A small “musaic” exercise: 
“O come all ye Faithful” in the expression of Anton Bruckner’s opening motif from his Symphony No. 4 (the soundfonts aren’t super great, but that’s my budget)

A poor man might value a penny for how much it’s worth; and a rich man might value a penny for it’s worth.

The call of the wild isn’t a beckon; it is the song in the heart of one who already knows the way home.

(Eulogy – written 2020)

Of all the countries in all the world
Of all earth’s kindred ever sown
Of all the souls God ever pearled
This living stone in our hearts is known.

Hallelujahs came oft to his voice
Glories to God were poised on his lips
From unabashed joy from that perfect choice
Of Faith in Jesus Christ which none can eclipse.

From notches of trees to bended knees
He sought to know the Lord his God
From city trains to country lanes
He rarely walked with feet unshod.

No man-made custom did he well fit
Those norms and mores of society
For he perceived in man’s subtle writ
The empty tomes of notoriety.

He walked with God, there is no doubt
For fruit is known, according to season
And sinners now saints whose hearts do shout
Bring glory to God that only fools dare reason.

David is now walking in heavenly breeze
Singing and smiling to those that he meets
But that compares little to the sights he sees
Millions of mansions through transparent streets.

If we could close our eyes and see him there
To glimpse David’s heavenly mansion fair
We’d see him sliding down bannistered stairs
And swinging from golden rafters there!

A mansion glows like amber sweet
To those who love God through fervent heat
Striving in heart, though marred in each beat
Any vessel like that, in a great house, is meet.

But sweeter still to the tongue discreet
Is but one taste of the goodness of God
For greatest of all, and fully complete
Is salvation free at the foot of the Cross.

The Light of the Lamb through that shimmering city
Adorned and arrayed with manifold graces
Should dazzle our souls to the heart of infinity
For God’s kindness toward us throughout all the ages.

But here we stand still, in this place aside
Amid the stir of life’s daily fold
Recalling the confidence in David’s stride
In knowing there’s a land where we’ll never grow old.

Let not your heart be troubled
Be comforted in his rest
His heavenly reward is blessed
Because he loved the Lord the best.

(mostly written in 2002, completed in 2019)

A little time with you before I have to go
to show you one last time before they lay me low.
How you have made me see,
how much you mean to me,
how you have always been,
my life.

I see my early days playing those silly games
you flash before my eyes in silver picture frames
in ways to make me see
my heart and soul agree
how blind I could still be
my life.

So many die so young and have regret at best
where is that song that’s sung hidden within the breast?
gone is my last moment
faint is your healing scent
my final breath is spent
my life.

I stand betwixt two worlds, hands slipping from your face
your eyes of shining pearls, your gaze a soft embrace
I have not one regret
this little time I’ve spent
with you my heaven-sent
my life.

And as I turn away from where I’ve longed to stay
I see you shining forth, from Him that freely gave
I now by faith ascend
my name in heaven penned
for I believed in Him
in Life

And here I wait for you, beyond all grief and strife
by faith in Jesus Christ, the way, the truth, the life
so never ever doubt
keep listening for that shout
don’t let your light go out
in Life

(written August 2018 for Jeannie’s 40th birthday)

(inside jokes abound. Also not based on that 1960’s TV show)

When I think of Jeannie, I think of someone who screams
while swimming in glacial streams,
one who’s laughter and pity to others brings,
when running around as she sings,
crashing into impossible things,
like little sidewalks amid wide greens.

But today it is we who shall sing,
(hopefully we won’t run into anything),
of another successful year
of Jeannie’s undying cheer,
like a happy tune without a tear
(save that of love for one so dear).

Though her year now be the big 4-O,
she still makes lots and lots of dough,
and many cakes that warmly glow,
(and in the tummies of those who know)
confectionarily so.

But the year 40 is known
to some as a blow,
as a fell year to know,
a year when the roses grow a little lower,
when the Olfactory senses are a little slower,
when seasonal allergies prevail extremely,
bringing on sneezes that seem unseemly.

