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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)    |
Verbal sparring 'tween the clouds, the word boasts flooding down. Curtain wetness, grassy shrouds, the drops that the windows crown. The bout, now called, the ref has tied. The chiming of the leaves, with drizzling rain, and eyes unpried, a nap of drooling sleeves. The words on the page from a caulking tube stuck find their mark from great effort, not bliss. Seems we poem today by the weight of a truck. Not much pucker remains left to kiss. On this rainy day slow the writer's asleep. Nonsensical thoughts wander 'round, 'til all that be left is the snoring one's peep on the couch where the dreams still abound. by Jay O’Toole on June 4th, 2025   |
"When a tree falls in the wood, and no one's there to hear, does it make sounds so full and good? The sight, is it quite clear?" Today, I heard a cracking sound from one old wooded lot. "A tree is falling." Thoughts abounded. It's damage I knew not what. Some movement through the boughs impressed, but leaning it must still for landing sounds of earth depressed did not fulfill its will. Some parts of life may finally fall with objects in the way, then stuck with tension high and tall remains there on display. To leave precariously the lump means tension stays and stays, until we cut it loose to dump the bile that frees our days. A tree may fall in a forest stand, and lean for some time to come, but finally, down it comes, unplanned to mar what's 'neath the sum. The tensions in each life, not bid, are still ours to attend. Relieving the hurts of the heart to rid some burdens as we mend. But deep things may not e'er remove, until the gladsome Day. For then the Savior's final move will cause all to obey. (Philippians 2:5-11) For now, a limb in the fiercest storm impales the wounded ground. What need we in its sheer alarm, that peace may there be found? A round of wood, and the leveled limb may there a bistro make, where gentle moments, now a hymn reclaim the harsh mistake. by Jay O’Toole on June 3rd, 2025 |
Sometimes steps give way to stops, when going is not best. The active skips, and jumps, and hops. The wise reviews the test. Some days, events don't make good sense when trying meets rebuff. The hairs' not clean, another rinse may make us clean enough. Somewhere a victory is won when Hope becomes the gift. The sadness weighs a living ton. The heart despairs to lift. Somehow the day, though wearing thin is what it needs to be. The Lord can teach you how to win when Self from Self is free. by Jay O’Toole on June 2nd, 2025 |
A spot of tea to end the day, with Oolong flavoring the cup. There's not a lot that's left to say. There's sipping warmth to drink it up. Of poetry, a spot of tea, I sit, reflect, then find some words. These anxious thoughts I need to free as feathers in a flock of birds. A spot of tea reflects the night with textured joy, bouquet to swill. Imaginations take to flight when tea as wine begins to thrill. And when the spot of tea is green, 'tis then I drink the second cup. Some final words I hope to glean this hour after savory sup. A spot of tea or two to taste gives time to write, the pace to slow. No moment can we ever waste when gentle minds cause hearts to grow. by Jay O’Toole on May 30th, 2025 |
| Fluffy clouds up high on winds not even dry. Rain. Summertime is here. All desks of books are clear. Vacation. With days of work soon o'er new days excite me more. Retirement. With daughter in the world, new life's for her unfurled. Teacher. For cardinal's "talk is cheep." It dances up to reap. Food. by Jay O’Toole on May 29th, 2025 |
We honor all upon this day, who gave their living sum, that children oft could run and play because the followed drum. The deaths of those who battled fear, that we could know some peace show courage, that brought honor near, caused tyranny to cease. Some days, parades bring fame to those, who battled and returned. This day we honor those who chose to stay, the end discerned. In silence, stand before a grave, or sit near, praying long. A life, a gift, Republic save. We sing a loving song. These words are meager in the face of what those faces saw. Remember those in Saving Grace, "who faced the battle's maw." Their painful death, the daily loss, the faces on the wall. The grief weighs down, that none can toss, the phone we cannot call. The lives of Joy and lasting smiles, that time cannot erase, the times we drove o'er many miles, sustained by God-blest Grace. That mem'ry of the last we spoke, so many years ago. The lasting hole in the heart that broke. That life no more can grow. On foreign field, or old age bed the battle took its toll. The heart and flesh, they both have bled to rest on windy knoll. In honored hope we keep alive these loved ones, who are gone. We hope our efforts daily thrive to praise your victories won. by Jay O’Toole on May 28th, 2025 |
Mimosa trees so very high with tassels pinkish rouge seem oft to sweetly paint the sky with a brush, that it doth choose. Imagination taking hold so many years ago the little daughter's thoughts so bold with tasseled face to know. We'd brush her face as Mom would do with tassel's make-up glow, then toss the brush when we were through as play would help her grow. Mimosa now with paint to sky will seem quite soon to be an artist in the dusk so nigh, but color's brought by He. by Jay O’Toole on May 27th, 2025 |
We honor all upon this day, who gave their living sum, that children oft could run and play because they followed a drum. The deaths of those who battled fear, that we could know some peace show courage, that brought honor near, caused tyranny to cease. Some days, parades bring fame to those, who battled and returned. This day we honor those who chose to stay as the end discerned. In silence, stand before a grave, or sit near, praying long. A life, a gift to a Republic save. We sing a loving song. These words are meager in the face of what those faces saw. Remember those in Saving Grace, "who faced the battle's maw." by Jay O’Toole on May 26th, 2025 |
'Tis Friday, again, and what can be said, "Some are ending their work, but some just started 'the making of bread' as a cleaner or clerk." "It's the weekend! We rest." And some, of course, do, but some of us work for your bliss. 'Tis an honor to serve and make weekends for you. No worries or pains said of this. Just a difference in life 'bout our work and our rest for we finish our week at your start. So, our weekend is carved of your midweek so blest as we maintain the world as an art. These jobs are all needed to keep us afloat as happy, sweet "Earth-go-around." The dance of the do-si-do, shared weight to tote, a joyful life, daily we've found. Enjoy your dear rest as this weekend I go to clean as it always needs done. For nearing the hump of next week, then I trow, my rest will be honored and won. by Jay O’Toole on May 23rd, 2025 |
tassels brush the sky wondrous pink, so far from ground easy tree to climb by Jay O’Toole on May 22nd, 2025 |
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