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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)    |
So much to do, so little time, all the poems I could write are quite the same, and that's the plight. How can I change as might? To speak of thee in a Shakespearean tone would harken to times past, but whence could be this poet's throne trained with such a flowery task? By the Seuss in a play of great things I could speak, 'twould be hopeful, but not serious at all. "The fleiderbub snarled as 'lephant..." surely reeks, but playing with words has its call. We play with our food when we're learning to eat. We must play with our words to express, that when in this world other souls we do greet, they'd find writing this fun just to bless. by Jay O’Toole on September 1st, 2025   |
A Happy Birthday wish is here. Today is YES the day! So much to do and see, it's clear, "It's a joyful week!" we say. How blest the early bird's wondrous dance. His joy can't be contained. A quarter-century's not by chance. These wonders all maintained. These twenty-five years are the sweetest gift to all who write right here. Come, one! Come, all! Your voices lift. The celebration cheer! So much to do. I hope I can participate enough. At least my schedule has that plan, that days so full may stuff. So Happy Birthday! Thanks to you, Good Story Master, sir! The Story Mistress ‘fore we’re through creative Merit Badges by her. by Jay O’Toole on August 31st, 2025 |
| A book on a shelf is decorative, I think, but inside are words to be read. When taking the book off the shelf, there's a link to words now alive, and not dead. When people exist on the bookshelf of life, just known for their everyday deeds, there's sadness, and worry, and internal strife since much of the heart no one reads. "Dear Reader of Days, who live life to the full, is there just a moment to see, the stable old Joes, taken for granted quite oft have much left to offer for free." by Jay O’Toole on August 30th, 2025 |
Some day, quite soon the thund'ring sky will give voice to He, Who with that voice created all things. Magnificent for He saves us by His Choice. His rescue plan, better far than space ship sings. At moment's notice He then lifts through the sky His chosen ones by trumpet call, that still rings. We can't make plans for airplane trip way up high, but ready make our hearts for Bridegroom comes soon. No tax, nor airfare fees can ever apply. The living Son, Whose Merits make by trust boon. Bought heart a vessel for the blest Holy Oil. When called we wave goodbye to Earth and the moon. This earthly house of wearisome, lonely toil gives way to life as death no more may us foil. by Jay O’Toole on August 29th, 2025 |
Sometimes when I would rhyme a rhyme the rhyme won't come apace. I other things would do betimes to look for writing grace. And then the rhyme would flow it best, while focused on the deed. 'Tis writing actions through the test, that make a verse to read. The poem's gift through daily days stands lumberjack at words. To chop, to hone, to carve displays. to make a nest for birds. Sometimes I need a knotted craft to spark the words I need. Embroidery threads and cherished laugh, creative things now freed. The "hope of every contrite heart," the Saving Lord all blest may cause my words to slowly start, while leading to His Rest. by Jay O’Toole on August 28th, 2025 |
Sweet gift of tea at end of day to sip away the moments. Nothing to do, nor aught to say, but joy for all proponents. The steeping time's a culinary art for less is more, you know it, but if too long to finish from start, quite strong 'twill be, I trow it. Yet, strong tea with a crisp or two will mellow out the lading of sharpest spice, that when cup's through, I'll seek a new one waiting. I often get the strength quite right, but this one now is biting. To sip it through with all my might for me the cheese is fighting. Some Rooibos as a gentle gift will fill emotions brimming as flavors of this herbal lift to take this tired heart swimming. by Jay O’Toole on August 27th, 2025 |
| Even when the change is good one's life must then adjust. A new way tweaks the heart's own mood. The unknown way needs trust. Retirement comes when life is full. Still, some things need to rest. One's status and the others' pull, determination's test. One chapter of these days is done. A new one comes apace. New victories must needs be won to finish this life's race. The work I've known these past three years is coming to a close. The face made wet by salty tears must face the path I chose. Will I be great or fade away into some lonely walk? Success may come as each new day finds new ones needing to talk. A coffee shop to write my thoughts. A poem, chapter, voice, the gift of newness as I'm taught by God's Own better choice. Some days remain to walk this way, until I lay these down to pick up things to do and say as life by God abounds. by Jay O’Toole on August 26th, 2025 |
Candy was my little dog so many years ago, A Peek-a-Poo to hold and hug, the sweetest friend to know, but she's now gone, and that world, too, of Christmases so long. These days now fly, and when they're through not much is left but song. I burned my legs on the sky-high slide. My head knew the merry-go-round's bolt. I ate the dirt and drank with pride the yard hose heat, red jolt. We went to school, and when 'twas done enjoyed we Gilligan's Island. We walked the mall for Christmas fun. All summers long were swimming. We said the Pledge. We read The Word. We prayed with public school teachers. The Truth we learned each day was heard in school, and from the preachers. "Please, come again, Dear Lord of All. The Ancient of Days is young for old we are through our parents' fall. 'The sting of death' has stung." One day His own He'll call to Supper, while earthbounds know His Wrath. His Sacrifice the saints did cover as sons He made of waifs. The world that was some souls have changed, but one day through the fire the old made new is rearranged, in separation's ire. by Jay O’Toole on August 25th, 2025 |
The ones who see are given sight by The Father's Own Behest. We once were in a lasting plight bound by each earthly test. No man can come to Christ by will, but summoned Father by. We drink forever swine-ish swill, until we hear the Master's Cry, Come forth from death, bound foot and head, like Lazarus, four days gone. The gift God's Word has truly said to Jesus, His Own Son. Until their eyes are made to see in darkness ever bound, but seeing, in Christ Jesus, free, forever known and found. by Jay O’Toole on August 24th, 2025 |
| Gentle light to sit and think before it's time to go. Peace of heart, and hope in link 'mid things we cannot know. Gentle light upon me now, the lull before the storm? Wond'ring 'bout the When and How of a possible alarm. Gentle light with time to sit as window sheers do wave. False alarms? The mind made fit to settle and behave. Gentle light to think and rest as clouded sun so gray keeps working for the Lord knows best. Its job is just to obey. To sit and think in gentle light reminds, that God is strong. In Him is Truth, and never night. He writes the lasting Song. by Jay O’Toole on August 22nd, 2025 |
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