I enjoy writing lyrics. I started this when I was in Ireland, and I finished it up (at least for now) just this evening. Who’s going to put it to music? What’s it about? Picture a boy who walks through the jungle two hours one way to attend a small village schoolhouse. Certainly, it’s a true story.
Category: Poetry
Merry Christmas: A Vigil for a Starry Night
On a night when the clouds cover the stars like an impenetrable mountain cliff, I wait for a sign. A small tinge up my spine. A desperate plea for the ancient ways to speak once again. I wait for the light, hoping it will come, hoping it will be enough. .
The stars, spread brightly out like colored snowflakes flickering across the onyx sky, reflect a distant constellation, and begin to re-enter the atmosphere, piercing through the fractured clouds, giving faint and distant light to the voidless black, the empty sea, the sandless desert, the vacant abyss that is deep within me. The light, hushed and dimmed by a millennium of travel, is all I have. Is all I ever had.
I wait for the reflection to reach me, hoping one refracted beam from a star long ago still exists, the same ancient light that awakened the shepherd’s eyes one cool and lonely night. Can the light that ushered in a new millennium, awaken a new epoch within me. If so, it might be enough for my heart to go on.
In the midst of tears, in the solitude of our inner being, we yearn to be on that impoverished hill, to understand the magnitude of that sight, a heavenly light illuminating a darkened heart, a heavenly chorus rising to a crescendo of glory.
Will I choose to believe its truth, not blindly though because I know what the light can do for one’s soul. And though the unbearable pain releases not its grip, I have a question to answer. Does the light still exist for me?
Does the same sky, which God ripped open that night with his right hand, planting angelic heralds of peace on the clouds to rustle awake the shepherds, still exist for me? Can he reach into my clouded heart and announce the truth like a heavenly chorus? If it is so, all suffering and cause of angst still present throughout the world will be no match for the blessed announcement: “A Child is born.”
PERSON: This child is born.
A Vigil for a Starry (Christmas Eve) Night

On a night when the clouds cover the stars like an impenetrable mountain cliff, I wait for a sign. A small tinge up my spine. A desperate plea for the ancient ways to speak once again. I wait for the light, hoping it will come, hoping it will be enough. .
The stars, spread brightly out like colored snowflakes flickering across the onyx sky, reflect a distant constellation, and begin to re-enter the atmosphere, piercing through the fractured clouds, giving faint and distant light to the voidless black, the empty sea, the sandless desert, the vacant abyss that is deep within me. The light, hushed and dimmed by a millennium of travel, is all I have. Is all I ever had.
I wait for the reflection to reach me, hoping one refracted beam from a star long ago still exists, the same ancient light that awakened the shepherd’s eyes one cool and lonely night. Can the light that ushered in a new millennium, awaken a new epoch within me. If so, it might be enough for my heart to go on.
In the midst of tears, in the solitude of our inner being, we yearn to be on that impoverished hill, to understand the magnitude of that sight, a heavenly light illuminating a darkened heart, a heavenly chorus rising to a crescendo of glory.
Will I choose to believe its truth, not blindly though because I know what the light can do for one’s soul. And though the unbearable pain releases not its grip, I have a question to answer. Does the light still exist for me?
Does the same sky, which God ripped open that night with his right hand, planting angelic heralds of peace on the clouds to rustle awake the shepherds, still exist for me? Can he reach into my clouded heart and announce the truth like a heavenly chorus? If it is so, all suffering and cause of angst still present throughout the world will be no match for the blessed announcement: “A Child is born.”
PERSON: This child is born.
I Wrote This Last Night
I wrote this last night. No particular reason, and I’m not even sure what it means. But I kind of like it. I’m thinking folk-rock.
Vagabonds of Mercy by Mark W. Sasse
Ghostly kin collared high and smart, rolling out till we hit the dawn,
Pardoned souls with sing-song hearts, Hit the road until they reach the dawn
And the shadows cover field and vale, where it spreads it’s really hard to tell
As we brace for impact from the eastern gale, remember truth is the hardest sell
A girl in jeans and a ragged smile, waves a knife at the quarter mile
I duck my head from her pensive sight, but the battered soul gives up the fight
Proffered dreams, deferred hearts, testing limits with spare parts,
But the mileage wanes around the bend, when you’re headed home and then back again
Chorus:
And the vagabonds always know where they’re going,
Cause the road welcomes everyone who floats on the wings of the sun
And the vagabonds always know who they’re traveling with
Cause they understand more than most the feeling of Judas’ kiss
Part of the reason I joined this quest, was to get something off my chest.