Yet she still troubles to smell those roses,
despite the difficulty of stuffy noses,
for smelling roses has not lost its fun
(besides, it does take one to known one).
But then many things will make her sneeze,
it’s just one of many Jeannie–syncrasies.

But there is nothing idiosyncratic
about travelling to places exotic,
whether ancient European castle halls,
or really ridiculous Chinese walls.  
Ah, there are so many things to mention,
in order to put on her undo attention.

But I thought I’d stick with the easy ones,
like what happens when she sings and runs,
or when she smells things that she sees,
convincing friends to eat weird leaves,
or how she taught her siblings a silly song,
“Camptown restaurant, five miles long”.

And though there are accidents on mountain bikes,
and awkward moments on alpine hikes,
and moments where with hand on hip,
she squints at the horizon with finger on lip,
and quips, as she heaves a heavenly sigh,
“Ours is not to question why, ours is but to do or die”…

But I’m sure by now you’ve all thought 
of many more stories than I’ve got,
and so I invite you one and all,
to please, speak and enthrall,
with many more stories that you know,
(which she’d wish our memories would let go),

…but that’s the Jeannie we all know,
and the one whom we all love so.

-JHJ

(written 2007)

A weary outcast looks for rest from the long race to belong,
And a lonely mute seeks to hold the warm hand of a song,
A wandering crowd looks in vain for a companion glance,
And Luck appears to be lost, searching for another chance.

Knowing where they’ve been, they’re not afraid of fear,
save that the ability to care enough might never again be clear.
And so broken voices cry aloud unaware of any pretense,
for the insignificance that lives within is never less immense.

A heavy minute lends itself to the sounds of empty sighs,
And silent hearts intensely weep in the deep of their night skies.
Knees break down upon hard lands for they are ever falling short,
And yet they’ll gladly bleed for the heavy souls that they support.

Then Time and Chance pass by and sigh on silver chimes,
And they slowly stand and look behind for the last of many times.
For time is change and change is truth, and truth helps us to see,
That if the page is fully writ, then the pen is fully free.

(written 2006)

Having sojourned a little among the thoughts and stories of individuals, I find myself studying with some semblance of seriousness the inner workings of the pathos contained within complex beings, who, at the end of a day’s pilgrimage of goals, longs only for that unqualified but priceless value which no standard of credential dare touch, the straightforward and plain embrace of simplicity.

Life philosophies that have aged are like old senile dogs, who were in days past boundless with the fire of youth living for complexity, but now in their old age, they simply run in circles chasing their own tails…a tell-tale (pun intended) sign that the worn out grooves of the mind have at last discovered something worth chasing; the simple leverage that was behind them the whole time.

Simplicity is often just that, patiently waiting for you to stop looking for it. It is when you finally do curl up in the pose of simply being that simplicity is then most often found, like a tail, employed in its most comforting use, covering a canine nose against the cold bitter winds of life.

Senility or no senility, simplicity embodies the same charm that we look for in distraction (distraction being the so-called antidote against the often self-imposed chains of the mundane). The only difference is that simplicity is much more valuable and has much more longevity than distraction.

Simplicity holds the charm of love, if one can only find simplicity in love (and one can!).
Simplicity holds the value of mercy, if one could truly forgive and forget (and you can!).
Simplicity holds one’s hand for no other reason than to communicate quietly, if one would only remain silent long enough to listen to the touch instead of speaking a clumsy word.
Simplicity is the clarity of contentedness, without worry, doubt, or desire.
Simplicity is the warmth within those thankful tears that fill the cracks in our souls.

-JHJ

(to be read with a Mark Twain-esque accent)

(written spontaneously 2006)

Walking along life’s road one day, I saw with southern eyes, the pebbles upon the path ahead that had fallen from the crags above. And from those pebbles I divined a thought which I entrusted to myself, to keep, with no little sincerity, in the poke of my own personal perspective.

Jingling with certainty was change that had occurred, broken by the bargains of life into less though fancy forms, and having gathered in deft piles in the corners of my pockets, they played games with my fingers as I trudged amongst the pebbles.

