POETRY
THE DEMISE of THE GILT DRAGON
Geraniums & Pelargoniums Rex Woodmore
Planted Path by Rex Woodmore
A poor lady on the street.
Once she was pretty, life was sweet.
Now all she has is her sweet dreams.
These are her thoughts,( or so it seems ).
Oh! to own a little home. To own a garden too
With Geraniums & Pelargoniums & garden gnome or two.
Red roses, perfumed, beside the path Firewood stacked against the wall
With Geraniums & Pelargoniums On a table in the hall.
A clock ticking on the mantelpiece. A lacy curtained window
With Geraniums & Pelargoniums. Where I can see them grow.
But here am I Always tramping, blisters on my feet
With Geraniums & Pelargoniums Growing in gardens along the street.
One day I will have my home My own little plot of ground
With Geraniums & Pelargoniums, a headstone & a mound.
Once she was pretty, life was sweet.
Now all she has is her sweet dreams.
These are her thoughts,( or so it seems ).
Oh! to own a little home. To own a garden too
With Geraniums & Pelargoniums & garden gnome or two.
Red roses, perfumed, beside the path Firewood stacked against the wall
With Geraniums & Pelargoniums On a table in the hall.
A clock ticking on the mantelpiece. A lacy curtained window
With Geraniums & Pelargoniums. Where I can see them grow.
But here am I Always tramping, blisters on my feet
With Geraniums & Pelargoniums Growing in gardens along the street.
One day I will have my home My own little plot of ground
With Geraniums & Pelargoniums, a headstone & a mound.
Love never fails -The Greatest Gift Bible 1 Corinthians 13
Communion. Bread & Wine
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.
And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.
And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned,
but have not love, it profits me nothing.
Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy;
love does not parade itself, is not puffed up;
does not behave rudely, does not seek its own,
is not provoked, thinks no evil;
does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth;
bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never fails. But whether there are prophecies, they will fail; whether there are tongues, they will cease; whetherthere is knowledge, it will vanish away.For we know in part and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect has come, then that which is in part will be done away.
When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.
And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
Who would have thought, I would survive this long?
I’ve taken so many risks, and I’ve done so much wrong.
Those, who knew me in the past, very well,
Could embarrass me with stories, they might tell
And yet, here today, forgiven I stand
Held by grace in my, loving Lord’s hand Eventually I will die, but I know not when
But for now, I am blessed, with Three score & ten.
When I go, I know where I’m going, & who I will see
For I have faith, and believe what my God, tells me
My belief, is not a dead end, in an empty space
I believe, where I go, there is the glory of my Saviour’s face
I didn’t always, understand what I now know is true
Mysteries that are understood by only a blessed few
I’m not boasting about anything special in me
Only what God has done, in changing me
I’m no handy-man; ask my wife if it’s true
There are lots of simple things, I just can’t do
And I suppose, viewed through some people’s eyes,
There are those, who would say “He never tries!”
There are many things, I just don’t understand.
Yet God has done wonders, with this simple man
God has touched my mind & touched my heart
Through His wondrous Creation, He taught me art
As a schoolboy my lessons were never learned
And yet truth and knowledge, I always yearned
There were those who said “He’s not very bright’’
But perhaps the time………. was not quite right
As a boy had I learned to embrace the wisdom of man
It may have hindered, what for me, God had planned.
I know I am far from perfection. It’s a cliche, so they say
‘I’m a work in progress, but I’ll get there someday
I’ve taken so many risks, and I’ve done so much wrong.
Those, who knew me in the past, very well,
Could embarrass me with stories, they might tell
And yet, here today, forgiven I stand
Held by grace in my, loving Lord’s hand Eventually I will die, but I know not when
But for now, I am blessed, with Three score & ten.
When I go, I know where I’m going, & who I will see
For I have faith, and believe what my God, tells me
My belief, is not a dead end, in an empty space
I believe, where I go, there is the glory of my Saviour’s face
I didn’t always, understand what I now know is true
Mysteries that are understood by only a blessed few
I’m not boasting about anything special in me
Only what God has done, in changing me
I’m no handy-man; ask my wife if it’s true
There are lots of simple things, I just can’t do
And I suppose, viewed through some people’s eyes,
There are those, who would say “He never tries!”
There are many things, I just don’t understand.
Yet God has done wonders, with this simple man
God has touched my mind & touched my heart
Through His wondrous Creation, He taught me art
As a schoolboy my lessons were never learned
And yet truth and knowledge, I always yearned
There were those who said “He’s not very bright’’
But perhaps the time………. was not quite right
As a boy had I learned to embrace the wisdom of man
It may have hindered, what for me, God had planned.