I understand your hesitation, but I really need your participation.
Mercy ends in the empty void when shattered dreams lay half-destroyed
But walking men and talking girls, know the dance of the underworld
And those who dare to reach inside, might find release on the other side
But those who laugh at the high employed …
May find the lost key
May say a quick prayer
May join the party
Of the unaware
Chorus:
And the vagabonds always know where they’re going,
Cause the road welcomes everyone who floats on the wings of the sun
And the vagabonds always know who they’re traveling with
Cause they understand more than most the feeling of Judas’ kiss
Don’t let the night take you.
Don’t let the light break you.
Don’t let the fight leave you.
Don’t let the might beat you.
Chorus:
And the vagabonds always know where they’re going,
Cause the road welcomes everyone who floats on the wings of the sun
And the vagabonds always know who they’re traveling with
Cause they understand more than most the feeling of Judas’ kiss.
A Vigil for a Starry Night
On a night when the clouds cover the stars like an impenetrable mountain cliff, I wait for a sign. A small tinge up my spine. A desperate plea for the ancient ways to speak once again. I wait for the light, hoping it will come, hoping it will be enough. .
The stars, spread brightly out like colored snowflakes flickering across the onyx sky, reflect a distant constellation, and begin to re-enter the atmosphere, piercing through the fractured clouds, giving faint and distant light to the voidless black, the empty sea, the sandless desert, the vacant abyss that is deep within me. The light, hushed and dimmed by a millennium of travel, is all I have. Is all I ever had.
I wait for the reflection to reach me, hoping one refracted beam from a star long ago still exists, the same ancient light that awakened the shepherd’s eyes one cool and lonely night. Can the light that ushered in a new millennium, awaken a new epoch within me. If so, it might be enough for my heart to go on.
In the midst of tears, in the solitude of our inner being, we yearn to be on that impoverished hill, to understand the magnitude of that sight, a heavenly light illuminating a darkened heart, a heavenly chorus rising to a crescendo of glory.
Will I choose to believe its truth, not blindly though because I know what the light can do for one’s soul. And though the unbearable pain releases not its grip, I have a question to answer. Does the light still exist for me?
Does the same sky, which God ripped open that night with his right hand, planting angelic heralds of peace on the clouds to rustle awake the shepherds, still exist for me? Can he reach into my clouded heart and announce the truth like a heavenly chorus? If it is so, all suffering and cause of angst still present throughout the world will be no match for the blessed announcement: “A Child is born.”
PERSON
This child is born.
A Partial Poem at Midnight
I rarely write poetry anymore. It’s been a long time. I write a lot of lyrics, but for some reason I have completely stopped writing poetry. Which makes this post all the more strange because here’s a poem I wrote last night during the last fifteen minutes before midnight. Your interpretation is as good as mine!
A partial print
Tiny crooked paths, cut and twisted, half extended to nowhere
Obstructed by the partial print
Which leads us back to a partial heart
A partial direction
A partial urge to partly know what right becomes us
In the deadness of the night
A full print
Would reveal itself too candidly
A gaudy reminder of the obsolescence of our will
A tawdry reminder showing off our childish traits
Unable to make decisions on our own
A kowtowing puppet to a Powerfuller than I
No. A full print cannot navigate a partial world.
Partial people need partial prints.
Half-truths and hidden doorways.
Forked roads and overgrown hearts.
Back country dirt paths to nowhere.
Dead branches on live trees.
Partial people need all of the partial print.
But no more.
An Old School Love Poem for Valentine’s Day
I found this poem I wrote twenty-six years ago. It still applies to my very same Valentine.
Meet me tonight amidst the darkening trees,
The lunar view they call the lover’s land.
We’ll gaze with wonder at the sparkling sea,
And walk our world together hand in hand.
The lamp lights flicker wildly through the wind,
But my heart steadily wants beyond the light.
I leave all cares a million thoughts behind,
And search the shadow of my heart and night.
For, aye, I see the starry silhouette,
Who stands with grace among the timber pine,
And lights my soul as sun of after set;
I long to understand the endless shine.
For I shall laugh and love and lose my load,
That wears me down this long untraveled road.