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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)    |
| Some days it seems a long way off to find a book, that has new thoughts. Will others like it? Hat to doff? Or need I shine with higher watts? A novelist has quite a gift to tell a story, bring along the reader's longing heart to lift, succeeding when they end in song. Some days I wonder, if that's me, the novelist, who stands so tall. Is there another tale to see? Is storytelling mine at all? When NaNoPrep starts in two weeks, I'll need to find a title rare. What story now will my mind seek? What plotline makes the reader care? A mystery? Or tale of woe? Adventure, seeking awesome gain? A friendship, that I need to know? Or loss of hope, that's searing plain? Whatever starts the book along will be the catalyst to grow. Will there be victory and song? Will someone's pain now overflow? The novel can be from the heart, some subject lived through the writer's days. Yet, trouble is a ready part of every life in all our ways. What makes me pick up each new book, and keep it in my hands all through? A title causing me to look? An admonition, that I do? Why do I want to write at all? Why do I plan and craft my words? Is there a story yet too tall? Can Hope still fly among the birds? What novel thoughts these books now bring! We write, and hope, and grow anew. At satisfying ends, we sing. At tragedy, we weep 'til through. by Jay O’Toole on September 18th, 2023   |
| We take a moment, sip the cup, and in a quiet corner of the room. The paper pad we side it up. Now, finding words, address the note, "to whom." "The coffee has been wondrous, great! The moments of this respite can't we best. The scone upon this little plate creates the heart a homey, peaceful nest. "Your service has been all that I could hope a wait staff would perform for me. Return I will whenever nigh in hopes, that from my stress I'd sit and be. "This TIP for you, I leave it here. It's larger than I used to thankful leave, but worth it does not match. It's clear. You have a gift. Much more you need receive." by Jay O’Toole on September 15th, 2023 |
| Sitting with my thoughts searching for some sheltered peace who can make me whole? Man of Peace is One, Whose Name anchors in this tempest life. by Jay O’Toole on September 14th, 2023 |
The discipline of aging well requires, that we fully live. One's energy, whose peaks now spell the true new normal days to give. When parked on some day's sofa rest, I sleep and dream, and wonder "Why?" Could not I sing, and thus be blest through fa, sol, la, ti, do, and fly? Forgetting, that I'm not still young, I run, and push, and do as did, until my body gets quite hung, awaking, Charley horse to rid. The old adage is ever new, "The mirror gave me quite a fright!" While wondering at this face I grew, the calendar takes a big ol' bite. Would someone tell that staring man a teenaged heart still beats inside, just not the ticker in the chest, nor this old house, that creaks and slides. Someone may find a poem that sounds mostly like this one, here. I write to tell you where I'm at, and more each day, it becomes clear. I need a wondrous coffee cup to start me on my weary day, and peanut butter wakes me up to clean these toilets, come what may. The second cup before I work is necessary. Oh, how true! A Q.A. is a needed clerk to make the bathroom nice for you! Retirement's not soon enough to focus on some novel thought. The change from mop to pen is rough until Best Sellers can be bought. But even then, when working's done, the heavy-lifting, physical kind, I'll need to move, so Life is won, the keep-on-going, wonderful find. So, Staring Man, I see you're there, still filling up, that shiny glass, but youthful me with grateful hair remembers, that "this too shall pass." --------------------------------------------------- (II Corinthians 4:17-18, KJV) Line Count: 44 by Jay O’Toole on September 13th, 2023 |
Imperfect, though I am, I can yet be redeemed. 'Tis through the Great I AM, I'm 'fore the Lord esteemed. Imperfect I was born, and full of sin cast down. By Christ, the veil is torn. I need no more a frown. Imperfect are we all. His Merits we all need. O, listen to His Call. "Salvation," He doth plead. Imperfect, though I am, imputed righteousness was bought by Saving Lamb, forever He to bless. Imperfect I will always be as long as I live in this flesh. Redeemed by Grace and made set Free by He, Who entered through the crèche. Imperfect I'm by Luther's words, "A saint and sinner all the time." Eschewing those in wide-path herds, I'm made to live the life sublime. Imperfect, though I am, He died to take away my sin and shame. Once buried for my awful pride, He rose again to change my name. "Imperfect" is my earthly state. Made new my everlasting JOY. Because of Christ, I'm labeled, "Great!" His Perfect Life for me employed. by Jay O’Toole on September 12th, 2023 |