I know I am far from perfection. It’s a cliche, so they say
‘I’m a work in progress, but I’ll get there someday
THE POET’S PILGRIMAGE REX WOODMORE
By Rex Woodmore
I find inspiration for rhyme can come at almost anytime.
A gift?
Or perhaps a quirk, but whatever, a poem always lurks.
Working, or taking my time, my thoughts are often in rhyme.
I pick up a pen & words I put down, on paper, plain, lined or brown.
Scribbled memories, thoughts, ideas, some with laughter, some, with tears.
I used to write what I perceived, as spiritual things, dreams, crystals & angels wings.
With ‘New Age’ notions & alcoholic potions clouding my mind, I wined & dined.
Craving answers, I turned to the East , but discovered, ‘tis the way of ‘The Beast’.
Meditation & myths of monks & their kind, kept me from truth & kept me blind
I found monks kind, I thought them wise, but all I was taught was someone’s lies
Monks speak of many paths, but where was mine?
It was ‘the blind leading the blind’ The path of the lost & no truth to find,
yet eternity was written - contract not signed.
I’m sure the angels witnessed, with a laugh “He tried to plan his own path.
But he is only a fallible, mortal man. He can not bend our Master’s plan”.
Then a lady, an acquaintance, who told no lies, quoted me biblical words, so wise.
With help from this lady, my Christian guide, a glimpse of the path, of truth I spied.
Today no longer in darkness, I walk in light. The Spirit within, has granted me sight.
And I am blessed by The Great Might, to be on this path that I know, is so right.
Now my inspiration is from God above and I’m able to write, with authority, on love
For I am twice blessed - born again to new life with my guide by my side, as my wife.
I find inspiration for rhyme can come at almost anytime.
A gift?
Or perhaps a quirk, but whatever, a poem always lurks.
Working, or taking my time, my thoughts are often in rhyme.
I pick up a pen & words I put down, on paper, plain, lined or brown.
Scribbled memories, thoughts, ideas, some with laughter, some, with tears.
I used to write what I perceived, as spiritual things, dreams, crystals & angels wings.
With ‘New Age’ notions & alcoholic potions clouding my mind, I wined & dined.
Craving answers, I turned to the East , but discovered, ‘tis the way of ‘The Beast’.
Meditation & myths of monks & their kind, kept me from truth & kept me blind
I found monks kind, I thought them wise, but all I was taught was someone’s lies
Monks speak of many paths, but where was mine?
It was ‘the blind leading the blind’ The path of the lost & no truth to find,
yet eternity was written - contract not signed.
I’m sure the angels witnessed, with a laugh “He tried to plan his own path.
But he is only a fallible, mortal man. He can not bend our Master’s plan”.
Then a lady, an acquaintance, who told no lies, quoted me biblical words, so wise.
With help from this lady, my Christian guide, a glimpse of the path, of truth I spied.
Today no longer in darkness, I walk in light. The Spirit within, has granted me sight.
And I am blessed by The Great Might, to be on this path that I know, is so right.
Now my inspiration is from God above and I’m able to write, with authority, on love
For I am twice blessed - born again to new life with my guide by my side, as my wife.
No more Demons in Van Diemen’s Land Rex Woodmore
Yes he was guilty he did the crime
For that guilt he did the time.
He deserved it, (this he doesn't deny),
He said “I deserve to die”
But was it fate that lent a hand?
Instead of dying, sent to Van Diemen’s Land
Far, far across the open sea.
His companions, all rogues & thieves
Demons, murderers, (but none worse than he),
Some sick, faint or diseased.
Many lost, with hearts that failed,
On those seas that now, many have sailed.
He’d led a life of ill-gotten gains
A path into strife & now these chains.
He worked in irons, his clothes were rotten.
He cried to God, (whom he had forgotten).
Many a tale he could tell of boot, whip & rod,
For he walked where the ‘now dead’ once trod.
He was to his captors what they wanted him to be.
He earned a pardon that set him free.
He cleared & fenced & cropped the land
He paid his taxes on demand.
He built a house, a stable. A store,
A shop, a tavern, a hall & more.
He built a town, with school & worship place.
He employed & paid a teacher, a doctor, nurse & preacher.
On Sunday he would listen to that Godly man,
Preaching from his pulpit stand.
With no robes, no statues. Just his bible in hand
His sincerity, respect, would demand.
Hearing this teaching, from the holy word,
Was something our man had not before heard.
As he listened, at peace, a change began.
It dawned on him God’s grace he could understand.
‘Twas not fate that brought him to Van Diemen ’s Land
‘Twas God’s sovereign plan & mighty hand.
100 years later on his tombstone we see:
'Now as you read this on my slab of marble
At our Lord's Love & grace, you can marvel!