Now, beyond the further pebbles, preceding the jingling change, were the listening ears of jolly robbers hiding by roadside graves. As I came upon the bend with thoughts intensely thinking, I paused to order them, amid the scattered pebbles. Like dewdrops upon a flowers petal, they burned upon my inner thought like a dancing glance of metal. And then (but not long after before) I felt the cool of steel upon my skin, and a thin unseen voice said “We mean not to harm you, but you can assume we will.”

My hands gave up their thinking, and as I lifted them aloft, I sensed the slithery slide of deepest thoughts being thumbed from my personal poke of perspective. Now this was a moment that called for the unexpected. So I began to dance the slow dance of the disordered thoughts that I had seen among the pebbles. At first the silence, though not too much loud, became quite loud enough indeed, and then by increments, a laugher began to grow. The laughter was mine, as I danced the dance of the insane, and reaching amid the mirth I made, I felt an unseen thread…it was the thread of another thought! Then the laughter stopped.

“How can this be?” said the robber of my thoughts. “How can you be completely robbed and yet still have more thoughts?” To which I replied with a wily smile, “Why, you silly, you must to poke your head with a stick in order to get new thoughts, and if you’re really feeling lucky, you can try the trigger.”

“Reeeeally?” said the silly crook, as the glint of greed danced in his eyes. But as he put the stick to his head and curled his finger round, I turned with wide-eyed sincerity and told him please to “Stop!”

He looked at me with a sudden start, understanding just then, that I had his life saved. Then with a sly grin he realized he had been sadly outsmarted. So I calmly took his gun and gave it back to him, and then told him that when thoughts become intents, those thoughts become intense, and when those thoughts have tense, they can even have pretense. I then whispered in his ear and told him the secret to creating new thoughts.

Now the thoughtless robber of my thoughts, lives like a thoughtful king, successful in the poke of his own personal perspective and safe from the stick of stupidity, content with the secret that a wanderer once danced out, as he walked along upon life’s road one day, amongst the fallen pebbles.

-JHJ

(written 2005)

Stoop but do not pity,
when you offer your hand.
Be an angel in this city,
like a diamond in the sand.

Stoop but do not fall
when your hand is taken
the pull will not be small
in those that were forsaken.

Stoop but do not kneel
for someone needs to stand
to stand and yet reveal
the will to understand.

Stoop but do not doubt
for the fallen understands
Stoop for those without
who have no legs or hands.

To stoop is to be revealing
of your care for those who lie
those who have lost all feeling
who neither stand, nor kneel, nor die.

So stoop but do not pity
be a lucky star and try
to give in this hollow city,
some one a bedtime sigh.

-JHJ

(written 2003)

Kick my brain in the britches
poke it till it itches
humor it to stitches
entice it with riches
scare it with witches
toss it in ditches
whip it with switches
point out it’s glitches
but watch out when it twitches.

Yes ladies and (presumably) gentlemen, for your pleasuuurre, for your entertainment, for your utter indifference, I give you Brain Fart 5.0!

Yes Brain Fart 5.0 is the latest in a long series of Brain Fart’s. Ever since the inception of Brain Fart mankind has taken an active interest in the development of this superb program. It has only recently received wide acclaim and attention and has truly become a global phenomenon ever since Brain Fart 4.9, which discovered that the truly original Brain Fart existed long before the 4000BC version.  Some refer to this quite precolumbian version of the prolific software as “prehistoric”, but we know better.

Due to historical records, we are aware of a big crash. What we do not know for certain is which of the previous 746,367,951 years did it happen in? If our calculations are correct, we think it was year 3. What we do not understand as of yet is how such a surprisingly sophisticated Brain Fart Software could possibly exist for such an early time.

