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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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"Failures, repeated failures, are finger posts on the road to achievement. One fails forward toward success." C. S. Lewis "I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else." C. S. Lewis “The Road goes ever on and on Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with eager feet, Until it joins some larger way Where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say” J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” J.R.R. Tolkien    |
dripping frosty wet chilly rain 'neath sodden skies darkness cries alone by Jay O'Toole on March 2nd, 2021 |
The nighttime is a swath of black a-dotted by white lights. The grieving heart a mass of lack a-feeling all its blights. "How blest they are, the poor in spirit,' though wond'ring at our words. The ones so down can not yet hear it, whose joy takes flight like birds. Though poor in spirit through this Day forever they in Heaven will live and breathe in joyful play in safety, they've been given. "How blessed are the ones, who mourn." Throughout their grief, they cry. Yet, never in abuse are torn the hearts, that wonder, "Why?" What comfort mourning ones shall know in Christ, the crucified! Salvation in His death to sow. No comer is denied. (John 6:37) The nighttime hides the victor's hours of daylight evermore. The shelter of His feathered bowers. Creation as before. (Psalm 91:1-2) "What use is this great murkiness, O Shining Lord, yet veiled?" "The smelter's cauldron for to bless. The precious one not failed." The day of blessing quickly comes when darkness is no more. The Sin is gone, each part, all sums can't stand the Christ before. by Jay O'Toole on March 1st, 2021 |
Squirrels are jumping o'er the ground, proclaiming food has now been found. Daily hope in them abound e'er night will blanket all. Orange hues now paint the sides of buildings as sun slowly slides 'neath horizon lines as lighting tides in nighttime's tender call. Daffodiles salute the world with orange, yellow, white unfurled. Their beauty makes the heart be twirled as pansies do attend. The night, it comes as arbiter of light's effect, until it's blur thus questions hope, until we're sure, that sun will rise, again. by Jay O'Toole on February 26th, 2021 |
Ñandutí, the shrouded gift, remembering one, who's passed. In Paraguay each heart to lift with thoughts, that ever last. Ñandutí, the lacy shroud, remember royal heir, who laid in death in wooded how, who spiders attended there. The Ñandutí in Guaraní means "of the spider's web." The shrouded gift was truly free for princess life, that ebbed. This was the story told to me of spider's web, the Ñandutí, but other stories do abound, where spider webs are often found. But other stories are as rich in Paraguayan culture lore. A young man's mother made a stitch of Ñandutí he'd seen before. He sought to win his darling's heart, but spider webs are fragile, rare. His mama did her loving part by using her own silver hair. She imitated ñandutí, and gave this gift his heart to free, but did he win his love's own heart? We are not told this needful part. by Jay O'Toole on February 25th, 2021 |
Coats and sweaters on display, not upon the body. Warmth of afternoon allays coldness nearly gaudy. Blooming plants, they show their smiles, though tentative and mostly. Winter's days have marched for miles, making plants quite ghostly. Texas needs this day of rest, Kansas and Nebraska. "Lord, please save them through this test Prayerfully, we ask Ya." Blessed sun upon the Earth, flowing o'er the ground. Thanks for springtime's nearly birth, wondrous hours abound. Romping through this wonderland cats enjoy the freedom. Sneaking through each grassy strand, deft for we can't sedum. Breathe the air of new day come. Squirrels in treeful bowery dance upon each limbly sum leaves not truly flowery. Peaceful thoughts arise within, soft the sounds of daily, blessed Savior free from Sin. Dance with us most gaily. by Jay O'Toole on February 24th, 2021 |
