Poetry by Brianroy: A Field of view, in a winter season looking out to sea from the side of a hill.

I look across the ocean,
as it the cold winter waves rise and fall;
and the breeze blows stingingly upon my face and about my head,
and the melancholy of the moment yet brings tranquility.

The white and grey clouds blow across the deep blue skies,
as if great cotton balls and pilings of mist.
Sometimes looking like mountain ranges of the heavens,
sometimes, well...you get the jist.

What are these seasons for,
of life and dormancy?
Do they teach us something about ourselves,
and how we ought to live?

I behold the barren beaches and shorelines,
the jetties and the rocks.

I behold the once green and bending marshes,
now brown like dead grass and broken stocks.

What is the lesson here,
but that G-D is never to far or long away?

Though through times of sadness and suffering we must go,
there is always the hope of a better day.

And when that time comes, seize the moment and the hour;
apply the best that you can fairly and equitably,
or as much as you are granted in your power.

And know also, that your works too, shall zenith and fall;
and in another season, again you shall look back and recall.

Let there be no regrets, that honorably and faithfully you have done;
that looking back you might have blessed by your efforts to hold to a higher calling,
and in the remembrance, with fondness, be considered as having victories won.

Won not by violence or blood, but of the heart and the minds;
that to G-D mankind all may freely call through Jesus Christ the Son,
and to one another be thoughtful and kind.

But as I stand here, and now look at my watch,
I realize my feet are almost frozen and I am so cold;
and as I make for shelter and warmmth,
I can only hope that the best points are not forgotten in the heat of trying to do the right,
and that the best from me is always as new, and never as forgotten and old.

Poetry by Brianroy: Along the Road

Along the Road we all travel,
upon each our own individual paths;
some looking for no way out,
some looking and not liking the path out that they find.

We all must make do with what talents and gifts we have, and can acquire.

And as you walk the days, on some it is like being in heavy sand or mud,
and on others like walking on smooth asphalt or bumpy gravel.

Sometimes Time itself travels so quickly, and yet our progress seems so slow;
and through no fault of our own we must pull to the side,
while the world continuously passes us by in a steady flow.

But in this wide open country, where is it that they are rushing to?
We are born with nothing than that given us by the Almighty Creator,
and nothing we take to the beyond but that which He rewards us with,
we are like the clouds drifting in the skies of the illusion of blue.

Did we nourish, did we take away?
As we travel along this road, let us do both.

Did we sound the warning of thunder, and flash the lightning of truth upon the world?
Did we help more than hurt?
Did we show compassion in deeds and not just in words?

What is the meaning of life, along this road...sometimes like a narrow uneven dirt path or an open field upon which we travel?

We cannot of our own reason or intellect resolve it,
we must look to the Son of G-D, Jesus Christ, and listen and heed His words;
and constantly let His words be in our ears, and before our eyes,
trusting in His guidance and care.

And before long, we shall then reach the end of our road,
and in Paradise, having been both invited and guided,
we will be taken to meet the Son of G-D there.

For it is not by our works,
but it is by our trust in Him we are saved;
and it is to our ever looking to His great atoning work upon the Cross,
when all our sins, forever, He anticipated them all...and yet still, He forgave.

L-RD Jesus lead us to thee,
and let us not journey astray;
lead us along the road and guide our journey,
this moment, this hour, this day.
Amen.





Accompanying thoughts following writing the above poem

We, as human beings, are the combination of the highest order of outward fleshly vessels of our eternal inward souls. It seems that our very existence is to imitate the Creator in creating life, both physically and spiritually. When we correctly follow our design, and the male sows his seed into the fertile female spouse where he is supposed to, we join G-D in perpetuating the creation of souls, as co-Creators of our children. As parents, we are not the “Creators”…that design and ability was implanted in us, by the Creator, in our DNA/RNA. Instead, we become Co-Creators to the limited extent that G-D takes of our male and female souls and creates for us an offspring bearing both physical and spiritual traits and identity from us.
When we take the seed of fruits and vegetables and plant them, and watch over them and take up their produce, we become as overseers and caretakers of that which is entrusted to us. Because the seeds of plants are as alien things, not created by “our” power, nor are of “our” being, we are not co-Creators with G-D in their growth, but as the angels…caretaking, and exercising some sort of entrustment and responsibility. We are not to act as “gods” in abusing others, and ruling their lives…but sometimes we are to help guide and constrain certain acts and activities that are detrimental to doing direct harm.

