Category Archives: Muses

Amsterdam

Amsterdam Canal 1

Hues of colors playing far away
defying darkness

as they fiercely proclaim
the approaching dawn…

Curious and vibrant

bouncing through fields
with fierce authority

as natures bows
and stain glasses

come alive.

Awaken from their slumber
stories of heroic virtues…

as if suddenly recalling
memories of a fading faith.

Peaceful and innocent

ready to remind the world
the beauty of life.

Lest you not forget!

When the spring blooms
traveled through your

handcrafted canals
out to paint the world!

Caleb
GTG

The World

lake reflection copy

The world was growing old
but we were growing young.

Holding hands with grew up together
while the world lost its patience

with our ways.

On forts built on the fields of our minds
we stood alone together

as the world went mad.

We took our swords and declared
with valiant bravado

our war.

For it was worth the fight!

Truth was drowning in a faceless crowd
chatting the end of right and wrong.

Beauty was confused for cynicism and honor
had lost its meaning.

We made our stand on the shadows
of giants.

For we were not alone.

All the saints from St. Pious V to
to Joan of Arc awaited at the gates

to make new what the world made old.

Caleb
GTG


The line in GK Chesterton poem in The Man Who Was Thursday that reads:

The world was old and ended: but you and I were gay;” 

The juxtaposition between the rambunctious energy of the youth and the tired and old false promises of the world hunted me ever since I first read this poem. It is a war that has been ranging since the fall of man, between the Good, the true and the beautiful and sin.

The other night this line pop again in my mind. Soon after I found myself writing the verses that made up these poor prose and my 100 post.

The Man Who Was Thursday by GK Chesterton

g-k-chesterton

GK Chesterton is one of the few authors that can bewilder my imagination to such an extend that after he describes a furious and passionate sunset and says that the sky seem so small to contain it…I would nod and agree with him…

If that didn’t tease you enough here is the opening poem to  his detective novel, The Man Who Was Thursday.

Cheers,

Caleb

The Man Who Was Thursday,  A Nightmare by GK Chesterton

To Edmund Clerihew Bentley

A cloud was on the mind of men, and wailing went the weather, 
Yea, a sick cloud upon the soul when we were boys together. 
Science announced nonentity and art admired decay; 
The world was old and ended: but you and I were gay; 
Round us in antic order their crippled vices came — 
Lust that had lost its laughter, fear that had lost its shame. 
Like the white lock of Whistler, that lit our aimless gloom, 
Men showed their own white feather as proudly as a plume. 
Life was a fly that faded, and death a drone that stung; 
The world was very old indeed when you and I were young. 
They twisted even decent sin to shapes not to be named: 
Men were ashamed of honour; but we were not ashamed. 
Weak if we were and foolish, not thus we failed, not thus; 
When that black Baal blocked the heavens he had no hymns from us 
Children we were — our forts of sand were even as weak as eve, 
High as they went we piled them up to break that bitter sea. 
Fools as we were in motley, all jangling and absurd, 
When all church bells were silent our cap and beds were heard.

Not all unhelped we held the fort, our tiny flags unfurled; 
Some giants laboured in that cloud to lift it from the world. 
I find again the book we found, I feel the hour that flings 
Far out of fish-shaped Paumanok some cry of cleaner things; 
And the Green Carnation withered, as in forest fires that pass, 
Roared in the wind of all the world ten million leaves of grass; 
Or sane and sweet and sudden as a bird sings in the rain — 
Truth out of Tusitala spoke and pleasure out of pain. 
Yea, cool and clear and sudden as a bird sings in the grey, 
Dunedin to Samoa spoke, and darkness unto day. 
But we were young; we lived to see God break their bitter charms. 
God and the good Republic come riding back in arms: 
We have seen the City of Mansoul, even as it rocked, relieved — 
Blessed are they who did not see, but being blind, believed. 

