Category Archives: Poetry

Quiet Courage

We see it everyday and seldom give it a second thought
For the courage we are trained to see rests in the extraordinary
Acts of heroism that loudly demand us to stand up and take notice
But far more common and often more daring is the quiet courage
The daily decision to enter into the little battles to make it past our fears
A refusal to let the past failures place a limit on the futures potential
The silent struggles against illness, weakness, depression and fatigue
Courageously embracing the pain we carry with us without losing hope
Hope that someday the unseen struggle will light a better way
For us or for those who will follow in the footsteps and pathways
We leave behind us in the sedimentary soil of others’ pasts
And perhaps the sun that will light the skies of tomorrow
Will not be the short burning explosion of one time heroics
But the billions of small flames of quiet courage that are lit that day

Neil White, 2014

Our Life in Another’s Eyes

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Are we the hero, or the villain, or merely an unseen extra

A one- time addition to movie that plays out in their mind

We never really know what the expected role we walk into is

The expectations and the ideas that form the masks our character will wear

We can only guess based on our own script how others might imagine

Our lives lived on the stage of their imagination

Are we seen or heard, valued or despised

Perhaps there are clues to the mystery

Maybe we can try to read the cues in a smile

But in another’s eyes we are who we are seen to be

And not who we see ourselves to be.

Perhaps the point is not to try to understand our role in someone else’s story

But rather to play out the character we wish to be in our own eyes

And see whether, when the curtains close we receive applause or jeers

For life is open to interpretation and action to judgment

And we live not one life, but many lives in the worlds

For one life we live in our own story and perception

But we also live other lives trapped within the roles and stories

Of the others whose lives we intersect

And in their imaginations our beings live and move and breathe

In a world and a story that is not our own.

Neil White, 2014

Back to Reality

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Just a throwaway phrase from a conversation

“Back to reality” and the brief escape was over

Not that reality was some type of horrific existence

Some nightmare that needed to be escaped

But for a brief moment time seemed to had slowed

And it really was a vacation to some other place

Some undiscovered corner of the mind

Where the worries and wonderings of the world outside ceased

Where for a moment I was there and here at once

And I wanted to stay, but I needed to go

And so it was back to reality, back to the world I know

But sometimes my mind drifts away from reality

To another time and place and feeling

And my heart smiles and aches and dreams

Of what ifs and could’ve beens

But then again I must at some point have to return

Back to reality.

When The White Rider Falls

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Fallen White Knight by RachellaJH@deviantart.com

When the champion falls from his noble steed

And lays vanquished upon the ground

Struggling with the same mortality we all bear

Trying to rise under the weight of the expectations

Continually laid upon his shoulders by those

Bestowing their favor and placing their hope

On his ability to continue to enter the arena

While others merely enjoy the show that he puts on

Again and again, rising to meet each new challenger

Until that fatal day when he lays with his face in the earth

And he finds that those who had cheered him

Would rather see him die upon his white horse,
Than see him fall to the ground disappointing their hopes

To continue to exhibit the illusion of strength

Even when that illusion covers a gaping wound

And as the cheering crowds depart the coliseum in silence

Mourning not his injuries but their own disappointment

Leaving only the critics who look down with disapproving stares

As the one once lifted up as the hero becomes the outcast

And the white rider becomes quickly forgotten and ignored

His life’s blood sacrificed to quench the desire of the masses

Now crippled, he is quickly replaced by another who takes up the banner

When yesterday’s heroes fall from grace

We turn away in fear, for if those who we placed little lower than gods

With all their strength and mental resolve and ability

If they can know the sting on failure and weakness of wounds

Then what hope do we mere mortals have

Neil White, 2014

Fired Clay

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We often see the fragility that comes from the way in which our beings are made

The manner in which we are so easily chipped and broken by the hard places of life

We may wish we were made of sterner stuff like iron or bronze

Or that we bore the shine of silver or gold or some precious stone

But we mortal beings bear our treasures in the fired clay of the earth

Formed from the mud and our varied shapes formed upon the wheel

Yet, it is the kiln of life that locks us into our true form

And no glaze can disguise that reality that we are pots needing to be filled

Yet one stunning revelation in the midst of this season of the Spirit

That lights upon the apostles as flames of fire consuming the past

Lighting the way to a new and uncertain future for them and those who follow

But one truth of ceramics for all their flaws and weaknesses

Is their ability to absorb the heat of the flame, for they were formed in it

Unlike metals they retain the heat rather than transmitting it to the world around

They are able to bear the creative fire of the spirit’s presence into the world

Without the world around them being consumed by heat of holiness

In their mortality and fragility they are suited to a task no other can manage.

Neil White, 2014

I Saw You at the Fair

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I saw you at the fair today

Old friend and before your even say

I know it wasn’t you,

You are a thousand miles away

But I saw you anyways.

