Latest items:

Poetry

	louis gander
	PROFILE About me Poetry (7)

latest best rating most commented

louis gander, 12 november 2020

A Lonely Poem

THERE ARE so many others that can start a loud stampede
of people running after them so that they all can read
the script of rhymes that fascinate their scrutinizing minds
to entertain emotions - emotions of all kinds.

But I am just a lonely poem buried here inside
a dusty book unsuited and unable to provide
a morsel of excitement to those readers I can't see.
They're browsing here, undoubtedly, on either side of me.

My words are like a dried up rose with bent and broken stem -
and that's why I'm a lonely poem, unlike the rest of them.
It's dark inside this dusty book. Forever, I will stay -
yet wonder, will I ever see the sunny light of day?

Rejected, I'm compelled to cry, but that I can't condone,
because my ink would surely run and I'd still be alone.
So tears I hold. I'm saddened so- and oh, I'd love to shout.
But I'll be stuck here up until this book I'm in's thrown out.

I prayed that you would find my words because God answers prayers.
He knows my good intentions and I know He always cares.
So when my prayers are answered and you read my story rhymes,
I pray that we can just be friends and have some good ol' times.

And though you will not see me smile, please know that I'll be glad.
and pray one day we'll find these times the best we've ever had.
But if, by chance, another poem's your fav'rite one instead,
I pray my words go with you when again I go unread.

©2017 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/

-------

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

louis gander, 12 november 2020

From Across the Lake

The cabin built with sturdy logs
(that firmly stood awake)
was nestled snugly in the trees
beside this quiet lake.

A dim and amber light shone out
to greet the lonely eye -
reflecting off this tiny lake
here under cloudy sky.

Through window pane, that sorry lamp -
far off on other side -
had shone from on a tabletop
with unseen chair beside.

And faithful chair supported all
the poet's ev'ry task.
Yet that old chair is empty now,
"but why?" you maybe ask.

You wonder who that poet is
or why he is away.
You wonder if he writes at night
or all throughout the day.

But when he comes, the chair again
will groan under his weight.
And over many months and years,
his work will rhymes create.

Now you might think and may conclude
of him, you didn't hear -
but I know this, you've read his work,
at least this poem here.

A glow begins to pour across
the sky in loving fun..
It reaches out so wide and far
with nearing of the sun.

And that light now reflects off of
a paper holding rhyme -
and calls me from across the lake.
I guess it's about time...

©2015 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/

-------

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

louis gander, 12 may 2018

Mother

If a picture's worth a thousand words,
each word, a pound of letters -
then mother tops the sunsets
and pounds of gold from debtors.

Mere words describe so many things,
each one beside another -
and words explain those many things
but can't describe my mother.

A million smiles can't match her worth.
She carries loving scars.
Her gifts surpass bright rainbows' arcs.
Her worth exceeds the stars.

My mother's very special and
the only one I'll get -
and I'm the one she could afford.
I love her quite a bit.

So what explains my mother now?
What in my vast report?
And what describes my mother when
my many words fall short?

We shared so many memories,
our hearts shared many years -
so what describes my mother is -
the love within my tears...

©2008 louis gander

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

louis gander, 12 may 2018

Rose-petal Mother

The morning dew settles
like tears on rose petals.
They cry out for time to return -
and beckon lost seasons
of God-given reasons
as sad notes on my guitar yearn.

You're queen of the givers.
It brings to me shivers
that I was so selfishly made.
Your name defines 'humble'
as my words now crumble
on flowers that I now invade.

Your hands were like Heaven,
unselfishly given,
beyond just the people you knew -
from city to country,
from wealthy to hungry -
and all of the rest of us too.

As butterflies flutter,
I still try to utter
some truth of your beautiful love.
But now, it is just us -
and words don't bring justice
as sunlight spills down from above.

Those simple deflections
of sunlight's reflections
now glimmer like diamonds at play -
in memories briefly
that I see routinely
as if they were just yesterday.

I am not deserving
of all I'm observing
in memories coming to mind -
surrounded by perfume
with roses in full bloom
recalling that you were most kind.

I'll always remember
that freezing December
when I erred and brought you to tears.
When you found me straying,
for me, you were praying -
and over the many long years.

Some mothers are brand new,
but none can compare to
my rose-petal mother, that's true.
While laughter was looming,
our smiles were blooming.
There's none other better than you.

I do so adore you -
shall always continue.
I'd never trade you for another.
Up deep from the earth-plow,
what words can I sing now?
I love you, my rose-petal mother.

Alive still, your caring,
through rose petal sharing.
So many, I can't see them all.
Afloat on the breezes,
each rose petal eases
the pain of the weak as they fall.

Your petals continue
to live on without you.
They float around ever so free.
Like soft downy feather,
I don't wonder whether
some petals will fall upon me.

It's not at all easy
to sing thoughts so deeply
when sung with my dusty guitar.
I find I've distorted
all good you're recorded.
My rose-petal mother, you are.

And it's not by my choice
I miss hearing your voice,
so moistness now covers my eyes.
With fingers still strumming
I hear myself humming
while words get choked up in my cries.

With eyes very blurry
I'm now in no hurry
to vacate this most sacred place.
I can't be more lonely.
I wish I could only
receive one more loving embrace.

I love you so deeply
that when I am sleepy
see rose petals filling the sky.
My rose-petal mother,
my rose-petal mother,
I'll see you in Heaven... Bye bye.

©2017 louis gander

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

louis gander, 12 may 2018

A Poet's Prayer

"Father," I pray as I walk along,
"give me the words that would flow like a song.
A poem of promise, of hope and of love
that would focus lost sinners on You up above....

