Colin F. Jones

~ God and War ~

~ 1 ~

As the wind upon my cheek so softly blows,
Then doth the Lord’s invisible breath expire
That calms the mind and, gently, love bestows
That one can find the strength to face this fire.
Wild lines of heat-red tracer seek a grave
Meandering through thick air to reach its mark.
To strike the bodies of the fearful brave,
A streaking crimson spear bright and stark
Life spills out through jagged crimson holes
Slows and seeps and clots opposed to death
The eyes glaze over as new life evolves
The silent soul departing what is left.
God did not call him though he heard His cry,
For man in war causes man to cruelly die.

~ 2 ~

“Where was God?” he cried, for he had prayed?
Where was the Lord when he fell down and died?
Why was he not the man the good Lord saved?
“You were.” Sweet Jesus silently replied.
Tis not Gods role to interfere with life;
He gave the choices to his creation, man.
To choose his way be it with gun and knife
For he will end where all his life began.
“Follow me!” No step will be placed wrong
For the Lord walks only paths of tranquil peace.
Tis man who alters the words of God’s sweet song
That the act of war will not, in man, yet cease;

~ 3 ~

You made me Sir! Am I not your design?
For all my parts are as you’d have them be
Thus are not all my defects yours not mine?
Are not these errors yours, you blame on me?
When what I purchase retards by its defect
I seek to meet the man who made the brand;
Would I be wrong to point out his neglect?
Would he not find it fair to understand?
Great Thou art Sir, causing fear in me,
Yet Sir, you give me courage to extend
My lesser thoughts that can’t compare with Thee;
To air this point I do not comprehend.
Dear Lord, You are my truth and all my hope.
Yet still I question, lest I in darkness grope.

~ 4 ~

What is truth? A threshold built on facts?
Or just a dream we choose to long believe
That diminishes the sin of our cruel acts?
That for it we, some gratefulness, receive.
Is not ‘what is’ the truth that none can steal
Laid there before our eye in naked pose?
What then would be the opposite of real
If not belief dressed up in truths fine clothes?
What lives within that one can’t yet explain?
Is there a spirit separate from my mind?
Does such a ghost suffer all my pain
That, like me, is both so cruel and kind?
Where am I, if not inside my head
That I will only live when I am dead?

~ 5 ~

As the wind upon my cheek so softly blows,
Then doth the Lord’s invisible breath expire
That calms the mind and, gently, love bestows
That one can find the strength to face this fire.
Wild lines of heat red tracer seeks a grave,
Meandering through thick air to reach its mark;
To strike the bodies of the fearful brave
A streaking crimson spear bright and stark.
Life spills out through jagged crimson holes,
Slows and seeps and clots opposed to death.
The eyes glaze over as new life evolves,
The silent soul departing what is left.
God did not call him though he heard his cry
For man in war causes man to cruelly die

~ 6 ~

Mixing with fools determines one’s wisdom,
For is not wisdom the study of fools?
Where is the comparison without an opposite?
Not all learning is derived from the schools.
Life is like fire that destroys its own substance
If it fails to abide with natures cruel laws.
For killing and conquering replenishes purposes;
Destroys frail structures to open new doors.
Vile is the creature, despite its fine plumage
Man will kill his best friend that he will survive.
Compassion and love is lost in the carnage
Where in order to live, another must die.
This is the problem the Lord gave to mankind;
To oppose every aspect in nature designed.

~ 7 ~

Let us pray for others, not for ourselves,
For central to the prayer we share no boon.
Pray for me that I may pray for you
That what I pray for lifts another’s gloom.
Wallow not in self-centred prayer;
For lacking value it will not be heard.
For who so ever chooses not to share
Shall know the woe drawn from things absurd.
Though we do hope for better things to come,
Tis by our giving that we reap God’s care;
For in the end when everything is done
We but subserve another’s generous prayer;
‘Ere then let me relieve you of despair
By asking God, your defects, to repair.

