broken
when someone finally held my hand...

-- Copyright 2000 by TMBMT.

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A Deal with Your Hero

I see the spark, oh trustful child,
in your too-youthful eyes,
The fire of worship that Iíve learned
(too well!) to recognize.

Am I a hero in your sight?
Do you look up to me?
A heroís nothing that I hoped
or volunteered to be.

It is a burden. Donít you see?
For someday, Iíll betray
The unrequested trust that you
have put in me today.

And yet Iíve never spurned your love;
canít muster up the gall.
In that, perhaps I signed on as
your hero, after all.

Reflected somewhere in your eyes,
if I dare look, I see
A vision of the trusting child
we all would like to be.

It seems so many years ago
Yes, Iíll admit, itís true
That I was young and trusting once
when I had heroes, too.

My heroes failed me. (Donít they all?)
I thought my heart would break.
Iíll be the one who breaks your heart
when you see some mistake.

Your youth will die the day you see
what lies beneath my skin,
For I am only human, child,
a thing of fault and sin.

Iíll make a deal with you today,
my young, admiring friend,
That when your perfect view of me
comes too soon to an end,

Youíll pardon me my fall from grace
provided that I, too,
Forgive your making me the one
who disillusions you.

-- Copyright 2000 by Gina Mary MacMurphy, used by permission.

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Butt Prints in the Sand

One night I had a wondrous dream,
One set of footprints there was seen,
The footprints of my precious Lord,
But mine were not along the shore.

But then some stranger prints appeared,
And I asked the Lord, "What have we here?"
Those prints are large and round and neat,
"But Lord, they are too big for feet."

"My child," He said in somber tones,
"For miles I carried you alone.
I challenged you to walk in faith,
But you refused and made me wait."

"You disobeyed, you would not grow,
The walk of faith, you would not know,
So I got tired, I got fed up,
And there I dropped you on your butt."

"Because in life, there comes a time,
When one must fight, and one must climb,
When one must rise and take a stand,
Or leave their butt prints in the sand."

                    -- author unknown
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I Can Hear You Crying

I can see you crying
though no tears fall from your eyes
the pain in your expression
speaking more than you realize

Your in a crowd of many
or sitting all alone
you pray for peace and quiet
or a caring voice upon the phone

Your scared and you know it
your confused and don't know why
Who would understand
the tears you keep inside

No, I can see you crying
and I want you to know that I cry too
I may not know your pain
but I can sit with you

I can wipe the tears
sit and listen with my heart
I can hold you in my arms
and let that be a start

I may not have the answers
but in silence I can care
when words cannot bring soothing
my presence will be there

To whom am I speaking
why don't you know just who?
I am speaking to none other
than you and only you.

Yes, you are the one reading
praying it could be
that the person to whom they speak of
for once could just be me

This is for you friend
with all my heart and soul
to listen and encourage
is my only motive and goal

I don't care what you've done
or if your weak or strong
I don't care if your popular
or done the greatest wrong

I don't care for the credit
nor if anyone does know my name
my desire is to give from the heart
knowing you might do the same

We all just need a safe place
where we can just be free
if love is from acceptance
then let it begin with me

I can see you crying
and I pray that you know it's true
that this poem was written
for no one else but you

And if by chance you find comfort
in the midst of some despair
don't forget to give back
to another who needs your care

Give the gift to another
pass this love around
and in the end you will realize
it's this gift you have found

I can see you crying
I love you and I care
I can see you crying
Close your eyes and I am there....

                          -- YD
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Miniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, 
   Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; 
He wept that he was ever born, 
   And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old
   When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; 
The vision of a warrior bold
   Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not, 
   And dreamed, and rested from his labors; 
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, 
   And Priam's neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
   That made so many a name so fragrant; 
He mourned Romance, now on the town, 
   And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici, 
   Albeit he had never seen one; 
He would have sinned incessantly
   Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace
   And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; 
He missed the mediśval grace
   Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought, 
   But sore annoyed was he without it; 
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, 
   And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late, 
   Scratched his head and kept on thinking; 
Miniver coughed, and called it fate, 
   And kept on drinking. 

                       -- Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich, -- yes, richer than a king, --
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

                       -- Edwin Arlington Robinson
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