Monday, December 24, 2018

Merry Christmas - 2018

For this year's Christmas cards, we are recycling and old poem of mine from 1997.   Here it is:


Sunday, December 9, 2018

A Prayer (Poem?) of Thanksgiving

Today, I give thanks for the circular (trigonometric) functions, for rising and falling, advancing and receding, cresting and troughing, swelling and shrinking, for every wave, for all things periodic, for the seasons, for weal and woe, for the song of the cicada, for rising up and for lying down, for eccentric and concentric contractions, for spinning cranks and reciprocating pistons, for sine, cosine, and tangent, and for all the variegated vibrations of this life. Amen.

Monday, May 14, 2018

Another Old Poem - "Mansmith"

This poem is from 2005.

Mansmith

Inventor of Inventors,
Father of parents,
Judge of judges,
Almighty God, I honour Thee.

Teacher of teachers,

High priest of priests,
Servant of servants,
Son of God, I adore Thee.

Architect of architects,

Healer of physicians,
Lover of lovers,
Holy Ghost, I embrace Thee.

Author of authors,
Cultivator of gardeners,
Sculptor of sculptors,
Thou great Mansmith, I worship thee.

© 2005, Paul W. Erlandson

Old Poem - "Pwned"

This is a poem I wrote back in 2007. See this link for background on the word "pwned."


Pwned


By my love, my heart is pwned.
On love's whetstone it is hwned.
And her body, taut and twned
Makes me tremble, as if stwned.

Oft in loneliness I grwned,
Till she emailed me, or phwned.
Then to her my poor heart mwned;
"Thou art on my heart enthrwned!"


© 2007, Paul W. Erlandson

Tuesday, May 8, 2018

(New Poem) -- Internal Combustion – Vision for a New Dark Age

Internal Combustion – Vision for a New Dark Age

“Come with me, child, past all this camouflage.”
“Is there a secret garden there, Grandpa?”
“Not quite.  It’s just a small, padlocked garage,
To keep out the enforcers of the law.”

I keyed the lock, and lifted up the door
For just the time it took us to walk in.
The bulb inside was 60 Watts, not more.
I closed the door, and she began to grin.

“What’s that, Grandpa?  It’s like Ezekiel’s wheels!
Or like some dragon, full of majesty!”
“That, my girl, is called an automobile,
The way that God intended it to be.”

“In old times, men were brave and women fierce.
We steered our own machines, commanded flame
With pulsing, violent roar I know would pierce
The souls of timid moderns, grown too tame.”

“’Autonomous’, back then, pertained to men
And women, whom these brute machines obeyed.
But now, we’ve yielded all control to them,
To these completely soulless cars we’ve made.”

“May I please touch it Gramps?” she asked me, keen.
“Oh, I insist!” I said.  “Learn every curve.”
She moved with reverence to the machine,
And measured it with heart and hand and verve.

“Imagine now the thundering exhaust,
And rubber smoke from crisply chirping tires.
Imagine mankind not enslaved to Cost,
But free to race, the way the heart desires.”

“These were not fashioned by some gamer geek,
But crafted out of elbow grease and passion.
Their power would make faint the modern meek,
And cause their sissy faces to turn ashen.”

“These fire-belching dragons we adored
Commanded our respect but not our fear.
So, here’s to Harley Earl and Henry Ford,
And everyone to ever grind a gear.”

“Their spirit, child, I see it in your eyes,
Or else I’d not have brought you here to see
What others of your age would just despise.
But you will keep this car alive for me.”

“Alive for some bright day when, once again, 
The riotous act of driving is reclaimed.
Then, you will start this hot rod, and weak men
Shall gaze upon its glory and be shamed.”

© 2018, Paul W. Erlandson

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

A new poem - "The New Christian"

The New Christian

Make way, make way, I now believe the truth!
I’m here to show you all a better way.
Pay no heed to my ignorance or youth,
But let my zeal and earnestness hold sway!

I’ve got a few choice verses memorized,
To cause all unbelievers to convert.
My former friends will all be quite surprised,
To see me as a Gospel extrovert.

The hour is near when Christ returns to reign,
So time is short, and humor is a waste,
And making future plans is all in vain.
In these Last Days, the watchword must be “haste!”

I must prepare my soul for His return;
I’ll make sure it’s all sparkly and clean.
I’ll get so holy, people’s eyes will burn.
Like Moses, I will need to wear a screen.

But I’ll not only sanctify my soul –
I’ll earnestly convict all those around.
Extinguishing their sins shall be my goal,
Each one in Piety’s chill waters drowned.

So, no, my friends, no time to share your feast,
No time to plow or sow, no time to marry.
But maybe just a brief head nod, at least,
If for one moment more the Lord should tarry.

© 2018, Paul W. Erlandson