One of the 19th-20th century hero to the Communist-Socialists and Progressives in America, is British author and philosopher George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950), who said: " Democracy is a form of government that substitutes election by the incompetent many for appointment by the corrupt few." And of the politician: "He knows nothing and thinks he knows everything. That points clearly to a political career." In other words, everyone but a talented dictator is corrupt and stupid. Says Shaw, His warped view of a popular faith "...obliges me to be a Communist."
yet the fleshly philosophical and party affiliation requires him to be atheistic, so in adherance to the party view, Shaw abandoned Christianity to become an apostate who saw everyone as corrupt as he was privately, saying "Every man over forty is a scoundrel." Therefore, anything goes...and morality, the rule of law, while Shaw demanded he be protected by it, hypocritically stated that it should effectively be scattered to the wind. And that was supposed to be intelligent? If Shaw could have had his way, perhaps he would have joined Himmler in being one of those to decide on life and death, for the advocated Death Panels that inspired the Holocaust Camps of WWII and the vague language in Nancy Pelosi's SEIU authored House Healtcare Bill of July 2009. Remember, this man, George Bernard Shaw, is not simply a fascist hero, he is a de facto CURRENT Communist-Socialist literary. Watch the videos of him in 1936-1937 in his own words advocating genocide.







True Christians, unlike Shaw the apostate who denounced his faith by his philosophies and in his own words, true Christians do not seek to have our Governments imitate and exalt dictators and mass-murderers; and we -- unlike Shaw -- do not suggest death panels upon people every 5 to 7 years, and if they cannot prove they are of value to the collective. Whereas Shaw sems to advocate that the Governments just kill them -- the perceived useless by his definition, contrary to Christ -- on the spot, or "humanely" kill them with "a quick and painless gas".

That fleshly reasoning removes the soul G-D gave us, and the reasoning toward life and the betterment of the Creation we have been entrusted with. We are called to build up life, restore life, ensure that others as well as ourselves are not governed by dictators or tyrants hell-bent on destroying millions like Mao his 70 millions or more, or Stalin his 40 millions or more…of their own peoples, and ethnicities.

G-D wants us to learn the lesson in this life in which we discover, that we want to be more like Him, even with our flaws, and be so inclined whenever our souls pass from here back to the Creator’s will. If we choose the flesh alone, and pursue sin, our soul falls through the bowels of the Earth to hell. If we trust in Christ Jesus for the salvation of our souls, and that He has given us the gift of eternal life through the Cross, and the witness of his rising from the dead and ascending into Heaven, then wheresoever He is, there also we shall be (John 12:26).


When we share when someone is in dire need, rather than sell, we participate in a reaching back though our most ancient past, when our First Father Adam, was created as a child, and in his soul was a sliver of impartation from G-D, and Adam ceased to be simply animal, but became human and a son to G-D. And when Adam fell, thousands of years later, the same Deity who breathed the second life and the soul of reason into Adam, came and dwelt among us, and mankind beheld His glory, as the only begotten of G-D the Father, and Him they crucified as according to G-D’s own prophecies…hence, His plan.

All this, and more, the goal in life is for us to discover this eternal truth…and then, not to hold onto it and manipulate others for the chance to know this secret knowledge; but to share this knowledge freely, without money and without price.

Poetry by Brianroy: Alone in the Fields of Wheat

To what do I have to say, when my day begins?
As across the fields of wheat I look,
while sudden frigid and early frost vapors blew out as my nostrils shook,
and in my gloved right hand steaming coffee fresh cooked;
yet, climbing the tractor, I bang my shin.