For now, I am a free man, I'm truly free!
I'm in the Glory & free for Eternity.
For that guilt he did the time.
He deserved it, (this he doesn't deny),
He said “I deserve to die”
But was it fate that lent a hand?
Instead of dying, sent to Van Diemen’s Land
Far, far across the open sea.
His companions, all rogues & thieves
Demons, murderers, (but none worse than he),
Some sick, faint or diseased.
Many lost, with hearts that failed,
On those seas that now, many have sailed.
He’d led a life of ill-gotten gains
A path into strife & now these chains.
He worked in irons, his clothes were rotten.
He cried to God, (whom he had forgotten).
Many a tale he could tell of boot, whip & rod,
For he walked where the ‘now dead’ once trod.
He was to his captors what they wanted him to be.
He earned a pardon that set him free.
He cleared & fenced & cropped the land
He paid his taxes on demand.
He built a house, a stable. A store,
A shop, a tavern, a hall & more.
He built a town, with school & worship place.
He employed & paid a teacher, a doctor, nurse & preacher.
On Sunday he would listen to that Godly man,
Preaching from his pulpit stand.
With no robes, no statues. Just his bible in hand
His sincerity, respect, would demand.
Hearing this teaching, from the holy word,
Was something our man had not before heard.
As he listened, at peace, a change began.
It dawned on him God’s grace he could understand.
‘Twas not fate that brought him to Van Diemen ’s Land
‘Twas God’s sovereign plan & mighty hand.
100 years later on his tombstone we see:
'Now as you read this on my slab of marble
At our Lord's Love & grace, you can marvel!
For now, I am a free man, I'm truly free!
I'm in the Glory & free for Eternity.
About Van Diemen's Land
Tasmania, a State of Australia. Originally the island of Tasmania was named Van Diemen's Land. It was the primary penal colony of Australia. In 1856 Van Diemen's Land was renamed Tasmania in honour of Abel Tasman. The last penal settlement in Tasmania at Port Arthur finally closed in 1877.
THE MAN AT THE DOOR by Rex Woodmore
A TRIBUTE TO ALLAN JORDAN MY LATE FATHER-IN-LAW
What happened.. to the man at the door?
We miss him.. & don’t see him here anymore ?
The man at the door was... a lovely old bloke
Always jovial and quick with a joke.
Every Sunday... he’d greet us with a smile.
He hasn’t been at a meeting... For.. quite awhile
Yes...many will miss the man at the door
That wonderful man.. who was here before.
A bloke could expect to be welcomed.. like a long lost mate
With a sincere greeting... & a firm.. hand shake.
And he always was... such a gentleman to the ladies
And so caring... towards children & babies.
….Alan Jordan.. was the man at the door.
Sadly... he’s gone...but will suffer.. no more.
At last our brother, we called ‘The Man At The Door’
Has been called home by our Lord who says “I am the door..
If anyone enters by Me, he will be saved ” (John 10:9)
So…today….let us be grateful & offer our praise.
At the same time as sharing our grief & sadness
We celebrate.. Alan’s ‘Graduation to Glory’ ...with gladness.
He is with the Lord... so we should have no complaints
For " Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints".
(Ps. 116:15)
By Rex Woodmore 11 April 2007
What happened.. to the man at the door?
We miss him.. & don’t see him here anymore ?
The man at the door was... a lovely old bloke
Always jovial and quick with a joke.
Every Sunday... he’d greet us with a smile.
He hasn’t been at a meeting... For.. quite awhile
Yes...many will miss the man at the door
That wonderful man.. who was here before.
A bloke could expect to be welcomed.. like a long lost mate
With a sincere greeting... & a firm.. hand shake.
And he always was... such a gentleman to the ladies
And so caring... towards children & babies.
….Alan Jordan.. was the man at the door.
Sadly... he’s gone...but will suffer.. no more.
At last our brother, we called ‘The Man At The Door’
Has been called home by our Lord who says “I am the door..
If anyone enters by Me, he will be saved ” (John 10:9)
So…today….let us be grateful & offer our praise.
At the same time as sharing our grief & sadness
We celebrate.. Alan’s ‘Graduation to Glory’ ...with gladness.
He is with the Lord... so we should have no complaints
For " Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints".
