Looking Askance Read online



  Looking Askance

  Poetry by

  John Lowstreet

  copyright 2014 John Lowstreet

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  Also by John Lowstreet, available at ebook retailers:

  How To Be Blessed By Christ

  How To Be Blessed By Jesus

  In Cadenced Thought

  The Power of His Christ

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  License Notes

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  Dedication

  The title of this book is meant to suggest a questioning, sideways look at the world. Some of these poems are light-hearted; others give expression to more serious moods. Either way, poems are best appreciated when read aloud. May this poetry encourage all who are committed to the cause of grace and truth. It is dedicated to you. Thank you for reading.

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  Linked List of Poems

  Sunglasses

  The Brown of Winter

  The Green of Spring

  The Blue of Summer

  The Gold of Fall

  The March of the Cranes

  Stillness

  The Point of Life

  The Breakup

  Some Marriage Couplets

  The Grace of Life

  Life Alone

  The Voices

  Statistical Analysis

  Bullets

  A Lament for Betrayal

  Buzzards for Men Only

  The House of Wind and Sand

  The Flood

  The Gathering Storm

  Through Narrowed Eyes

  Wind

  Yeah, I Know

  Time

  Sunglasses

  Sunglasses change your view of the world.

  Some make it urban and soft

  Like a black cat fluffed and curled

  On a warm sofa in a condo loft.

  Some glasses cause things more to be endured,

  Like staring over hot, summer sand

  Into glaring water, but reassured

  That this your eyes can now withstand.

  Other glasses bring clarity to all we see.

  The colors are sharp, more clean and pure.

  Cleansed of drab, a new world comes to be.

  Life now is sweet; future joys are sure.

  The world is filtered, like to glasses, through the mind.

  Some days are dark, but drooped in soft repose.

  Some days bring purpose to all we find.

  It’s how you view it, I suppose.

  The Brown of Winter

  We seldom have much snow down here,

  But our winter is just as cold and drear

  As a northern winter with snowflakes bright.

  But, brown's our color and snow's a great sight.

  Our poor snow melts and falls as raw rain.

  We hope we'll see white; then it rains again.

  When the sun comes out and melts the pale frost;

  Then the taupe shows through; and our frost is lost.

  Now brown's a nice color if you need a sweater,

  And brown leaves all whirling are even better.

  Well, dark brunette hair is especially good.

  But, only use ecru if you think you should.

  A pale, brown world bruised by winter’s breezes,

  All blown to blasé and to seasonal sneezes,

  Has a faded look that stirs up a reason

  To long for a colorful, warmer season.

  The Green of Spring

  The springing trees explode in the south.

  Our little winter can't put them to sleep.

  A little more light and they yawn at the mouth.

  Green leaves are popping; look at trees leap.

  Green pollen is floating all through the air,

  Drifting and sifting on everything.

  The trees are breeding everywhere.

  The birds join in and sing for spring.

  All nature is flushed with new desires.

  Even buzzards are eyeing each other with love.

  Only they can imagine what lights their fires,

  But they're part of our spring as they circle above.

  The trees are promiscuously spreading the season.

  The landscape is greener every day.

  He who made things knows the reason

  Why spring so dresses the world for play.

  The greens of spring rebuke the drab

  With a surplus of beauty beyond our reckon.

  Away from the fireplace and off with the flab;

  The sweet greens of springtime playfully beckon.

  The Blue of Summer

  The haze on the hills has flattened the hues.

  The sky and the water are azure.

  The katydid’s lazily singing the blues.

  All mellow, I listen with pleasure.

  The world is melting in summery heat,

  All softened and humidly sticky like glue.

  But, these leisurely long days are hard to beat,

  And the warm, thick air makes all things blue.

  When we’re done with the day and the shade grows cool,

  Night’s navy blue curtains are closed overhead.

  We float with the stars in their dark blue pool

  Of mysterious sky where our dreams are bred.

  Then the sun opens up like an oven door,

  And bakes the red clay like pottery.

  It boils out the blue from the very core,

  And steams up the air ‘til it’s watery.

  The Gold of Fall

  Consummating nature’s passion,

  Autumn is flushed with strident red,

  Yellow and orange, in incomparable fashion,

  Bestowed unrestrainedly and generously spread.

  The precious harvest of a plenteous world

  Is now profusely celebrated.

  Wrapped in colors of leaves now curled,

  The drowsy trees stand satiated.

  Leaves that drift with the cooling wind

  Are left to lie as the world grows cold.

  Their colors mingle and gloriously blend

  Into heaps of moldering, autumn gold.