For what reasons have I, I think, and think;
as memories billow forth like clouds and then a flood,
while shadows of memories and darkened thoughts stream forth their blood,
and the cries like that of war and shouting,
as if in the howling of the wind, now leap up from the frozen mud?
But finally, I turn the key, and hear "clink, clink."

Why is it so, as it is so, I wonder why;
while pulling back the hood to examine forth?
Checking the wires to and fro,
then reconnecting a fusable link on a wire from the starter down low,
and again turning the key the motor revs up;
as I listen to the wind all around me begin to blow, and sadly I sigh.

Will it ever be, that my life means so?
For the pain of rejection, the laughs, the desire,
makes me wish for having a family of my own ever higher,
as I turn and look to an empty house without a fire...
and the echoes of every single proposal met with no, no, and no.

And so I go, and try to harvest what I can of the fields of wheat;
alone and cold, and gritting my teeth.
The frost biting wind numbs the flesh until I forget the pain,
while I try to harvest what I can,
and keep wondering if it will always be just the same.

But I do complete the harvest, and finish what I needed to do;
and return to the house, feeling and looking blue.
The fire is built, and soon rages forth,
as I sit in a chair before it,
and despite the blurry eyes, take up the Bible and read myself to sleep;
and pray the L-RD, my soul to take and keep;
and pray the L-RD, my soul to take and keep.

Poetry: To post in poetry (by Brianroy)

To what do we owe
an idea of posting in po - etry?

Is it to stub our toe,
and claim it simply as an entrance to a valley in northern Italy?

Some times we write,
sometimes we speak;

and the words don't come forth so clearly.

Some say "fly a kite",
some tell us we tweak;

but the answer lies more far than nearly.

And when we sit and think a while,
and laugh aloud and begin to smile;

the world thinks we are crazy.

But let them talk to themselves,
and jest as if the pixies and elves;

and the lines of what is moral becomes hazy.

So now we turn to G-D's great book,
and read it almost every day,
even if it's just a look.

We open our hearts and minds to Him who does save,
and listen to what He has to say,
trusting Him in how to live and now behave.

The application isn't always so perfect;
for we tire and struggle.

And yet someday, at the Throne of Him we will see...
that redemption
in the fabric of all things
pointing always to Him through Calvary.

Praise G-D: the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Glory to G-D in the highest, the highest most!

Poetry: The Tribulation Peace Treaty that has no peace (by Brianroy)

3 lights in the Eastern Sky,
3 flashes, like the sun.

3 explosions rippling forth,
3 tragedies becoming one.

The Midas has pushed its talons forth,
though called many names before;
under a Crescent moon proclaiming peace,
but in its heart declares war.

The U.N. banner flies deceiving the West most nations,
for "Peace" they say, have we.
And no one dares bring up the contract of 1938,
signed between Chamberlain and Germany.

And so the arms race is pursued,
the liberals sabotage an act of war, which can bring peace now;
and the conservatives cower in fear,
at the Jezebels and their sacred cows.

Gog and Magog, and Gomer, and all her bands;
they look upon Babylon America with venom drools,
with her Hollywood tales of blood, and violent words they think as "cool";
behold, they say: let us destroy Babylon America, with her evil merchandise, her bloody skirt and her bloody hands.

They no longer look to the L-RD of Heaven and earth for protection;
behold the hedge of His protection is down,
let us remove them from the earth and all memory as if it never was.

They whisper, they conspire, against Israel and then Babylon America to do wrong;
they lift up a common hatred,
they assail against the one true G-D through these two nations,
as if in the harmony of those who lift up a song.

And so, one day soon, there will be 3 lights in the Eastern Sky,
3 flashes, like the sun.

3 explosions rippling forth,
3 tragedies becoming one.

Jordan shall cease to be,
Damascus shall become a flattened ruin.

A man of war in garments and words of peace shall come forth,
and him, the abomination of desolation, shall the nations deify as a god among men;
strengthened bythe Beast, the abomination of destruction from Moscow,
and confirmed by the miracle deceiving false prophet soon after, then.