The Living God must always be the Standard of All Truth. My life forever is in He, Who formed me in my youth. The Living God can never once relinquish aught of pow'r. The thought of this is an affront to Safety's lone High Tow'r. The Living God must stand Alone, outside the Day of Time. How else could He for Sin atone so finally in His Prime? The Living God is living large, and we are living small. Our search for Truth from it diverge before we on Him call. The Living God must stand unmatched by any pow'r thought near. Blest Truth from all are unattached, that Truth be truly clear. The Living God has lived for aye, and will live evermore. He makes of life the lasting Day with bless-ed more in store. The Living God in righteousness must judge and not acquit for Justice doth one Standard bless. Perfection can remit. The Living God knows, that we fail. Perfection we can't be. This Standard of the Holy Grail makes lost one out of me. The Living God makes saved fore'er this me, so hopeless, lost. Redeemed I am through Sin made bare to Christ, Who paid the cost. The Living God once bore my cross. He died, that I might live. He rose, again, full paid my loss, eternal life to give. (John 3:16; John 6:37,44) by Jay O'Toole on February 23rd, 2021 |
| O, Liberty! My Liberty! Where do we now you call? O, Liberty, upon the knees, once proud and standing tall. Your island, now, is sinking low o'erspread by water's flooding. The hope of all in silence bows through awful soulful drubbing. O, statue of our Freedom's Flame, thy face in muddy marsh hath stumbled where the great one's stood. Thy tongue, so dry and parched. O, Liberty! My Liberty! We would not leave you e'er. We lift you up from falt'ring knees. Your hope we do declare. In wat'ry mess we help you stand, until the Truth is floating o'er fiends of Earth, who brought you low through daily awful gloating. O, statue, fire your flame, again. Be washed of plough mud sour. Your Truth is strong right now as then, and Hope defeats the dour. O, Liberty! My Liberty! You're standing in each test. O, Liberty! My Liberty! Thy walls be ever blest. The soulish, thoughtful edifice is founded in the mire. The strength of Liberty we need in situation's dire. O, statue, flaming fire, today, return we do your grace, that when they see your strong display, returned be to your place. This is an Homage to Walt Whitman's poem, "O Captain! My Captain!" The subject of this poem is the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor. This poem explores her health amid a world of many enemies, who wish to secure her demise. Her fall and her restoration, again, were seen in the dream of a modern-day preacher. by Jay O'Toole on February 22nd, 2021 |
Hopeful hearts and childlike eyes love the happy home of Santa Claus 'neath Christmas skies, a place to seek and roam. Rovaniemi in Lapland is this cheery town, where great things of childlike plan joyfully abound. This is where I hope to go before I breathe my last for days of childlike joys to know, full of hopeful tasks. I wonder if they have a job for little boys to do, for little boys, that age can't rob from Christmas' daily due. I think I'd like my last career to share this village home to make my life a place, like here, experiences, a tome. by Jay O'Toole on February 19th, 2021 |
staring at a captive ward like me breezing, breathing, shuddering dawn crossed-arm king of dungeon's daily chill cramping, noiseless, muscle-locked morn sentries standing, skylined pines of frost frigid, humorless, bark-armored waiting snowful blast of the windchime swaying constantly chattering, ominous, doleful noon the house pours sodden rain through soaking hands constantly tearing, emotional flooding, unknown dusk gurgling yard swims slowly as through seaweed flapping, floating, frosty night huddling plants in soggy greenhouse hope cheering, hopeful, springish soon chittering squirrels in sloshy chase abound insulting, sneering, squealing days great robin host among the elm tree limbs singing, blissful, joyful staying still, amid the waiting storm of cold frozen, stuck, icy, grassicle days by Jay O'Toole on February 18th, 2021 |
How can our times be wasted on this Earth? So much to do around this needy globe. Our hands a-flailing from that cry of birth are often serving 'til that shrouded robe. Are purposes to be a thwarted mess? Can good be done with breath still in our lungs? Our days of life are made by God to bless. Our stories told as songs, that must be sung. Distractions in the life of Joseph saved a world unfed by famine's awful fist. The back of Jesus bloodied as they raved to kill Him from Salvation's lasting kiss. Distractions seem a useless waste of time, but Jesus rose, again, quite in His prime. by Jay O'Toole on February 17th, 2021 |
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