The moon's shining bright from behind an oak branch,
but it's cold here tonight on my dear humble ranch.
I'd be so happy if I was a tree,
for they stand much taller, much taller than me.

Their tops are much closer to Heaven I know,
and they just get closer, the more that they grow.
There's no clouds in the sky - but if so, they would be
joyously singing up there with Thee.

The stars in the sky seem much brighter tonight.
They must be so close they reflect Heaven's light.
The gold, alabaster - the pearls and brass
I bet shine like prisms through diamond-like glass.

Oh, to get closer to Heaven - one peek....
could give me the thoughts that would make these words speak.
The sights would bring words and to earth I could bring
the poem of poems. Itself, it would sing.

Instead, here I stand in the shivering cold,
a mindless numb man who was late getting old.
But here, down on earth, I'll perform every task,
and faithfully do everything that You ask.

I know that these people will not have a clue,
because this small poem cannot describe You.
So quickly this world forgets who You are,
They miss (as they're sleeping), the bright Morning Star.

I know that the God of Love's heart had to grieve,
when Heaven's gates opened to let Your Son leave -
to die on a cross that folks want to forget.
They just do not care - not one little bit.

But because of Your grace- and faith, I believe -
for You're the Great Poet and me, You don't leave.
You live deep within, so I'll faithfully start -
for the greatest of poems come deep from the heart.

©2009 louis gander

number of comments: 0 | rating: 1 | detail

louis gander, 12 may 2018

A Wondrous Story

I'd love to be a poet and a real one, you know -
so I could write man's world off allowing God's to glow.
I'd write a wondrous story, that we could all take part
and live it in reality - each one with perfect heart.

I'd think outside my circle, with paper, ink and pen -
and think outside my flimsy box to live in peace again -
in gardens filled with blossoms - all colors full and bold -
that I could sweep my arms across and many flowers hold.

I'd jump inside my story with the animals and birds,
that live in His fine nature and are camouflaged with words -
that whisper as the breezes blow in true harmonic cord,
that bring us lives so unsurpassed when living with our Lord.

I'd peer up to the mountains, at the several waterfalls,
that rain grace down from Heaven where every angel calls -
to show to us a perfect world where He can overwhelm -
where man rejects but God perfects His great creation's realm.

I'd never hide inside my world, but fully would expect -
that men would treat each other with a solemn, deep respect -
that women dress with modesty and also could endow -
that girls learn to curtsy slow and boys would learn to bow.

I'd stroll inside my poem free from envy, sin and hate -
and walk beside still waters where 'the way' is always straight.
And I shall keep on writing true for many, many years -
until I see no longer through my sad and yearning tears.

I'd love to be a poet and a real one, you know -
so I could write man's world off allowing God's to glow.
I'd write a wondrous story, that we could all take part
and live it in reality - each one with perfect heart.

©2013 louis gander

number of comments: 0 | rating: 1 | detail

louis gander, 12 may 2018

The Old & Lonely Poet

On edge of arid desert set
a trailer aged in rust
with tires flattened long ago
and covered thick with dust.
A friend I'd known for many years
had lived alone inside -
and if his lamp was burning, then
I knew he hadn't died.

The lamp seemed always to be lit
but never did complain.
Then sure enough, I saw him there
through dirty window pane.
The Great Depression hurt him so.
I saw it in that place.
I saw it in his lonely words.
I saw it in his face.

The mental stress that he went through
was far too much to bear -
and would have been for anyone
if they were sitting there.
But they were not. Just he alone
survived his great ordeal.
And his reward? An empty can,
a cold and meager meal.

The old man couldn't hear too good.
The years had quickly passed -
so catching his attention, I
tapped loudly on the glass.
It seemed to take forever, but
he made it to the door.
Black cobwebs hung from corners and -
newspapers hid the floor.

He greeted me with friendly eyes,
skin wrinkled deep from sun.
He made me feel welcome, though
his work was never done.
I visited for quite awhile
as he kept at his rhymes.
He changed his thoughts, his lines, his words
at least a thousand times.

I said, "It must be good enough."
Replied he, "Not at all.
It doesn't capture God's great love.
This needs an overhaul.
For God is love and God is grace
in absolute perfection -
so how can I write something less
to add to this collection?

"This poetry I write for God
must always be perfected -
or basket, full of waste, is filled
with poems I've rejected."
I fell asleep while sitting there.
I woke at 3 AM
and heard him mumble something like,
"...to change the hearts of them."

Observed, I did, his wise old ways.
I'd learned all that I could -
but never measured up to him -
my writing, not as good.
I saw his great intensity.
I stayed with him for days.
I watched his sacrificial work
I saw his humble ways.

He strove to write in perfect words,
expressing his rare love
for all of those who'd done him harm
from politics above.
Forgiving them of evil deeds
had given him such peace -
that each and ev'ry word he wrote
became a masterpiece.

Though sometimes folks still speak of him,
he never set his goals -
to elevate his unknown name -
but rather save the souls -
through writings that should touch the hearts
of other eager men -
who draw attention to themselves
through selfish, prideful sin.

I once decided to return -
to visit one last time.
The old and lonely poet, though,
had written his last rhyme.
The years have passed. Such great respect
I had for that old man.
Could I improve my poetry
for God? He proved I can!

©2015 louis gander

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Other poems: A Lonely Poem, From Across the Lake, Mother, Rose-petal Mother, A Poet's Prayer, A Wondrous Story, The Old & Lonely Poet,

Latest items:

Poetry

A Lonely Poem

From Across the Lake

Mother

Rose-petal Mother

A Poet's Prayer

A Wondrous Story

The Old & Lonely Poet

Latest comments:

contact with us