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 We live much of life amid unique choices. Joy is anchored in The One beyond our life. |
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“There are times when solitude is better than society, and silence is wiser than speech. We should be better Christians if we were more alone, waiting upon God, and gathering through meditation on His Word spiritual strength for labour in his service. We ought to muse upon the things of God, because we thus get the real nutriment out of them. . . . Why is it that some Christians, although they hear many sermons, make but slow advances in the divine life? Because they neglect their closets, and do not thoughtfully meditate on God's Word. They love the wheat, but they do not grind it; they would have the corn, but they will not go forth into the fields to gather it; the fruit hangs upon the tree, but they will not pluck it; the water flows at their feet, but they will not stoop to drink it. From such folly deliver us, O Lord. . . .” ― Charles Spurgeon “Our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows, but only empties today of its strengths.” ― C. H. Spurgeon “Hope itself is like a star- not to be seen in the sunshine of prosperity, and only to be discovered in the night of adversity.” ― Charles Haddon Spurgeon “If sinners be damned, at least let them leap to Hell over our dead bodies. And if they perish, let them perish with our arms wrapped about their knees, imploring them to stay. If Hell must be filled, let it be filled in the teeth of our exertions, and let not one go unwarned and unprayed for.” ― Charles Spurgeon “A Bible that’s falling apart usually belongs to someone who isn’t.” ― Charles Spurgeon “Visit many good books, but live in the Bible.” ― Charles Spurgeon “When your will is God's will, you will have your will.” ― Charles Spurgeon https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/2876959.Charles_Haddon_Spurgeon (Philippians 2:13, KJV)    |
We honor all upon this day, who gave their living sum, that children oft could run and play because the followed drum. The deaths of those who battled fear, that we could know some peace show courage, that brought honor near, caused tyranny to cease. Some days, parades bring fame to those, who battled and returned. This day we honor those who chose to stay, the end discerned. In silence, stand before a grave, or sit near, praying long. A life, a gift, Republic save. We sing a loving song. These words are meager in the face of what those faces saw. Remember those in Saving Grace, "who faced the battle's maw." Their painful death, the daily loss, the faces on the wall. The grief weighs down, that none can toss, the phone we cannot call. The lives of Joy and lasting smiles, that time cannot erase, the times we drove o'er many miles, sustained by God-blest Grace. That mem'ry of the last we spoke, so many years ago. The lasting hole in the heart that broke. That life no more can grow. On foreign field, or old age bed the battle took its toll. The heart and flesh, they both have bled to rest on windy knoll. In honored hope we keep alive these loved ones, who are gone. We hope our efforts daily thrive to praise your victories won. by Jay O’Toole on May 28th, 2025   |
Mimosa trees so very high with tassels pinkish rouge seem oft to sweetly paint the sky with a brush, that it doth choose. Imagination taking hold so many years ago the little daughter's thoughts so bold with tasseled face to know. We'd brush her face as Mom would do with tassel's make-up glow, then toss the brush when we were through as play would help her grow. Mimosa now with paint to sky will seem quite soon to be an artist in the dusk so nigh, but color's brought by He. by Jay O’Toole on May 27th, 2025 |
We honor all upon this day, who gave their living sum, that children oft could run and play because they followed a drum. The deaths of those who battled fear, that we could know some peace show courage, that brought honor near, caused tyranny to cease. Some days, parades bring fame to those, who battled and returned. This day we honor those who chose to stay as the end discerned. In silence, stand before a grave, or sit near, praying long. A life, a gift to a Republic save. We sing a loving song. These words are meager in the face of what those faces saw. Remember those in Saving Grace, "who faced the battle's maw." by Jay O’Toole on May 26th, 2025 |