If you see these men come to power;
the first Rapture you will have missed.
Count 1290 days from the Treaty signing if you can survive,
and if your heart cannot not believe into Yeshua as your L-RD and savior,
you will probably in Day 1291 be,
left behind to be destroyed by violence or fire.

Repent, while the L-RD is near.
Again, I say, repent.

Poetry: Vision and dreams that were once for just me (by Brianroy)

I dream a dream,
and it is in a Church that I sit.
With believers of Yeshua of every time and team,
Jew, Protestant, non-denominational, Coptic, Eastern, and Catholic.

We are all here and all aware,
but know not any other, nor ask...we don't dare.

The air is filled with a silence that hangs,
as the congregation regulates their breathing.

Eyes closed, heads bowed, thoughts now focus.

In the distance and ever closer, the sound of running waters;
like a trickling stream to some, like a gushing river to others.

Eyes begin to open, and look up and forward, and around at each other.

Hearts begin pacing faster, as the sermon begins,
"Children of the Living G-D...Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters."

And yet a few stare in shock, as if hearing a hocus;
when the speaker utters words the waters run louder with his teething;
and with a "Thus saith the L-RD",
suddenly an ear-ringing thunder bangs!

And all that is left, is the sound of a heart-beat beating;
as all others fade quickly from view.

A Sheet falls down as from Heaven,
and a vision of hands to just below the elbows -- appear:
turning open and continuously flipping
the pages of the Holy Bible facing down;
as a pulsating trickle of blood beats highs and lows like a heart monitor.

A vision of David, in a castle room of stone;
and the hands now assist Him, and assist Him alone.
The pulsating of blood, now beats high and low;
and upward to Heaven, that sheet now must go;
for the last vision, must remain sealed.

Heads shake in fear and awe; but the voice is silent now;
the lips still move upon the speaker, but you cannot hear what or how.

A reed pen drops from the podium onto the rug,
and it sounds as the breaking of glass.

To which sound I now awake from sleep...
in anxiety only my head to shrug,
and say aloud, "Alas! Alas!"

Poetry: A moment in time: prettier than a picture (by Brianroy)

There are waters flowing, as the clouds roll by --
on a sunny afternoon:

over a babbling brook, while green fields are gently swaying,
as the wind makes them to swoon.

The trees at the field's edge gently clap their hands,
while the birds in them sing sweet songs.

How gentle the earth...the sky..the view...
who can tell us there is wrong?

A deer walks gingerly across the grass,
and a family of rabbits hop along, following behind.

And under an acorn tree, squirrels eagerly gather their nuts;
and acrobaticly enjoy their happy little find.

How sweet the air, how lovely so;
how blessed is the appeal!

How freely is this for thee, how lovely so;
at no cost is G-D's gift, the beholding of Creation's zeal.

Poetry: A pursued distraction (by Brianroy)

I’m standing here, but I’ve forgotten why.
I’m digging into my pockets,
looking for a memo I thought I wrote for myself, and looking around.
What is the reason?, I ask myself with a sigh;
Did I come for a book or a look, or drop something on the ground?

And then I see you through the living room window,
As on the sidewalk you stroll on by;
And thumpa-thumpa does my heart go;
As I race to put on my running clothes so quick and sly.

And out the door I race, and suddenly stop;
As I run back to grab the house keys in my hand.
Out to the edge of the front lawn I trot,
As I frantically look;
Where did that voluptuously beautiful woman go, I ask myself;
And see that you’re not yet out of sight.
Ah, just a block to a block and a half away...
Then down the road I book.

I sprint as with wings,
and my legs feel as made of air.
Children and old ladies stare with awe,
as I fly past slow moving cars,
gaining ground.

You round a curb, and pass out of sight;
And as I strain to see where you are going;
I arc too wide, coming in too fast, and...
Pow! I run into a light!

And just before I pass out,
I remember reading something like...
"Beware the lust of the eyes,
the lust of the flesh,"
(and what was that last line?),
"and the pride of...light?" ("thump").

