Trilogy for Tim

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Yours Forever

The splendors of the spectrum
Of your gifts, molded by your Maker
But largely untapped, are unrecognized
In "Doubting Thomas" eyes,
Darkened by the narrow introspection
Common during the brief span of youth.
In time, enlightenment and truth
Will mix on the palette of your passage,
Brushed on adroitly
By the wisdom of increasing age.

You will be amazed
During the swift, brighter days
That will decorate your life
After the unveiling
Of the masterpiece of you;
How we are imbued: the what and Who
Residing inside;
The mystery of our spirit and soul
And how we can be whole;
The blessings granted; the grace
Flowing freely from generous hands
With no return demands
For human acts or merit;
And we don't deserve it.

When faith and commitment unionize
And cross the stubborn picket lines
Of your earth-bound reason,
You will humbly acquiesce
And in that golden season
Contract a pact with a Guest
Who in dazzling glory
Extends a spiritual repository.
With intervention from above.
You'll gain new power from a Dove
And the bonds of love
Shared by new brothers;
And gasp at life's colors,
Rewards and variations;
And even more significant,
The eternal implications.



Get Your Spear in Mint Condition

Somehow you prefer to try
To hedge and deny
The quality of arrows
In your rapidly-filling quiver:
A singular kind of mind
With a refreshing point of view;
Not fiery oratory but kindling
And sparking insights
With words that stimulate
Those you choose to debate.
And even more compelling:
Features of your face,
The dark, dancing eyes
And tight-lipped smile;
The nonchalance and casual grace
Of your long-limbed,
Unhurried stroll and style;
Smooth athletic skills;
And how you attract the fold
Of young who want to fill
Your time and cluster about,
Preferring your ambience
To other uncles and aunts.

Attributes like these
Are part of your shield
As you challenge life;
Its setbacks and strife;
Guarding against doubts
That in daily bouts
Persuade you to avoid jousts
And miss the battle cry,
The joy of the forward thrust
At the elusive bulls-eye,
Even if some campaigns are a bust.

True, the lance askance
Might sting the fingers
And give the psyche a blow,
Disappointment can linger,

For the brass ring sometimes
Will spin and glow,
A bright sheen on a sharper point.
But the time will grow nigh
When you will hold high
More than one prize;
Then you will realize
The gist of my story:
The try always precedes
Basking in the glory.



















Music Maker

With lanky body bent;
Lips tightly pursed
And eyes so intent,
We have heard your quiet bursts
Of noteworthy events.
Guitar cradled gently
In nimble, sensitive hands,
You avoid playing in bands.
You prefer a lone corner
Behind a closed door so others
Cannot watch or hear;
Comment or interfere.

Seeking experience, capable
Of coaxing sweet sounds
From your acoustic machine
With its single eye
Delighting the ear;
Capturing vibrating strings,
You fuse talent and style;
We anticipate, curious to hear
What the next chord brings.

Why go lonely and fret so much
About your melodies and touch?
Can't occasional discord
Be accepted and ignored,
Or does it make you hide
Because some might snipe or chide?
Don't let it abide;
Cast such misgivings aside!

Pluck your green, young notes
Until the ripened, ruddy
Grapes on your steel vine
Bubble and ferment
And pour in full body
From the keg of your instrument;
Then we will draw draughts
Of your finger crafts
For everyone's purview
And drink deeply of that wine,
So pure and so fine;
'Till then we enjoy the music of you.