We speculate that perhaps the inception of the original Brain Fart program was a specifically timed improbable illogicality, and therefore came into being by pure chance! This we find amazingly inaccurate according to our calculations and therefore conjecture that early Brain Fart programs evolved with the help of early intelligence, and that the anonymous early intelligence soon surpassed the software’s own limited capabilities and therefore improved upon it. Thus it has been a slow process of upgrades until very recently where we noticed a sudden change in Brain Fart production. This we deem as proof that the early intelligence may have been much greater than we had originally thought. This has truly been a breakthrough in understanding the early Brain Fart systems, which have shown gradual changes over hundreds of millions of years. We cannot say which of the years were specifically affected, but we think that if arbitrary brain farts can occur, then we should be able to give or take a few million years and still be pretty accurate. After all, Brain Fart evolution is such an exact science that we must take millions of years to study it. So we must have patience. Twix anyone?

-JHJ

(written 2005)

Inquiring minds want to know
What lies beneath the fallen snow.
Not just heavy hearts or happy smiles,
Or cold footprints filling empty miles,
Or tight stretched hopes and worn out dreams,
Or frayed loose ends and breaking seams.
But under a winter’s warm comfort
Is a peaceful timeless summer resort.
A place to escape inquiring minds,
where you can just go and open the blinds,
So you can search your heart and inner soul,
Where you can ease your mind and lose control,
As you stand there in the calming glow,
That comes to you through fallen snow.

-JHJ

(written 2004)

Zephyrus touches of autumn caress this dwindling August land,
and her old refrains ring down the lanes of a long lost lovely strand.
Colored leaves adorn the trees and fall with flickering sounds
while birds descry the parting tide and make their duskly rounds.

Tears are what her cold wind brings, yet warm are the falling drops,
and like a homesick wanderer, she calls, and she never stops.
I walk along at the water’s edge and listen as she blows,
feeling her breath along my neck as she softly flows.

The inlets and bays invade the land and linger in long shades
and the rustlings of furry creatures resonate in the nearby glades.
Zephyrus touches of autumn caress my homesick memory
and in this music I linger still, ‘tis natures great conservatory.

(written 2004)

Waking, I stretch. Shaking, I tighten.
The ropes and bolts of my body twist.
My toes curl, my limbs extend,
the loose knots in the sheets harden,
and my fresh frame tests it’s tensil.
I then relax, lay back and go to sleep,
just to do it all over again.

-JHJ

(written 2003)

Times ago and in warm nights above
I remember the soft cooings of the doves
and times beyond tender nights ahead
I have rested so restless upon my bed.
Time and time, and again and again
I have wandered alone the empty lane
the loose gray gravel softly crying out
”Cease and desist thy sad footsteps of doubt.”

Times ago and in dark nights above
I had heard the wooings of perfect love
And times beyond those lost nights ahead
I have slept a little while my torn heart bled
Time and time, and again and again
I have woken to the wail of the slow night train
And heard the wisdom of the old engineers
“Life’s a long road of pressure and tears.”

Times ago and in black nights inside
I have called upon my faith and loudly cried
And in places beyond those inside spaces
I have tried to make sense of God’s graces
Time and time, and again and again
I have cried alone in the driving rain
only to hear the pattering world proclaim
“You’re a miracle born of joy and pain.”

Times ahead and in bright days beyond
I will still believe in a perfect song
And in ways beyond this wisdom learned
love is a choice I will have earned
Time and time, and again and again
I will always seek out the good in pain
And further prove the words once penned
“Faithful are the wounds of a friend.”

(written 2003)

Resilience resides deep beneath the frailty of resolve,
Dissolving only occasionally to keep itself from breaking.
But from the stubborn jaw that’s set, never to exolve,
Comes a tremble to the lips, that shows the heart is aching.

Many years will come this way, where those (who care) must live,
Alone in the comforting truth, that Truth will someday ring.
And that is why they keep their phones, and that is why they give
Themselves as much time as they need, to mend their broken wing.

And during the time that’s taken, to keep themselves from breaking,
They strengthen and involve themselves in understanding hate.
For all things have their own virtue, even hate that’s in the making,
For in understanding the ways of hate, one can correctly relate.

But when the phone starts ringing and your time starts getting thin,
and there’s tons of people at your house, hanging out in your private den,
Don’t be afraid of the sky above, or of dancing in the rain,
For then you’ll be ready to open up, and for the beginning to begin, again.