  The rains dissolve this rich nutrition

  That seeps into soil that gave it’s all.

  The trees take it back for new fruition,

  To nourish new life from the golden fall.

  The March of the Cranes

  We are the cranes in the depths of the sky.

  Looking down on the world from our march so high,

  Bertle Earp, Bertle Earp, Bertle Eye

  The lines of the cars are looking like snakes.

  It makes me hungry for goodness’ sakes.

  Bertle Earp, Bertle Earp, Bertle Aches.

  It’s growing dark, but it’s such good air,

  And it’s too far down with a town down there.

  Bertle Earp, Bertle Earp, Bertle Lair.

  The Boss says “Fly”. My mate says “Why?”

  The kids in the back are starting to cry.

  Bertle Earp, Bertle Earp, Bertle Lye.

  This cold, west wind is awfully harsh.

  I’m looking forward to a warm, soft marsh.

  Bertle Earp, Bertle Earp, Bertle Aarsh.

  The world is old, but I feel so young.

  We always sing the song I’ve sung.

  Bertle Earp, Bertle Earp, Bertle Lung.

  Stillness

  This restless earth revolves and quakes through space,

  Its surface smeared with violence and greed.

  Unhurried clouds sedately flow apace

  With eyebrows raised at mankind’s lust for speed.

  Maturity and wisdom ought to result in quiet.

  Once, as children, instinct led us well.

>   We stopped and breathed. It would not hurt to try it,

  To hear the voice of God, our inner strife to quell.

  There is stillness when children come to rest

  That completes the purpose they began with play.

  The faith that makes us know Christ’s way is best

  Brings peace to hearts that comes no other way.

  Our restless world comes from our restless heart.

  These fears, ambitions, and strifes prevent

  Our best intent to result from a promising start.

  In our rush to go there we forgot where we went.

  The Point of Life

  There is a point to life - a meaning for it all.

  Even pain produces movement.

  The drudging work that drags us from our summer into fall

  Is carving out a place for more improvement.

  The cares that weigh us down make us know which way is up.

  We truly run from fear to heaven.

  The death we fear is teaching us to drink of life’s sweet cup,

  And value all the more what time is given.

  We cannot rate the worth of life by pleasure, fame or fortune.

  It is not life, but man we measure.

  Grace and honor in man and woman nurture the living portion,

  Becoming in every heart the love we treasure.

  The wealth of life profusely grows, then blooms and makes a seed.

  Life first came from God’s own hand.

  We are God’s garden He wills to plant, to water and weed.

  The point of life is that God has a plan for man.

  The Breakup

  The dryer is tumbling the newly washed clothes.

  The baby is changed and playing.

  The dishes are washed. I could use a doze.

  “Are you coming home?” is all I’m saying.

  I miss you more than I wish to say.

  I would rather not miss you at all.

  Not thinking of you makes a better day

  Considering the fighting and all.

  If you don’t come home you can have my thanks.

  If you do come home I’ll respect it.

  But if you don’t change then you’re shooting blanks.

  You may want things the same. Don’t expect it.

  Some Marriage Couplets

  Roses are Red. Violets are Blue.

  You don’t hit me. I don’t hit you.

  Daisies are Yellow. Carnations are Pink.

  I’m feeling more mellow. I love you, I think.

  We’re married, I guess; that makes us one flesh.

  If you call me a name, our names are the same.

  I’ll meet you halfway if you’ll halfway meet me.

  The pain that I feel is about to defeat me.

  Don’t talk about leaving. That idea’s real dumb.

  I know that you’re grieving. I feel like a bum.

  Here’s to you and all you are.

  I’m ready for change. Have I gone too far?

  I’m no longer mad. I’ll forget all about it.

  I am kind of sad. Don’t ever doubt it.

  There’s a joy in me that won’t go away.

  Yesterday’s gone. Today’s a new day.

  We married for love. We married for keeps.

  We sometimes mess up, but I love you heaps.

  The Grace of Life

  I feel the peace of loving you

  Like a warm fireplace on a cold night.

  I chose you from others. There were not a few.

  But only you made each day bright.

  Your touch is like a hand divine

  Designed by Him to heal and soothe.

  Your voice has power to combine

  That love and fire that in me move.

  You stir the embers and fuel the flame

  Of what we were and what we’ll be.

  You draw me out and without shame

  I yield me up, enslaved, but free.

  Heirs together of the grace of life,

  Endowed with richness from above,

  We live together as man and wife

  At the marriage hearth of comforting love.

  Life Alone

  A lonely life is a painful life,

  Particularly in a crowd.