~ 8 ~

You may well pray Sir, for your weary self,
Asking God to aid you on your way.
But God has left you to care for your own health
For he will come when man has had his day.
Prayer is made trite in every weakness borne.
Where man requires some courage of his own
Yet seeks it from a source beyond the dawn
Where reliance on the absent has been sown.
We should then, Sir, rely on our brave skills
To turn the foe that we might yet survive;
For the Lord is not the shell that our foe kills
And those there dead, He will not soon revive.
Test not your faith where man has made his choice
For there, will be the absence of Gods voice.

~ 9 ~

How then do you define your hidden face?
Which line is written that determines this?
You cannot hide your spitefulness in grace
Nor fake desire with a wanton kiss.
Which word describes your truest mood the best?
Which stanza captures what you really are?
What empty margin hides the words you test?
What lines, erased, leave what telling scar?
Oft in one’s verse one hides that he be seen,
For hiding thus, invites the greater thought.
Possessed not, by those folk who have not been
To where the wiser thinker finds resort.
So, here then, in the realms of poets lines,
You will reveal your face so many times.

~ 10 ~

For some, the Lord is there to help their minds;
Come to terms with ailments and their woes.
But not for all, for many often find
They have their own legs poised above their toes.
Tis through the preacher, seeds are cast astray
By fervent venture into private thoughts.
That those they beckon, they but drive away
For few respond with favourable retorts.
Oft by the crutch, some stronger are made lame.
Who could not swim, but learning, they do drown.
For assuming that we all do praise His name
Lacks that, for which our Master is renown.
Tis, by some, ignored when making statements clear
That others choose a different ship to steer.

~ 11 ~

Some need to fill their minds with their dear Lord.
Yet others do not fade enough to try.
‘Tis, sometimes, in man’s power to applaud
His own man’s strength on which he can rely.
Some give God credit for their solved event,
Where another, on his self will, doth rejoice.
Tis often based on how one’s life is spent
For some find God because they lack a voice.
In either case, it seems a state of mind;
One, keeping pace with God by claiming sin
While sin, the other, in himself can’t find
For he interprets life as lose or win.
Is God, then, born within by tutor’s rhymes
Or does the spirit dwell in empty lines?

~ 12 ~

Faith in myself is surely faith in God,
For am I not, in Him, in me restored?
I may without, seem fain to only nod
Yet inside, be at peace with our dear Lord.
Some like to loudly call His wondrous name.
But is such calling defined by one’s self doubt?
Tis often that appraisal hides one’s shame;
That that which lives within lives not without.
What of those folk who, by their birth, can’t read?
Are their totems ignorant links to God?
Are they the scattered portions of the seed
That fell in isolated regions of earth’s sod?
Answers fill each vacant space in time
But which to which is joined to make them rhyme?

~ 13 ~

You may not find God here in my verse
That seems to paint a profile you don’t like.
But I must seek out truth though some may curse
My way to God, where they would never hike.
I do not fear the way my feet do walk
For I have no doubts, what the end will be!
And while those folk around me like to talk
I choose to listen yes, yet I must see.
Then why deny, and why seek other ways
To reach what I can, at this moment, touch?
I guess it’s why another person prays
That another, by their actions, makes it such:
For one man’s dream is another’s truth;
Prayers rewarded by what seems aloof.

~ 14 ~

Swift as he ran he only reached the end,
Though in between he kept his fitness up.
But all his effort was, he can’t pretend,
To gather all he could to fill his cup.
In doing thus, a puppet on a stick
Unknowing made a hundred people rich.
None of whom, by choice, he’d choose to pick
For friendship or for trusting with his pitch.
Though by their share, most folk without a name
Are satisfied with less than what they crave.
They all are jealous of him and would claim
All the wealth they’ll dream of to the grave.
For only poor men use the rich to chide
Until they too, from riches, lose their pride