About randamir

I pastor Grace Presbyterian Church in Kernersville, North Carolina which locals fondly refer to as K-vegas -- the town not the church. As D.T. Niles once said, "I am not important except to God."

Movement

When you wait for movement,
When you stand on your toes
And stretch your neck and squint
To see the horizon,
To see that for which you had hoped,
The peristalsis of time slows
To a crawl and sleeps
Or at best slips and slogs
Like a slug along the sidewalk.

Time, like an old man bent
Under the weight and burden
Of age and waiting and hope again,
Again deferred,
Shuffles and schleps
With that for which we long
Like he’s carrying lead
From bathroom to sink,
To recliner, and back to bed
To doze in dreamless sleeps
Through grey days
And moonless nights
As we wait.

© Randall Edwards 2021.

A Poem for Your Pocket

I learned from a friend that April 29 is Poem in Your Pocket Day. So, Dennie, here’s a poem for your pocket.

You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

I need a poem for my pocket
One that I can take with me
One that turns into a rocket
Shoots me up and out and free.

One that lifts my eyes to heaven
Enables me to see
Words that work in me like leaven
Or root me like a tree

My pocket holds an iPhone
Some change and several keys
But my pocket needs a poem
To put my mind at ease

So here’s a poem for your pocket
One to take where’er you go
A promise in a locket
A promise you should know.

His word is written in you
Is seed a Sower’s sown
It spouts and grows within you
Till you become a poem
That sings His Hallelujah
Or weeps in sad lament
Leaves speechless in the awe
Of the gospel-Word He’s sent

Like a poem in the pocket
Of His waistcoat near His breast
You’re sealed in the locket
Of His love, near his heart, and blessed.

© Randall Edwards 2021

Time’s Fullness

A sonnet for Palm Sunday. You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

Time's Fullness has comes to Jerusalem
Rocking a city who wave palms, give praise;
Cry, “Son of David!" shout in unison.
“Behold our king! To you Hosannas raise!”

This sudden coming, to show his power
On a donkey's colt, bearing salvation;
No longer secret, at last the hour
To save, redeem, vindicate the nation.

Now is fullness; full of expectation.
Rumor become real, promise become plan;
"Our enemies kneel! "See revelation!
Behold our king! Exalt this Son of Man."

Who could reject, not welcome his renown?
Who seeing, disown? Deny him his crown?

© Randall Edwards 2021.

artwork: abstract tapestry weaving by Jennifer Edwards. http://www.jenniferedwards.com

All Leave

A poem about being left and leaving.

You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

They all leave. Every single, last thing, leaves 
And goes away til there is nothing left;
All are consigned to one life and then, death.

All of us, all of them, from the first cry,
Are counting down till their last, labored breath
When they shall stop breathing and die.

And every leaving leaves me feeling left—
Leaves me burning with the sting of death
Empties my hands, leaves me bereft.

And to whom shall I leave what I have left—
The things for which I have paid for in sweat?
Who shall take it after my own death?

They all go; it all goes over time;
Whether they leave in trickles or at once
Leaving won’t stop till it has the last dime.

And here Truth shines for me to see
The fleetingness of my mortality:
That day by day the one leaving is me.

© Randall Edwards 2021

Your Hand

This poem draws its inspiration from Psalm 139. You may listen to me read the poem via the

player below.

 Even there your hand,
 The hand which you stretched out to deliver me,
 The hand by which you led your people through the sea
 And with which you take our hand
 And as a shepherd lead,
 That hand is the same hand 
 With which you took hers
 As she lay upon her bed
 Even though her father’s friends had said,
 ‘It’s no use, she’s already dead.’
 But you clasped her hand in yours,
 And without an audience, behind closed doors,
 You tenderly tugged and said,
 ‘Sweetie, time to get up’
 As if it were just another morning.

 Those hands are the hands with which
 You wiped your own tears as you wept 
 At your friend’s tomb 
 Though you said he only slept.

 And with those hands, you took the beam
 And with them carried it through the din
 Of Jerusalem’s cries and shouts
 And bore with it the weight of my sin;
 To that wood, they nailed
 Your hand even as they mocked and hailed
 You King of the Jews,
 And in your exaltation
 Said your kingdom had failed.

 And with your hand which you raised to you mouth
 You called the disciples from the shore
 You hailed them with a shout
 To cast our nets on the other side
 Of the boat.

 That hand beckoned Peter again from the sea
 And asked again whether of fish or men
 Would he rather a fisher be,
 Entreating three times,
 And through Peter ask me,
 Do you love me?
 Do you love me?
 Do you love me?
 More than these?

 That hand is the hand by which 
 You take mine in hand
 Whether I ascend to heaven, 
 Mount on wings,
 Or make my bed in the grave 
 With those who have died;
 Whether I dwell in the utmost part of the sea
 Even there your hand shall guide,
 Your hand shall take,
 Your right hand lead
 And hold 
 Me.
 

 © Randall Edwards 2021