Life is not embittered throng
But merely creatures lauding song.
Life is a conquest of attitudes.
Life is the sacrifice of something good for
something better.
Life is love for God, for a girl, for people and
for things.
But really life is God who holds and gives the
very breath of life, and life eternal.
- G. Mark Trimble
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Definitions of Love
It cries with reddened teary eyes
It laughs with eyes that dance and tell
the secrets yet untold.
It mourns when it is no more
It grieves when some substitute takes its place
It pouts in tantalizing pretense
It sings when all is well till heart must burst.
It waits at the door peering into the night
for someone's safe return.
It gives itself and expects itself in return.
It praises, admires and adores.
It hopes for more and more and more.
It dreams about its champion.
It pleads and begs with itself.
It throws itself upon its lonely bed in hopeless
despair.
It gazes into the misty distance.
It is speechless in that great pull at the heart
for which there is no word.
It soars to heights of ecstasy.
It crawls and drags itself at defeat
But more then these, it loves and loves and loves
Loves, loves, loves, loves, loves..............
- G. Mark Trimble
It laughs with eyes that dance and tell
the secrets yet untold.
It mourns when it is no more
It grieves when some substitute takes its place
It pouts in tantalizing pretense
It sings when all is well till heart must burst.
It waits at the door peering into the night
for someone's safe return.
It gives itself and expects itself in return.
It praises, admires and adores.
It hopes for more and more and more.
It dreams about its champion.
It pleads and begs with itself.
It throws itself upon its lonely bed in hopeless
despair.
It gazes into the misty distance.
It is speechless in that great pull at the heart
for which there is no word.
It soars to heights of ecstasy.
It crawls and drags itself at defeat
But more then these, it loves and loves and loves
Loves, loves, loves, loves, loves..............
- G. Mark Trimble
The Family Car
FATHER
Proverbial are the journeys taken afar,
That run on the wheels of the family car,
In which I engage the time far spent.
Returning home with another dent
In my car and earnings alike.
Because red lights are so frequently run
Some teenagers actually declare it is fun.
Their duties and honors always well done,
The police think it well to carry a gun.
Bones have been broken and tears have been shed
When a girl looks down on the spot in the road
Where her lover has bled.
Those who don't own a buggy on wheels
Know not the numerous headaches of automobiles.
SON
What could be so thrillingly great
As to drive in one of these models of late
To move down the road at a wonderful pace
That convinces the cops that you're having a race.
These are the things which make or break men
How can they live who do not possess them
Those joyous exciting horseless carriages
They take you to funerals and also to marriages
What is more sporting than to stop and to dash
And what more cozy than just missing a crash.
FATHER
The beasts of iron gobble up gas
Then sometimes they stall when trying to pass
They're dangerous and costly and always imposing.
SON
Tis pleasure to eat the dust of the road
Never shall I walk a mile
But rather always ride in style.
Whenever I travel or journey afar
With me shall go the family car.
- G. Mark Trimble
Proverbial are the journeys taken afar,
That run on the wheels of the family car,
In which I engage the time far spent.
Returning home with another dent
In my car and earnings alike.
Because red lights are so frequently run
Some teenagers actually declare it is fun.
Their duties and honors always well done,
The police think it well to carry a gun.
Bones have been broken and tears have been shed
When a girl looks down on the spot in the road
Where her lover has bled.
Those who don't own a buggy on wheels
Know not the numerous headaches of automobiles.
SON
What could be so thrillingly great
As to drive in one of these models of late
To move down the road at a wonderful pace
That convinces the cops that you're having a race.
These are the things which make or break men
How can they live who do not possess them
Those joyous exciting horseless carriages
They take you to funerals and also to marriages
What is more sporting than to stop and to dash
And what more cozy than just missing a crash.
FATHER
The beasts of iron gobble up gas
Then sometimes they stall when trying to pass
They're dangerous and costly and always imposing.
SON
Tis pleasure to eat the dust of the road
Never shall I walk a mile
But rather always ride in style.
Whenever I travel or journey afar
With me shall go the family car.
- G. Mark Trimble
INSPIRATION
Oh great phantom, poets are but fools,
For you have stretched those knotted arms above,
Before my dim eyes saw the light
To dizzy heights reach up those woody spirals
Then down to solid mamouth trunk
Well rooted in the solid ground
Ah the carved niches in thy bark,
Where houses nature's playful beasts
My heart entwines about thy mighty bows
Whereon have sat the aves of many kind
Am I but blind, when looking up I see
Thy curled fingers pointed straight at me
How can I describe thee in this rage of passion
I do not care what men may say
About these lines of thought
Or me, or any other thing
For God has pulled me up and drawn
Me to His bosom in nature's crown
And you great gnarled figure of an oak
How reverently to me you spoke
The dreamy misty lines of love,
And reached with swaying creaking arms
The diapason of my heart
Which overflows and sings and takes its cue
From carved and silent statues such as you.