'Tis Friday, again, and what can be said, "Some are ending their work, but some just started 'the making of bread' as a cleaner or clerk." "It's the weekend! We rest." And some, of course, do, but some of us work for your bliss. 'Tis an honor to serve and make weekends for you. No worries or pains said of this. Just a difference in life 'bout our work and our rest for we finish our week at your start. So, our weekend is carved of your midweek so blest as we maintain the world as an art. These jobs are all needed to keep us afloat as happy, sweet "Earth-go-around." The dance of the do-si-do, shared weight to tote, a joyful life, daily we've found. Enjoy your dear rest as this weekend I go to clean as it always needs done. For nearing the hump of next week, then I trow, my rest will be honored and won. by Jay O’Toole on May 23rd, 2025 |
tassels brush the sky wondrous pink, so far from ground easy tree to climb by Jay O’Toole on May 22nd, 2025 |
Sometimes thoughts of what comes next can overwhelm the mind. Retirement life can start to vex with tasks that feel unkind. The homely life of steps begin with childhood home of play. The church confronts the life of sin, Salvation's grand new day. The dorm room's there, where teaching's for the readiest career. The bulk of life, where we explore the days we think are clear. The nursing home, the lot of some, who need some help to live. The funeral home is where we come, relief we family give. We write about what may come next, how soon or will it be? Will giftedness prove just a text or an ocean of words to see? If Father gives a mind to write, then write we will these days, until the dash is chiseled bright for Tombstone's last display. The "What Comes Next?" Earth's novella writ depresses aging souls, but when the temporal we quit, we focus on the Goal. The next of Grace in Evermore brings with it hope and peace. Imagining His "What's in Store?" in Christ is full release. by Jay O’Toole on May 21st, 2025 |
Still to think. Soon comes the thread. Sipping hope, the tea's for taste. Something new, not always read. Light beholding, stories baste. Season freely social themes, pour in some laughter with the milk of kind protagonist we deem both tough and mannered, smooth as silk. The habanero battle's fought the quiche now heats in the oven, dark, then covered as the hero's taught by nerves, unsettled in the park. The knife goes in to slice the dish as the lead now leaps to find her way. She sidesteps quick when from her wish her victory is on display. The denouement of cold sorbet, the coachman pours their spot of tea, into the sunset goes the day the sated reader, peaceful, free. by Jay O’Toole on May 20th, 2025 |
| The tumbleweed has failed again a-blowing by the wind anon. 'Twas green in youth, but dried by sin. It dies, and it is quickly gone. The hopeful gifts of green in place fell down, depressed at "tried to do." Cut off from roots in great disgrace, he's blown as old, now lacking new. The tumbleweed can't build a home, nor write a book for sale, today. As quickly gone as quickly come, the wind blows through with naught to say. Alone on parched, harsh, salty land the tumbleweed can't offer much, but dusty tears of life once grand, and mem'ries of some human touch. The tumbleweed by outside force may once again do something great. Give warmth in fire, but of course. Be art for the mantle, never late. by Jay O’Toole on May 19th, 2025 |
Peace. Of. Mind. Stop. And. Stare. O'erwhelmed. To. Blind. Rest. We. Where? A cup of coffee, sip and drink in. Release responsibility. A quiet moment, Rest to win, Job well done, Heart to free. Salty tears of too much to do. Letting go, grabbing hold, change of days. Youth life gone, so much is new, cruise or train to faster ways. Find the tree with a metal bench to sip, soak, slowly think. The plough mud with its normal stench connects the mind to a hopeful link. The youthful days of rainy mud, so muddy, dirty, caked with Joy, Anxiety and all its crud was smothered there without alloy. "Sit down, Dear Statue, in mud-caked bliss. Your life has just begun. Slough off your load in times like this. The One Who loves you won." by Jay O’Toole on May 16th, 2025 |
| Of the child, his playful bliss: dancing, running, joying Of the child in Christmas dreams, lights with music thrill Of the child these pleasant eats: ice cream, cookies, cake Of the child, translated young to a counselor in strife, Alone he knew piano notes to cause the sadness fly away, His poetry gave his heart a voice... Of the child who lives in me. --------------------------------------- "The elements of the Sevenling are: a heptastich, a poem in 7 lines made up of 2 tercets followed by a single line. metered at the discretion of the poet. unrhymed. composed with 3 complimentary images in the first tercet and 3 parallel images in the second tercet. The end line is a juxtaposed summary of the 2 parallels, a sort of "punchline"." (The quote is from Tinker  on the website, Poetry Magnum Opus.by Jay O’Toole on May 15th, 2025 |
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