Selected Poems from Dr. Joel Church

Poems From the Heart
of
Dr. Joel Philip Church
A selection of thoughts in no particular order
-- Some inspired and some just for fun --

Index

Copyright Information

The Hand of God

Call to Battle

On the Farm

An Odd Disease

From Heaven's Court

The Captain

Naivety

Abe Devers

Doing Right

The Arrest of Dirty Dan

Beans

I Can Jump

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat

The Valley of Decision

Tomorrow (Prose)

The Ultimate Game (Prose)

The Victor (Prose)

Insomnia (Prose)

The Thinking Tree
Family Oriented Novel by Dr. Church
(Most of the poems on this page come from that book)
(Read Free Online)

Bible Stories go West
(Read Free Online)

Freedom Bible College and Seminary

Back to the Index The Hand of God

Man can achieve feats great and true,
But there's some things he can't do.

He flies the air with the help of a machines,
But never can he sprout wings.

He moves mountains and makes them plain,
But darkness, he can't contain.

He watches the sky through eyes in space,
But the start of life, he can't trace.

He forecasts storms as they drift with the wind,
But clouds and rain, he can't blend.

He can see the work of the hand of God,
But the way of an angel, he can't trod.

Back to the Index

Call to Battle
Arise! You tribe. Arise!
Why do you still grieve?
You hope and wait, but you don't endure.
But believe and you'll achieve.

Dance! Oh red man. Dance!
Clatter of the turtle shell
Chase the feather of the great eagle,
Wear it proud, wear it well.

Yelp! Oh brave. Yelp!
Spin maiden with flowing hair.
Hear the call? It cries for you.
Something's stirring in the air.

Don't dally, young man,
Warrior in the making.
Fight for kindness, learn of the land.
This country is yours for the taking.

Cherokee, Navajo, Apache, fight!
There's no white man to defeat.
But the demons of idleness and drink,
And the spirit of retreat.

Back to the Index On The Farm
Under the oak, a magnificent tree
Barebacked, shoeless and free;
Life oozing past.

Lean stomach caressed by clover
A grunt, a twist and over;
Sunbeams dancing.

Welcome shade from a passing cloud
A snore, too, too loud;
Snoozes so easily.

A woolly worm tickles like crazy
Can't kick, too lazy;
Tickles some more.

Mamma calls, "Come for lunch!"
Fried chicken, with a crunch;
Greasy fingers.

Time to do my awful chore
Feed the hog, a big boar;
Winter's food.

Life's so cruel on the farm
Overwork, that's the harm;
Work's never done.

Back to the Index An Odd Disease
Something made my heart thump,
Skip two beats, then jump.
Makes me dizzy.

I can't tell what's the source
Of this peculiar force.
An odd disease.

Must have caught if from her,
That's when it began to occur.
She's pretty.

Guess I'll just have to learn
How to live without concern.
Skips again.

It's really not that bad
It gives me a feeling I never had.
Must be love.

Back to the Index From Heaven's Courts
Shackled to a bed that led to the grave,
Beyond the ability of man to save.
Darkness was around my spirit and me,
The demonic coven reveled in victory.

Then descended from heaven's courts
A peace that defies verbal support
Fluttering from the tongues of angel's praise
Songs and hallelujahs not legal to raise.

Speaking so my heart alone could understand
Echoed God's eternal, majestic command.
“Satan you must go! Before you does majesty stand
Not in the form of royalty, but in the form of man.”

Back to the Index The Captain
I can navigate with my hands tied,
I can sail, paddle and guide.

I skim by the cheering crowd,
Sitting so high and so proud.

Uniform starched, pressed and clean,
My body trim, fit and lean.

I'm a great sight to behold,
My story will long be told.

Of pirates of evil, men of dread
And how many now lay dead.

I'm the captain, there's no doubt,
Yeah, that's what I'm all about.

Back to the Index Naivety
A time to discover a time to find
Life, mysteries of every kind;
Everything's new.

Guardian angels, always near
Almost grown, too big to fear:
Too brave.

Back to the Index Abe Devers
Abe Devers was an ordinary kind of guy
But he could shoot the old man and let him die.
You may wonder how a man so cool
Could do anything as mean and cruel.

Abe held a secret no one could know.
Without a word, to the hanging he would go.
Never saying the reason for what he'd done,
Or telling that he was the old man's son.

That would have been his miserable fate
For bringing to justice the old man's hate.
But he stopped while there was still hope,
Saving himself from the hangman's rope.