(Ps. 116:15)
By Rex Woodmore 11 April 2007
THE WISE GARDEN GNOME Rex Woodmore
Little old man in an old folk’s home,
Sitting around like a garden gnome. He’s had his breakfast, high fibre & tea He’s read the morning papers obituaries. On his cushioned chair of cane He sits in sun with his arthritic pain Under the gum trees he rests for hours Admiring Wattle & Banksia flowers. His family visit on special occasions When they are not busy with their vocations (To him it is an occasion when they visit If they don't, then he'll miss it. ) He closes his eyes, with thoughts of the past Remembering an incident, he smiles then laughs. “That beautiful wife of mine, was a lovely Lady I look forward to seeing her in heaven. Soon maybe. “Poor old man” said nurse “talking to yourself again. How’s the arthritis today, worse..., more pain? “I’m OK thanks. But please don’t fuss over me nurse Look after those old blokes, they’re far worse”. (Amused, nurse retaliates) “OLD blokes! You’re 96” “Yes, But they’re in wheelchairs, I’m on sticks” Typical, this conversation & friendly banter. He’s slow moving, but quick with an answer. “What keeps you going; you’re always so bright, Nothing seems to bother you, day or night” He reaches into his pocket for his book. “Here’s the answer nurse, just take a look” He reaches out, with his Bible, so she can see. Blushing. She says “Thanks. Religion’s not me. Oh! Look at the time. Sorry, I really must go.” With it back in his pocket, he smiles. He knows He’s seen it before. You can tell any story, They’ll listen, if it’s false, funny or even gory They'll listen to myths, for hour after hour Mention of Jesus & they're afraid of His Power The old man closes his eyes, in a silent prayer Then doses in his chair, in Boronia scented air…. ROMANS 1:16 For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ, for it is the power of God to salvation for everyone who believes, for the Jew first and also for the Greek. |
THE SERAPHIM CRY Rex Woodmore
SUCH VASTNESS, .…INCOMPREHENSIBLE, TO ONE SUCH AS I.. IN AWE AM I. SO INSIGNIFICANT
& WORTHLESS I STAND, BENEATH THE CANOPY OF THE WORLD, THE AWESOME NEVER ENDING SKY.
YET TO OUR CREATOR, PERHAPS ONLY A SMUDGE OF HIS MIGHTY HAND
OUR WONDROUS GOD KNEW, IN HIM I WOULD COME TO KNOW & TRUST.
HOW HUMBLED & PRIVILEGED I FEEL, THE KING OF KINGS KNOWS ME!
WHY ME? I AM BUT A WORTHLESS WORM SQUIRMING IN THE DUST.
YET, BEFORE THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE EARTH, BY NAME HE KNEW ME.
TO BE CALLED TO MY ETERNAL HOME, IN GOD’S TIME, I CONFIDENTLY AWAIT.
I FEAR NOT THAT BLESSED DAY (THE BLESSED DAY I DIE).
NO MAN HAS SEEN HIS GLORY, (‘TIS TOO GREAT!)
“HOLY! HOLY! HOLY!” THE SERAPHIM CRY.
Satan Knows His Own Rex Woodmore.
When death will strike no one knows
What is important is where one goes.
By his fruits you shall be known
And Satan knows his own.
This man hadn’t been unwell or sickly
Yet his death came upon him quickly
He was a Man of the world, called by name
Now he faces darkness lit by flickering flames
Skin stinging and red eyes strained
He reviews his life, with pages stained
His every sin, recorded there.
Regrets! Regrets! he tares singed hair.
Screams stifled to a lonely groan
As heat sears down to bone
Sickening odor of flesh on ash
His tongue he chews, his teeth gnash
Once he stood tall, owning things of the world
He’s lost it all. Moaning & fetal he’s curled
There he lays too pained to yell,
Too late! To pray, for this is Hell!
Why? Why? Oh why?
Why does anyone choose this fate?
When our Good Lord’s redemption awaits
What is important is where one goes.
By his fruits you shall be known
And Satan knows his own.
This man hadn’t been unwell or sickly
Yet his death came upon him quickly
He was a Man of the world, called by name
Now he faces darkness lit by flickering flames
Skin stinging and red eyes strained
He reviews his life, with pages stained
His every sin, recorded there.
Regrets! Regrets! he tares singed hair.
Screams stifled to a lonely groan
As heat sears down to bone
Sickening odor of flesh on ash
His tongue he chews, his teeth gnash
Once he stood tall, owning things of the world
He’s lost it all. Moaning & fetal he’s curled
There he lays too pained to yell,
Too late! To pray, for this is Hell!
Why? Why? Oh why?
Why does anyone choose this fate?
When our Good Lord’s redemption awaits
‘BELIEVE ON THE LORD JESUS CHRIST and BE SAVED’ Rex Woodmore
The offer is free, the choice is clear.
Have fear of the Lord and Death is no fear. Reach out for forgiveness to the Lord above Experience freedom, by God’s grace & love. Be transformed in a cloud, like an angel on wing And shout aloud “Oh! Death! Where is your sting!? ” 13/08/1997 Rex Woodmore |