Poetry: The Parting of Friends (by Brianroy)

I spoke to her, but there was tension there:
It wasn’t the light of her eyes, nor the lilt of her hair.

Her voice spoke volumes, and yet in few words;
It wasn’t what was said, it was what I heard.

A sadness, a separation, a parting of friends;
And nothing I could do or say, could ever make amends.

A loss of interest, a polite greeting and pause:
No excuses, no reasons, no ‘just because.’

It was if there was shame, a shame of knowing me;
As if I were the one, that kept her from being free.


The fields of friendship between us were once green and flowing,
Like a meadow with a running brook, and shade trees growing.
We used to laugh and play, and rest every now and then;
And dip our feet in the waters together, and call each other, ‘Friend.’

And now I look across those fields, and see the beauty all gone;
The grasses all dried up and matted, and bramble bushes upon.

There is a dumping ground here now, where waste and refuse abound;
And little by little, trash grows into a mound.

The waters, once so pure and so sweet,
(which we tasted out of each other’s hands, as we played with our feet):
those waters are bitter now, too bitter to drink.
I wish it wasn’t so –I pray, and wish, and think.

Our lives flicker now, with memories come and gone;
Like the scenes of a late night movie (on a television left on).
The signal comes and goes, and words sometimes fade away;
But the hope still lingers, to dream of another day.

“You can’t reclaim the past to salvage what you have lost…”
“You can only keep memories a treasure…if you can only know their cost.”

“Memories are like a closet,” the Wise One once said;
“out of which treasures new and old come.” So don’t be misled.

As for me…
I shall go back in time,
To a more pleasant day of reason and rhyme;
Where she and I are lovers once again:
…in a field green and flowing,
with a meadow and a running brook, and shade trees growing:
where we can laugh and play, and rest now and then…
and dip our feet in the waters together,
and pour our hearts out to each other;
and call each other, ‘Friend.’

Poetry: The Canopy (by Brianroy)

The cirrus clouds line the sky of blue,
like drapes of mist from gravity suspended.

And yet the blue of the sky is an illusion,
and illusion of sight and of refractive light.

What is man, a soul dwelling in this house of flesh,
that he should declare his life on his own depended?

We are provided a tent of the Earth in which to dwell,
with air and water and warmth and G-D's aid to it amended.

The message of which we are so vacuate and blind is so true,
but mankind knows not how to accept without calling it an intrusion.

Sin and rebellion is in our nature to cause us to want to fight,
even the ideas that might remove our vain imaginations and pathway to hell.

So, the next time you walk, look up and enjoy the Canopy of the great outdoors;
know that G-D created the Earth, the sky, the trees,
not only to caretake and protect;
but to behold, and think of Him and His love for you, and enjoy.

Poetry : What is a Home without a mother?

What is a Home without a mother?
An original poem by Brianroy

The autumn leaves are falling,
as the leaves of the trees have turned to their hues of red, orange, and brown.

Somewhere behind them, in the distance, the sun is yawning;
ready to set, as it goes down and down.

There is a little iron gate, that loudly creaks open;
as if shouting, ‘Awake! Awake! Your son is back in town!’

And yet, the expectation of the door opening is met with silence;
the leaves gently rustling as the lonely and so familiar path is trod.

Instinctively, he knocks, and awaits for an answer;
but there is only silence as he bows his head, and begins to nod.

The house is worn with years.
The paint is faded, and run, as though streaked with tears.
The rose bushes are barren, the mailbox lays empty.
The welcome mat is collecting dust,
and the door knob is just starting to rust.

What is a Home, without a mother?
It is just a residence, a temporary place of one or the other.
When a man marries, it is the woman who truly decorates the place;
but until a child is born, her honor feels as outward as chantilly lace.
And wherever thereafter that she goes,
the sense and feeling of “home” goes with her.

It is not with the Father, who might as well treat a piece of land,
to live like a bachelor, but loving “it” as though a woman in his hand.
That is never truly a “home”; it is a property, a pride, and a demand.
But the mother who truly is a mother, she loves and nourishes and respects;
she loves by instinct and kindness beyond normal reason or intellects.