In someone who reminded me of you

Though younger, she had your eyes and face

And they took me to a place where you were there

And so today, though only in the way of a memory

Or a projection of your features and personalities onto another

You were there, and so was I

And I saw you at the fair

Neil White, 2014

Magnificent Desolation

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The strongest man in the world is not the one who always towers over his challengers

Boasting the undefeated record, whose has never met a challenge that he didn’t overcome

Or the woman who manages to look perfect, act perfect and construct the perfect web

Of relationships and security, of appearances and approval, an image of perfection

Rather it is those who have faced the magnificent desolation of failure and rose again

Who can encounter the magnificent desolation and learn to see its beauty

Past the judging eyes of those caught within their own insecurities and crystalline lives

Who have had their worth, their beauty, their strength, and their very souls questioned

Those who watched their past lives vanish in a flash of light and out of the remnants

Rose again to reenter the arena, to risk again to create, to love, to try, to fight and to fail

Who have endured the gaping maw of anxiety and the abyssal pit of depression

Who may still feel the black bile occasionally creep back into their veins threatening to consume them

Or at random times have to remember to breath and quiet their heart as it pounds within their chest

Learning how to live in the aftermath of both failure and success

And find a way to learn from the past without letting it define them

Who know the grace of not needing to seek a better past or a perfect present

And can look to the future without losing sight of the gifts of the day

Who have the courage to lean on others at the times when their minds or bodies fail

And the compassion to stand with others in their desolations and celebrations

Neil White, 2014

The Unforced Rhythms of Grace

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Jozsef Somogyi’s statue of the Tired Man in Mako, Hungary

It is not the unreachable bar of perfection that we strive to attain day after day

The unending race to outpace our neighbors, our competitors or ourselves

It is not the daily grind of constantly trying to achieve and be seen that we need

It is not the frown of some angry and unappeasable god condemning us to perdition

But rather it is an invitation to lay down the heavy burdens of an alien religiosity

And enter into the unforced rhythms of grace, to know the shalom of the cosmos

The kingdom of heaven brought into our midst by the one who comes to take away our yokes

Yokes of wood and iron and steel wrought in our own striving to play god

So that we might look down on the world as its master

The burdens of carrying the expectations of others in the harsh summer of judgment

The expectation that Sabbath is wasted time

That the lords of commerce hold the keys to the kingdom

Come to me, all you who are heavy laden and I will give you rest

I will offer you the rest of creation’s Sabbath

In the wilderness, away from the cries of the city

Come and sit and learn the unforced rhythms of grace

That learning to be the people of God involves learning to rest in peace

That my shalom I give to you, not as the world gives

But in the undying love of a creator that offers the dreams of a kingdom

It is more about surrender and less about control

It is the way, the truth, and the life you seek not for some distant future

But it is an invitation to learn the unforced rhythms of grace

Precisely in your time of being overburdened, tired and beaten down

Enter my Sabbath, my kingdom, take upon you a far lighter and more graceful yoke

And I will give you rest.

Neil White, 2014

The Pathos of the Pen

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To be a poet doesn’t mean to wallow in misery or to live a cursed life

To never know love or joy or hope, but rather it is to acknowledge and see

Those parts of our lives that give meaning to the height and width and depth

Of the human experience, paying attention to the highs and the lows

Being willing to enter into the swampland of the soul and pitch a tent

Not to live there forever, but to paint a picture with words of the topography

To leave behind a map that others may encounter and to know that they are not alone

Other times it means paying attention to the thin air of the mountaintop experiences

Where tears of joy may blur our vision and exuberance makes it hard to breathe

And for those moments we can look down from above the clouds

Marveling at the world below us, impervious to others dwelling in the valleys

Being vulnerable enough to open up their lives and their eyes

To allow the pathos of the moment to pour through the pen

Painting with words the emotions and experiences of life

Sometimes the words themselves take on a life of their own

Transforming desolation and despondency into the unyielding flame of hope

Looking back to the experiences of joy, belonging, love and security

Recasting the future through the hopes and dreams long abandoned

And letting it form in the kiln of the moment seen through the eyes of imagination

Perhaps this future will be shattered when it confronts a reality harder than itself

Or perhaps it will be the masterwork that will be admired for generations to come

Yet, either way it was crafted from the same lump of clay that others would pass by

That blue or black medium that is used in the service of day to day communication

Yet, it is in the combination of the pen and paper, pathos and hope and imagination

That the words invite others into the world of the poet’s mind

And in their invocation a portal to another world opens for the reader

Neil White, 2014

Beautiful

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image from :https://pixiepoetess.wordpress.com/2012/09/28/your-reflection/

I don’t know how to quantify what makes a person beautiful

Perhaps it truly does rest in the eye of the beholder

Perhaps it is only found in that moment when we see

The times when we open ourselves to the possibilities in the other

And put aside the judgments of the screen and the magazine racks

Seeing in a subtle smile or a wondering glance

A window into the soul that our spirit rejoices to meet

We may spend a lifetime and only encounter a handful of these moments

And so often they surprise us because of where they meet us

In places we never expect or in experiences tragically transitory

In a simple conversation or strolling through the marketplace

And there are many types of beauty that meet us in our lives
There was a beauty that was found when each of my children were born

That moment they touched my heart with their tiny thumbprints

Still remaining beautiful in their own way as they grow into young adults

There is the beauty of the person who you see and cannot look away

For something about appearance or movement or voice or demeanor

Captures your imagination and draws you in, even if only for a moment

Some will hear their beauty spoken in words awkward or eloquent

Many times the words remain trapped within our throats

And perhaps the most difficult beauty to acknowledge

Is the one that we find as we criticize our reflection in the mirror

For it is far easier to see the things that make us unique as our flaws

And to become blinded by other’s judgments

To that which is beautiful in ourselves.

Neil White, 2014

Sign of the Rose

Searchings: Sacred and Secular

Category Archives: Poetry

Quiet Courage

Our Life in Another’s Eyes

Back to Reality

When The White Rider Falls

Fired Clay

I Saw You at the Fair

Magnificent Desolation

The Unforced Rhythms of Grace

The Pathos of the Pen

Beautiful