The "peanut" of the ultrasound was living, swimming in the pool. Though tiny, and not yet a pound, my love for you remains the rule. The little girl, who had to stand on tippy toes to reach the rack, the second shelf of dishes and for cleaning them to line and stack. Her school day, filled with things to do, and friends of joy to talk and play. Each eve we rode home when 'twas through, and shared the wonders of the day. Each homeschool day we learned new things, like "Stack the States," subtract, and add. With Dad outgrown the new stage brings some other teachers online glad. Her graduation fin'lly came in gowns and mortar boards, they filled the auditorium the same when on my day was equal skilled. Now, Oberon and fairy band did wordless dance in beaming smile. Ovations they did nightly land, returned to class to learn awhile. We miss the baby filled with glee, embracing who she has become. The glimpses, that I often see assuage my sadness, bits, and sum. 'Tis never wrong to wisely live, rememb'ring joy, embracing grace. The future has so much to give, while living hopeful in this place. by Jay O’Toole on September 11th, 2023 |
That Life exists because of God we dare not minimize, nor brush. The universe of hands applaud His Glory. That we must not rush. Observe the smallest human cell. He may, yet, live a hundred years. In Heaven or in lowest Hell, he lives for aye or drowns in fears. A baby in his mother floats. These nine months are a lifetime lived. Each mem'ry stored as mental notes, revealed when at His Throne arrived. A man, who lives through Lifetime's days has lived gestation's little while. Eternity for God's Own praise is ever more His lasting Smile. O, woeful man, that sees the Now as all that ever must exist. One day at God's Dear Feet he'll bow in great defeat will Feet be kissed. by Jay O’Toole on September 8th, 2023 |
While waiting for a thought to come, creating daily rhyme, the day sets sail, while nightly hum brings resting to its prime. Some grand event, igniting words oft seems to best express as jubilation flies with birds, and reason moves like chess. We question what we cannot see, and strive to see anew. Can hope and bliss in each day be when energy is through? Such laughter from a little child, who grows to be quite tall. A now-adult so wise and mild helps shoulder life and all. A perfect verse I may ne'er find, create, nor wrestle down, but honesty, that's good and kind can change to a smile, a frown. The process of a writer gains in falling, getting up, while slogging through some heavy rains, then pausing, draining Cup. It seems as though it's easier to sit, and hold quite dear two-fisted coffee cup as a friend than write a word that's clear. Mayhaps when Struggle's seen as guide, we'll peaceful know the best, that growth can only be applied when living through the test. by Jay O’Toole on September 7th, 2023 |
To live this life depressed at best, unliving in our hopeless loss can make our days an endless test of painting words on the daily cross. The changes of some hoped-for goal can make us wade through pluff mud thick. We wonder, Could life e'er be whole? Each wondered thought makes the heart so sick. The pluff mud made of hopes passed o'er sucks boot, and foot, and leg far down. We wonder, Could we live through more? The sinking feeling shapes our frown. How many years will good be naught? How many hopes will fade away? How many times will we be taught as mem'rie's gone, and lessons fray? How often will Depression's wrap become a coat of soothing Same? How often will the searched-for map be the voice of one Accuser's blame? The awful stench of pluff mud "eggs" must be swift-stanched by Earl Grey tea. The life depressed in "living" dregs must fight the downpull to be free. The nevermore and prolly should weighs heavy now on a sinking frame. Where once was hope and often good the mirror must give up its blame. by Jay O’Toole on September 6th, 2023 |
Sliding gloves of plastic film upon these hands of ready digits to start, I make my rounds while bowing down to pick up paper, fruit, and shucks. Before two hours have airplaned past, propellers of the short and long are hands like mine as plastic bags do fit the bins for more treasured naught, and out the door to toss the old away in the dumpster. Come, whisk, all flushed to make clean pots, offensive stay they not very long of smell and sight. We spritz and wipe the cleaning mist to give hearts peace, "enthroned" in bliss. To "swab the deck" amid lemon plumes refreshed, to sweep the sidewalk of refuse free to vacuum carpets, making pristine faces of their threads, until the list is finished, and signed by a master's hand, completes the day. "A good and faithful servant" I have been. by Jay O’Toole on September 5th, 2023 |
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