-JHJ 

(written 2003)

What is that look in their eyes,
 the look that comes at “goodbye.” 
The look that says “Until when?” 
Instead of “then.” 

What is that stance they take, 
the one that fears a handshake, 
the stance that says “Don’t touch, 
I like you too much”? 

What is that feeling you get, 
when your caught in that net, 
struggling to find a way out, 
because you doubt? 

What is that feeling you feel, 
in that appealing appeal, 
over-flowing the flowing bowl, 
and losing control of control? 

The ageless treasure lost in time, 
no gypsy chord can reason or rhyme; 
it is the sigh of soft content, 
in an old picture or a soft accent. 

And only then is it briefly seen, 
like a distant phosphorescent gleam; 
written by the whispered pen, 
saying “until then” instead of “when.”

-JHJ

(written 2002)

Praise the Lord that Brad has flown,
flown from here unto his heavenly home.
Flying high on heavenly wing,
past ways and galaxies that brightly gleam,
through waters deep and incandescent,
gleaming heights so phosphorescent.
From the dark depths of night,
to yet brighter shades of light,
flying in angelic first class,
o’er the emerald amber Sea Of Glass,
and having only heard the story,
about the entrance of Glory,
and having only sung before,
about that glorious shining shore,
Brad’s whole and raptured sight
is now filled with Jesus’ light,
The One who cried on Calvary,
the One who died to set Brad free,
The One who suffered eternity,
to pay the sin price for you and me,
For both Jew and Greek he suffered shame,
while the world mocked his Holy name,
But now above He lives,
the mediator between God and man He is,
for any wandering sinner,
who wants to become a winner.
And so my friends with us rejoice,
to know that Brad once made that choice.
Now recently he has graced the heavenly gates so blue,
this November Twentieth, 2002.
A man of grace, who was saved by grace,
has now reached his final resting place.
Once a sinner, but no longer lost,
is our dear brother, Brad La’Coste.

(written 2001)

Throbbing with acoustic resonance,
are the broken chords of my heart,
dissembled to make some sense
are each of their triad parts.
Blurry and tan are my moving fingers
eluding my sleepless eyes
while this dream plays on and lingers
in this music of the night.

And what of this sundry pattern
that repeats not ever alike
inspired by lights from a lantern
and by old thoughts that I too like.
Memorized and agonized are they
in a sincere and proper mood
arranged by my hands today
a music so soft and nude.

As an imprint of a bright dewdrop
upon a flower’s petal
it burns upon the inner thought
like a dancing glance of metal.
It is the smile of choice that folds
upon every page and leaf
within the albums of the sincere soul,
and fills with a love for peace.

-JHJ

(written 1999)

Is life so important from the day we are born,
that we strive ever onward to at last die forlorn?
We throw out youth for responsibility,
and forsake childhood for maturity
and ever are we sad and longing to go
back to the good ol’ days of long ago.

Is life so important every day we live
that we spend every moment and do not give,
a moment to assess what it costs to live
in a ruthelss world that does not forgive?
For ever are we sad for we cannot pay
the cost of the living that we spent today.

To live is important we all can agree
but how to live properly we strive to see
for we are blinded as the years go flying by
blinded by that empty tear in our eye
“Hurry up and live” the world cries aloud.
“Hurry up and live” murmurs the crowd.

So on we live, so fast, so loud!
Like thunder as it rolls from cloud to cloud,
ignoring the rain as it falls from on high
swiftly falling in a darkening sky
To be the thunder that shakes the bone
is the very thunder that cries alone.

There is a rush that we all live for
the timeless speed that bars the door
the door of our lives to keep time out
the time of our lives that eventually runs out
To live in a timeless moment is what kills
the very moment of time that our life fills.

For time cannot be caught when it is gone
it cannot be bought, it cannot be pawned
it cannot be spent on credit card
and be paid off by working so hard
For our days are few and are beyond price
so redeem them through the blood of Jesus Christ.