She provides a something beyond what words can describe;
decorating and nourishing as if a gift of G-D,
a taste of the living waters of G-D’s goodness and grace.
It is a sweetness that keeps the heart, mind, and soul of going, as if a heavenly dew;
until the truth of G-D’s Son,
and the Salvation of Jesus upon the Cross,
is revealed upon you.

The door now creaks open, and an ‘oh, so familiar voice’ comes from the other side;
“Come in, my son. As you can see, I am still alive.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The above poem was written with a mother figure who was widowed and in her 80s. The son, like a prodigal, returns after decades to the house of his youth; perhaps, keeping in contact with sparse letters and phone calls. He has had conflict with the father, which is a normal (or should I say, popular) sentiment in American Society. This poem should serve as a reminder for those who have parents still living.

Keep in regular physical visitation contact, not just by phone, e-mail, or postal mail. Watch out for them. Make sure regularly that they are well and are okay. When you reach an age where you can begin paying them back a small percentage of your pay monetarily, if they are poor, do so. For those without religion, they have no excuse to not tithe to their poor parent's well-being. If the parents are rich and have financial ease, then keep in contact.

If you have only one parent living, the moral responsibility upon you becomes greater as they advance in age. As a society, we need to be reminded and retaught basic values to both respect and take care of our elders in a loving way. For this moral reason, among many others, I oppose the Death Panels being introduced in International Law Courts, and in US Legislation under the guise of "Health Care".

Poetry by Brianroy: "Angel Cloud"

This poem is written by me, and inspired (in part) by the reading of a passage from Josephus:

“I Suppose the account… would seem a fable, were it not related by those that saw it, and were not the events that followed it of so considerable a nature as to deserve such signals; for, before sun-setting, chariots and troops of soldiers in their armor were seen running about among the clouds, and surrounding of cities.” Josephus, Wars of the Jews, 6.6.3.
(listing supernatural signs before the 70 A.D. destruction of Jerusalem)

ANGEL CLOUD by Brianroy


Have you seen an angel cloud? In times of Peace, they are small and white or small and gray.

The angels are dressed in flowing garb, oft with what seems to be reed pen and open papyrus scrolls;
Faces of serious consternation and focus, in distant stares, as if looking specifically off into the horizon far, far away.

Some run, and blur, and skip time and space;
From little angel cloud to angel cloud they jump, as if in a race.

You see them pick up speed, on one cloud, and on the other cloud stop;
As if entering into a transport beam or mini-cosmic worm-hole, with a just jump or a hop.

Have you seen an angel cloud? Hovering low to the earth.

They are certainly in the low thousands of feet up, sometimes only hundreds from the ground.

Composed of light or dense cloud mist, and if you look elsewhere for but a single second,
It seems they notice, because they no longer are around.

They are noticed best in open blue skies of a late morning and early afternoon day;
So that when you know that you spotted one, you don’t want to look away.

Have you seen an angel cloud, and wonder if those thereon record your every word?

As if a special time for them to relay your prayer to G-D in Heaven,
And make your prayer especially be heard?

If but for now, we see the angels garbed and robed in clothes of Peace;
There is yet hope from national Judgment and War.

But there are some storm angels who as if cherubim, they fly;
They lead dark clouds of strong and wind and rain;
They lead them in gusts that ahead of the storms, they go before.

These are sensitive to the thoughts of men who G-D allows to momentarily see them.

Do not dare to yourself as a champion to defend your mortal nation in sin.

Turn ye your back, and without the slightest hesitation, repent to G-D when they turn upon you;
Lest they strike you down, and in this Land of the Living you meet your end.

Have you seen an angel cloud? Are they yet garbed for war?

Pass ye on the message for man to receive the Gospel of Jesus Christ and repent,
That from the Day of G-D’s coming Judgment and Wrath upon the ungodly,
And into a place of Heavenly safety, you might be sent.

Have you seen an angel cloud? You will know when you do.
A moment it is clearly there, and then it is completely gone.

Know then, while you were watching the angels,
They were also watching you.