This is a tale of those old fears, even of those emptied hells, 
And none but you shall understand the true thing that it tells — 
Of what colossal gods of shame could cow men and yet crash, 
Of what huge devils hid the stars, yet fell at a pistol flash. 
The doubts that were so plain to chase, so dreadful to withstand — 
Oh, who shall understand but you; yea, who shall understand? 
The doubts that drove us through the night as we two talked amain, 
And day had broken on the streets e’er it broke upon the brain. 
Between us, by the peace of God, such truth can now be told; 
Yea, there is strength in striking root and good in growing old. 
We have found common things at last and marriage and a creed, 
And I may safely write it now, and you may safely read. 

G. K. C.

The lost of generations

Dreams that will never be dreamt
Inventions that will never be created
Classics that will never be read
Art that will never be admired
Music that will never be composed or played
Histories that will never be written
Joys and sufferings that will never be experienced
Thoughts and voices that forever will be lost and silenced

Generations lost.

Fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, grandfathers, grandmothers, cousins, nephews, lovers and friends that will never be…

All because their life was ended before they were born.

Caleb
GTG

Still a Small Voice

You yearned for fulfillment

but there is no meaning
in the light of your eyes

just thoughts whispered in the sand.

For you ripped apart the law written in your heart
and made for yourself an idol

out of your own desires.

You grew weary and pretended
that everything is alright

closing your mind ever so deeply
to the storm stirring in your heart.

A feeling you can’t loose.
A yearning you can’t ignore.

For you never felt at home in the muck.

Still a small voice that whispers
into your heart:

You were made for more.

A small voice that trembles
through your bones

Tear down all you got.

For you are not the sums
of your failures…

but the sum the Father’ love for you*.

Caleb
GTG

*Authors note: The last two verses are straight from Saint John Paul II 17th World Youth Day homily. A moving exhortation to today’s youth facing what Pope Benedict XVI called the dictatorship of relativism embedded in today’s culture.

The Son (Updated version)

Last week I read an article about the transition from sonship to manhood entitled, In Defense of Gentlemanly Things, published in Those Catholic Men website. There were two lines that really resonated with me:

“We need traditions, because they are the glue between generations.  A boy’s first cigar does not make him a man, but the man that handed it to him might”.

-Jason Craig

I thought it was brilliantly true. As men we like to do things. That is how learned from our fathers and grow in friendship with other men. In every hiking trip, beach outing, skateboarding road-trips there are a myriad of opportunities to impart life long lessons about the virtues without even saying a word about them. We mostly learn through observation. The misattributed quote to St. Francis of Assisi somewhat illustrated this point:

“Preach the Gospel at all times. Use words if necessary”.

-Not St. Francis of Assisi

Properly understood this quote does not relegate preaching the gospel with words to a secondary plane, the words are often utterly necessary, rather what it says, is that actions give the weight to the words. This is especially true in the eyes of a young man. Thinking about my own childhood and all the time with my dad this rings true.

Inspired by this article last week I wrote The Son, a poem about growing up. I rushed it. I thought there was something missing. That line, “A boy’s first cigar does not make him a man, but the man that handed it to him might”, inspired me to write the poem in the first place and yet it wasn’t clear. So here is my second attempt:

The Son (updated)

Men leading their son
to the everlasting hills…

Christening in their hearts
an indelible mark

Of how to be a man!

Rocking oldfangled cigars
racing against time.

In a minute, it will be to late,

for the sun swiftly rises
in young man’s eyes.

In an instant, over time,

along all the miles hiked
models built and stories told

of a bygone time

when men were men
and sanity was sane,

it happen.

The heart met the man.

Hands on courage!

For it is not the cigar nor
whiskey drank,

miles hiked nor models built
that makes the man

but a virtuous life lived
in front of a son’s eyes!

Caleb
GTG

The Son

The Son

Men leading their son
to the everlasting hills…

Christening in their hearts
an indelible mark

Of how to be a man!

Rocking oldfangled cigars
racing against time.

In a minute, it will be to late,

for the sun rises swiftly
in young man’s eyes.

In an instant, over time,

along all the miles hiked
models built and tales told…

of a bygone time,

when men were men
and sanity was sane

it happen.

Hands on courage!

For it is a virtuous life,
lived in front of a son’s eyes,

that makes the man!

Caleb
GTG