I Rise in the Light
They took me to the guillotine
and tied me to the board, then
shoved me forward face-down
with my head upon the block.
And the bastards chopped it off.
But my spirit rose in the light.
It rose to live another life.
And once I lay in a miner’s cave
my body crushed by tons of rock.
But my spirit rose between the cracks.
All of Earth couldn’t hold it back.
I rose in the light to live another life.
I also sailed the bounding blue
as a sailing man on the Spanish Main.
Then one day a massive wave blew up
and took me down to a watery grave.
I was wet and I was drowned, but only
for a minute because my spirit healed
itself and shook off all the water in it.
Like a bubble, then, I rose in the light.
I awoke in an age Medieval where
a wicked priest so very evil tied me to
a burning pole so he said to save my soul.
In the flames and on my death I told him
to save his breath. Only God calls me home.
That’s why I keep singing my warrior song.
I rise each morning, indomitable, indefatigable,
unbeatable -- Phoenix-like, steady and bright
with my heart on fire, hands outstretched
for the love of Christ, I rise in the light.
and tied me to the board, then
shoved me forward face-down
with my head upon the block.
And the bastards chopped it off.
But my spirit rose in the light.
It rose to live another life.
And once I lay in a miner’s cave
my body crushed by tons of rock.
But my spirit rose between the cracks.
All of Earth couldn’t hold it back.
I rose in the light to live another life.
I also sailed the bounding blue
as a sailing man on the Spanish Main.
Then one day a massive wave blew up
and took me down to a watery grave.
I was wet and I was drowned, but only
for a minute because my spirit healed
itself and shook off all the water in it.
Like a bubble, then, I rose in the light.
I awoke in an age Medieval where
a wicked priest so very evil tied me to
a burning pole so he said to save my soul.
In the flames and on my death I told him
to save his breath. Only God calls me home.
That’s why I keep singing my warrior song.
I rise each morning, indomitable, indefatigable,
unbeatable -- Phoenix-like, steady and bright
with my heart on fire, hands outstretched
for the love of Christ, I rise in the light.
I'm Coming Through
I know I don’t look like much to you
and you stuck me in your discount bin
to wallow in a dusty corner in the back
of your mind. I got it. I’m Five-and-Dime.
You marked me low and now I know
you think I’ll never find a way to win.
Thus I labor in your give-a-way rack
with the broken toys that don’t wind up.
The little monkey who can’t beat his cup.
The poor pale moon who forgot her tune
and doesn’t remember her lunar phases.
Odd books, lost little books missing pages.
Now all of these things may be true but
boy oh boy do I have some news for you.
I’m coming through. I wasn’t born to love
or money and fortune wasn’t mine to claim.
I never knew the right people nor learned to
play the game. Didn’t schmooze or drink booze.
Didn’t run in fancy tennis shoes or expensive
jogging suits. I don’t care. I’m used to it.
I expect it will be raining and the boss will be
complaining. For the chips to be down. For the
odds to be slim. For the uphill slog always in
the cold and even if I don’t get paid. So what?
I’m the guy who’s going to win because no matter
how steep the grade I’m going to do what I always do.
I’ll be coming through. Because that’s what I do.
and you stuck me in your discount bin
to wallow in a dusty corner in the back
of your mind. I got it. I’m Five-and-Dime.
You marked me low and now I know
you think I’ll never find a way to win.
Thus I labor in your give-a-way rack
with the broken toys that don’t wind up.
The little monkey who can’t beat his cup.
The poor pale moon who forgot her tune
and doesn’t remember her lunar phases.
Odd books, lost little books missing pages.
Now all of these things may be true but
boy oh boy do I have some news for you.
I’m coming through. I wasn’t born to love
or money and fortune wasn’t mine to claim.
I never knew the right people nor learned to
play the game. Didn’t schmooze or drink booze.
Didn’t run in fancy tennis shoes or expensive
jogging suits. I don’t care. I’m used to it.
I expect it will be raining and the boss will be
complaining. For the chips to be down. For the
odds to be slim. For the uphill slog always in
the cold and even if I don’t get paid. So what?
I’m the guy who’s going to win because no matter
how steep the grade I’m going to do what I always do.
I’ll be coming through. Because that’s what I do.
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Craig Pugh
Craig Pugh is the author of a Pocketful Of Poems and Poems For Pickin'. Double Leo. Vegetarian. Peace advocate. Astrologer. Astronomer. Literary omnivore. Poet. Screenwriter. Short stories. Dreamer. Coffee connoisseur. Reformer. Animal lover. Striving spirit. Raging angel. Grandfather. Military brat. Military veteran. Teacher. Editor. Author. Insomniac. Driven. 100 mph guy in a 50 mph world.
website: www.thewritingdog.com |