  One can be lonely in bed with a wife,

  And marvel that silence is loud.

  Alone and lonely are not the same things.

  Surrounded by people is not connected.

  The joy that knowing another brings,

  Is happiness unsuspected.

  Who knows what else the other knows?

  What viewpoint comes from other eyes?

  We each report as perception grows.

  Two reports conceive what’s wise.

  Is disconnected essentially alone?

  Reaching out is the source of concord.

  Other minds make ours full-grown,

  Alone is withdrawn to our own self-discord.

  The Voices

  “The old ways were best.

  We never made mistakes.

  We got plenty of rest.

  We just had bad breaks.”

  “The modern is superior.

  Things are improving now.

  We don’t sit on our posterior.

  Things will be better somehow.”

  “We’re past the modern stuff.

  We’re in harmony with earth.

  What we have is just enough.

  We’re trying for all we’re worth.”

  “Why don’t they do it right?

  We’ve got it figured out.”

  “I want to let them fight.

  We’ll just sit and pout.”

  “Look how hard I’m trying.

  You should be like me.”

  ‘Look how hard I’m crying.

  Why can’t you let me be?”

  Statistical Analysis

  Lies, bad lies and sad statistics,

  With psychological logistics

  Appear in their descending order

  Come you-know-what or else high water.

  They make it say whatever they want.

  Do I believe it? No, I don’t.

  Numbers aren’t credible any day

  That conform to what some want to say.

  The problem is people, but there’s no statistic

  To prove how some can be sadistic.

  We must avoid numerical delusion.

  Behold how statistics support confusion.

  Ban the air. It’s full of fluff.

  All who die once breathed the stuff.

  Destroy the water. I’m not clowning.

  If you’re in it long, you’ll soon start drowning.

  Get out of bed. It’s a fatal trap.

  You’ll end up like my old grandpap.

  The foods we eat cause all our pains -

  The red meats, sweets and starchy grains.

  Get out of your house. It’ll fall one day.

  Get of your clothes. They have mold they say.

  You mustn’t get rich; you’ll live corruptly.

  Cars will kill you when they stop abruptly.

  Add it all up; you’ll come up with a sum.

  What good is a sum that you know is dumb?

  It may look hopeless for you and me.

  But, it’s numbers that lie. Just let them be.

  Bullets

  Bullets whine down winding streets,

  And when they strike, their mission completes.

  Now, some soft heart no longer beats.

  Inanimate cold, kinetic hot,

  Proceed from souls with humanity not,

  And leave behind a pavement blot.

  The shield of God absorbs and stops

  What Satan sows to make his crops

  Of misery and woe and mortal drops.

  The sword of God defends the way

  Of life and hope, to make those pay

  Who harm the homes of children at pl
ay.

  But bits of lead empowered by hate

  Now make for many a fatal date.

  The evil intent won't satiate.

  A Lament for Betrayal

  When freedom is promised and then betrayed,

  It matters little what motives moved those thus forsworn,

  Whether ignorance, ambition or complacency assayed

  To throw oppression on former free men now forlorn.

  Babylon's juggernaut rolls implacably on,

  Aimed to collide, when destiny's divinely appointed hour

  Brings Jerusalem back steadfastly settled upon

  History's stage, with immovable, heavenly power.

  The death that deteriorates this present world

  Is rooted in man's rebellion against nature's God.

  This present evil has itself against God's holiness hurled,

  Shattered all things fragile and upon them brutishly trod.

  Thus broken, the precious things can never be retrieved,

  Nor reconstructed, by any living in this present age.

  The loss is irrecoverable, despairingly grieved,

  Comfortless and, with the world's tears, unassuaged.

  Buzzards for Men Only

  Buzzards aren’t bad if they’re off at a distance,

  Though the thought of their habits arouses resistance.

  We deplore their grim purpose, but applaud their persistence.

  They’re graceful when soaring through summer skies.

  But they’re watching each other for signs of road pies.

  They’re equipped for their task. Are they bothered by flies?

  The House of Wind and Sand

  The numbers of your days are clear to all but you.

  Your strength is departing and you know it not.

  How can you call on the Spirit when He departs?

  How can you escape your ruin and your sin’s blot?

  Samson died in his mighty strength when he presumed

  That all was well, though all could tell who heard the creaks

  And groans, it was a great fall, and the angels stared below

  At the sorry scene, and heard the keening wails and shrieks.

  It echoes through history if the wise will hear the whisper,

  “Not every good beginning guarantees a good end.

  Not all who use His name speak to the God they think they know.

  They know Him not who hear Him not, who call upon the wind.”