The Last Paragraph

This is the last paragraph from a novel/short story I started a few years ago. I had spent a whole summer reading William Faulkner novels and the words just flew out of my mind onto the page. I had dreamed about the opening scene, but after a few weeks the words stopped coming and life, like it always does, got in the way. Good night.

Brushing away the cobwebs meant reliving memories long since dormant, as James meandered his way through ghostly coverlets. There, in the back corner sat a familiar form; father's old roll top desk. James paused a moment before tearing off the dust laden linen like scar tissue from an old war wound. This, for James, was the beginning of a long journey back to reality and the path he had long put aside. “Where would the weeds now laying before me lead?” he thought to himself, as the dark stained grain of the roll top faced him squarely now like his father had done so many years earlier.

In Stone

In stone
To be remembered
On green lawns
To roam care free
Prayers carried
Upon four winds
Long walks
To sooth old wounds
Tears for lost love
Cries to God above
And answers slow to come.

From Ash and Smoke

There is something about a camp fire
Smoldering through a cold Spring night
Which captures my mind and spirit.

I am taken back in time
To flint locks and ferry boat rides
Johnny cake lunches
knots and lashings
Lessons history teaches.

Like a river I traverse
Down hyperbole lane
Being cleansed in a bath of lye soap
The kind made of ash from a Black Swamp oak
And I am transformed.

Transcendent
I find a rhythm not my own
from legacies of hard work
Sweat and toil of a frontiersman's brow
and ladies wanton of big city finery.

Then, I return home and find a truth
that cannot be washed away
From smoke and ash a smell never leaves
my hair or clothing completely
It has sunken into my skin
and flows through my veins
to each hidden heart beat of my soul.

D. A. Wittler 2014

Road Weary

He walked a path to nowhere,
a road promising nothing but uncertainty.
He clung to an old rugged faith
passed down from unknown generations
of forgotten forefathers and mothers of long dead children.
But he could feel them coursing through his veins
like a river of earth transformed in bright living color
upon a blank page.

He was at home within his own skin,
but weary of the struggle
of dealing with hidden demons and self taught lies.
He longed for a happy ending
if only God would permit him to make it so.
And a question lingers,
would he remain a lost child forever?

D. Wittler 2014

Morning Prayer

Dear Lord,
In quiet solitude of morning
I make a sign across my heart
Father, Son and Holy Spirit
And sing a prayer of praise
That you taught us all to say
In moments all alone and together
Behind closed doors.

And why do I sing?
I sing because a great Saint
Augustine proclaimed:
"When you sing, you pray twice"
And so I raise my voice to you my King
My saving grace
Before all manner of things
Creation seen and unseen
Below heaven's realm
Upon earth
Above serpent's sting
And your glory reigns supreme.

To you
Heavenly Host
I lift up my thoughts
My cares
My inmost suffering
And hopes for all my earthly family
That we might all be fed, clothed and cloaked
Beneath a mere shadow of your outstretched wings
And be comforted by your compassion for all beings
Through works and deeds and outward signs
Like rainbows in a clearing sky
And be sent off once again into slumber
As sunset falls and twilight calls
To stars as countess as our dreams.
Amen

The Uniform I Wear

Today I dedicate this acrostic poem to the many volunteers and youth who are associated with the scouting movement. Whether you are an adult, young man or woman, God bless you on your journey; true and straight like the arrow towards the eagle flying above on that golden horizon high above the mountain tops.


The uniform I wear
Hides only my skin
Entirely from cold and wind
Under no guise of pretension or sin
Never yielding to the voices of ignorance
Infinitely reaching out for adventure and knowledge
Forgetting only the negative
Onward striving toward the positive
Removing obstacles in my path
Moving mountains with my prayers
Inspired by those who set a higher standard
Watchful for opportunities to grow
Engaged with my brothers and sisters who care
Attentive to the needs of others and my community
Rare and precious indeed is the uniform I wear.

-D.A. Wittler

Home

Home

Some say:
Home is where you hang your hat.
Others:
There is no place like home.
Perhaps then:
Home is a business proposition
In which gain and loss
are all put down on paper;
a license from the state that recognizes your organization
Then gladly accepts your loss
As just another failed venture.
But home:
In real life is where your heart is
But once lost it can never be gotten again
At least not like the first time
When the world looked brand new
and all that mattered was that special someone
who made you feel like no other.
That's what home is to me.
For better
Or worse
For richer
Or poorer
In sickness
And in health
Home is a final destination
A mansion with many rooms
In which one is your very own
But when your heart is broken
Home seems a million miles away
Hiding in some constellation
Lost among the stars.

- D.A. Wittler 2014