-JHJ

(written 1999)

Words of thought like rivulets flow
filling streams with melted snow
Their lively pace then slows down
becoming deeper, withholding sound
But some thoughts evaporate into the air
becoming distant clouds so fair.
Then things change and they darken
thunder rolls and humans hearken,
and then the rain falls hard or soft
pattering the roof above your loft.
And as you listen to its sound
worlds of thought can then be found.
For falling rain speaks of many things;
of destiny and death, and thoughtful kings;
of life and love, and diamond rings.
And as the rain runs to the stream,
it reflects the Galaxy’s distant gleam,
capturing incredible stories to speak,
in babbling brooks by your favorite creek.
And then from there it flows again,
past mountains, forests, and hidden glens,
through old lives under burned bridges,
past empty lands beneath high ridges,
and onward through the lands below
words of thought forever flow
down into a great vast sea
where they can rest and forever be free.

-JHJ

(written 1999)

It’s just another cloudy day,
and it begs me come outside to play.
Water giggles on the window pane,
as I tease the happy falling rain.

It’s just another cloudy day,
a cheerful smile all filled with grey.
Splashes in the silver pools,
laugh at the passing cars of fools.

The sound of clean air fills my mind,
and the feeling left is very kind.
I smile and feel the cheer as well,
cloudy days are just so swell.

-JHJ

(written 1999)

It swiftly falls in a darkening sky.
It hides in the corner of your wandering eye.
It softly babbles in your listening ear.
But breathing it in is your greatest fear.

It makes the sunlight too bright to bear.
It soothes the burned skin that you carefully wear.
It always tells the sadness in a heavy tear.
But it never leaves you alone on an empty pier.

-JHJ

(written 1994)

In a distant land called “never been there”,
I found myself in a land so fair.
I was sitting there, there in the grass,
kissing, hand in hand, with a lass.
The land of “never been there” my friends,
is a quiet place of lakes and glens,
a place where secret gardens lie,
in the apple of the forest’s eye.
A place of quiet babbling brooks,
that say words not found in books.
Words of thought and boundless charm,
that come to you, when arm in arm,
walking down a pathway small,
with the one you love, the one in all,
who charms you most with eyes so bright
who holds you close with arms so tight,
on April morn and August night,
whispering under stars so bright,
the words, above all in this land so fair,
of true love, in the land of “never been there.”

-JHJ

(written 1994)

I’m sitting here thinking of you,
as daylight starts to wane,
I’m sipping a cup of warm tea brew,
looking through the pane.

I remember well the good ol’ times,
we’d sit around the floor,
ignoring the early morning chimes.
playing games till half past four.

Childhood! Childhood! how soon you left!
leaving us to life,
if only we could be age bereft
and to not know any strife.

But alas the only youth we have with us,
are memories we hold dear,
dusting off our mental opus,
listening with inner ear.

Childhood! Childhood! how we once were rife,
but too soon did you die!
leaving us with hope and life,
still burning in our eye!

We were not made to die so young,
to have regret at best,
but to have lived a life that’s sung,
a symphony within our breast.

But there is one thing that’s true,
our childhood is where God gives,
always in our memories to pursue,
the childhood that forever lives.

-JHJ

(words and corresponding music written 1993)

Tears in the eyes, O how they brim and fall.
The sky, O how it swims and calls.
Maybe an unseen star,
sings a song to me,
pulling me from afar,
to the music of Thee.

-JHJ

(written 1992)

I must quick away,
ere yet I ever stay,
while nearer creeps the day,
and nightness runs away.

I must away oh so soon,
for to sleep in my night cocoon,
so that tomorrow I may not swoon,
while working tired like a goon.

So off I am, yes yet again,
gosh! it`s already 65 past ten!
off to get that old cure of men,
that sleep to last, to last till then.

But when is then? I cannot say,
but I will know when tomorrow is today.
and so to the hay I will make my way,
to sleep ’til alarms disturb my stay.

“And they`re off!” as they say in the races.
So am I also to dream of chases,
chases of dreams not in real life places,
but only where rest is hidden in quiet cases.

-JHJ