- G. Mark Trimble
For you have stretched those knotted arms above,
Before my dim eyes saw the light
To dizzy heights reach up those woody spirals
Then down to solid mamouth trunk
Well rooted in the solid ground
Ah the carved niches in thy bark,
Where houses nature's playful beasts
My heart entwines about thy mighty bows
Whereon have sat the aves of many kind
Am I but blind, when looking up I see
Thy curled fingers pointed straight at me
How can I describe thee in this rage of passion
I do not care what men may say
About these lines of thought
Or me, or any other thing
For God has pulled me up and drawn
Me to His bosom in nature's crown
And you great gnarled figure of an oak
How reverently to me you spoke
The dreamy misty lines of love,
And reached with swaying creaking arms
The diapason of my heart
Which overflows and sings and takes its cue
From carved and silent statues such as you.
- G. Mark Trimble
Mother's Day
808 3rd. St. So.
Bemidgi, Minn.
Editor of the "Bemidgi Pioneer"
Dear Sir:
If through this humble medium we could come to a greater realization of our mother's part in our lives, of her faith and sacrifice; if we could add to the realization of our own unappreciation, then I would be grateful for its use.
Tomorrow (May 12)
Tomorrow will be your mother's day
Whether she is with you or with him, in
Cottage or "Ivory Palaces."
Wrinkled old, pale and weak,
She has given in the hope that you - but
she asks not even a smile.
She is beautiful still, and strong enough to give.
The crinkled burnt gold hair is lost in grey;
In her mother's love and care, youth and
color fade.
Double the value of silver by love,
The debt you owe that piles high,
The supreme gift not charged to you,
but forgiven.
But by contrast loss we cannot miss her life.
We forget the priceless smile that costs,
Forget what brought the grey, the lines of waste,
To appreciate the sacrifice that cannot stay,
And wear her flowers next our heart.
Tomorrow break the iron band, neglect
Nor shame a kiss in thanks to him for her.
Hope for grace and blessing, for time
Nor fear, you cannot overdo, the time is short;
The tears we never shared have taught her love.
Talk with him who knows our every fault,
Who she in mother's faith doth ask for you.
We trust he listens, answers when we ask.
Breathe a silent wish, that if he wills,
we'd love,
To have her stay another year.
One of your readers,
Garnet Trimble
Prayer of a Servant
Dove, descend on us today.
Grant us all our needs I pray;
Break again the Sabbath bread,
Cleanse again and drive the dread
From our human hearts.
As we lean on thee, oh Christ,
Through Thy blood and sacrifice;
Break and mold us in thy love,
Giving guidance from above
To our human lives.
Now Thou great Three in One,
Keep us till our work is done;
Till we reach Thy happiness,
Where eternal we shall rest
From our human toil.
Amen.
- G. Mark Trimble
Grant us all our needs I pray;
Break again the Sabbath bread,
Cleanse again and drive the dread
From our human hearts.
As we lean on thee, oh Christ,
Through Thy blood and sacrifice;
Break and mold us in thy love,
Giving guidance from above
To our human lives.
Now Thou great Three in One,
Keep us till our work is done;
Till we reach Thy happiness,
Where eternal we shall rest
From our human toil.
Amen.
- G. Mark Trimble
Sifting Snow, Drifting Drifts
A driving wind from the north, northwest
With a long open sweep down the lake,
The sting of cutting sleet
And the snapping crack of ice,
The steady sift of loosened snow,
Drifts changing into drifts.
Great long, snowy plumes twist away to the south,
Slowing streaks of phantom white
Scraping over the hard packed snow
Slipping over the glassy ice
Taking, leaving, changing
Drifting over drift.
The raw wind burns my face
And drives me on ahead
Ever away to the south
Where the white settles deep in the willows & grass
And the drifts pile high in the woods.
On with the sifting streaks and the drifting drifts.
Snow that answers the will of the the wind
Goes where the wind blows
Scoops where the wind swoops
Scrapes away hardened crusts.
Tears at the frozen drifts
Always the steady sift
And the ever changing drifts.
- Garnet Trimble
With a long open sweep down the lake,
The sting of cutting sleet
And the snapping crack of ice,
The steady sift of loosened snow,
Drifts changing into drifts.
Great long, snowy plumes twist away to the south,
Slowing streaks of phantom white
Scraping over the hard packed snow
Slipping over the glassy ice
Taking, leaving, changing
Drifting over drift.
The raw wind burns my face
And drives me on ahead
Ever away to the south
Where the white settles deep in the willows & grass
And the drifts pile high in the woods.
On with the sifting streaks and the drifting drifts.
Snow that answers the will of the the wind
Goes where the wind blows
Scoops where the wind swoops
Scrapes away hardened crusts.
Tears at the frozen drifts
Always the steady sift
And the ever changing drifts.
- Garnet Trimble
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