Back to the Index Doing Right
I search my heart and scratch my head,
Looking for the path to tread.
I know it's there.

Never heard religious preaching,
No one gave me spiritual teaching.
Though I try.

But I don't think it's such a fight,
To know the way that's really right.
Just nature.

I'll help a friend when in danger,
Even if that friend's a total stranger.
Feels good.

Back to the Index The Arrest of Dirty Dan
The arrest of Dirty Dan
Was a moment to remember,
All the citizens of Gopher Bend
Recall that chilly November

They stood on the sidewalk
They sat in the street.
They knew ole Dirty Dan
Was nothing but a cheat.

The sheriff came from Carson City
To make Dirty Dan pay,
For the murder he committed
A week ago today.

The sheriff walked to the saloon
The crime to erase;
Dirty Dan, the sheriff, good and evil
Standing face to face.

Dirty Dan, six feet four.
Dark eyes came alive
As quick as summer lightening
Fire jumped from his forty-five.

The sheriff sank to the floor,
His white shirt turned red.
The arrest of Dirty Dan could wait
`Cause the sheriff, he was dead!

Back to the Index Beans
I eat with a spoon rather than a fork
Whether it's beans, cabbage or pork.

I like pintos, I like navy
I even like biscuits and gravy.

But when it come to pork-n-beans,
I'd rather have rotten turnip greens.

Back to the Index I Can Jump
I can jump so high
I can practically fly.
You've never seen
Muscles so lean.

There's not much
I can't touch.
When I really try
I can touch the sky.

There's only one concern.
I can't seem to learn
How to land on my feet,
Instead of my seat.

Back to the Index Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat-tat
The ferocious dog, the docile cat.
Like a jackhammer, tells his story
Never missing a chance for glory.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat-tat
The old man with a torn hat.
A fable with a clouded plot
And the trip to the cemetery lot.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Push or shove, he's still at bat.
He's done it all, one could say
As long as welcome, he'd love to stay.

Back to the Index The Valley of Decision
Multitudes in the valley of decision.
They stand at a place of eternal transition.
Who can hear their desperate cry?
Their reward? Hell's death. or Heaven's supply.

Stark skeletons of things that could be.
Images of the enemy's dark victory.
Helpless they stand, in dismal defeat they fall.
No light in the tunnel, no salvation to recall.

Will you come? Will you be my guide?
I will come and stand by your side.
Will I perish? Will you show me the way?
Forever in God's presence never to stray.

Back to the Index

(Prose)

    TOMORROW

    Dr. Joel Philip Church
    November 14, 1983

    The old, weatherbeaten, fishing boat sat almost completely still within the regions of the doldrums of the North Pacific. The odor of previous catches of cod lingered in the motionless air. Torn sails hang limply as if to mock the Captain's prayer for a westerly wind. The craft had been drifting aimlessly for thirty-seven days in the midst of a breathless ocean.
    "Pull in the nets and harvest the day's catch," the Captain urged.
    "Tomorrow we will pull in the nets. Tomorrow," said the First Mate.
    His reply didn't show disrespect, but instead reflected connotations of indolence. He leaned against the side of the boat, and then moved to the right to catch the umbra cast by the main sail.
    "Mend the sails and tighten the rigging," the Captain said.
    "Tomorrow we will mend the sails and tighten the rigging. Tomorrow," said the First Mate.
    The Captain's small stature and high pitched voice hinted of personal weakness, but he was wise in the characteristics of the Doldrums. He also knew that good winds, which blew for three or four hours, would be enough to set the stranded vessel free from the clinches of the phenomenon.
    As the sun appeared on the horizon, on the thirty-eighth day, a breeze began its inception in the West.
    "Pull in the nets and mend the sail. The winds are coming," the First Mate commanded.
    The zephyr grew stronger and the seamen worked with furor. By noon, the net was in, the seamen had repaired the sails, and the boat was ready to move ahead. The sails filled and the vessel began to move, but only for a moment. Again they fell limp as the wind retreated to its place of hiding.
    Drifting somewhere in the confines of hopelessness the First Mate's voice echoes in infinity. "Tomorrow...tomorrow."
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(Prose)
THE ULTIMATE GAME
by
Dr. Joel Philip Church

E.C. Davis said in GOLF Magazine, "Golf is another way of relaxing and having fun. It is a chance to exercise in the outdoors."
I finished reading the article and was alive with new determination to get on the links. I knew I was ready to taste the thrill of victory and leave behind the agony of defeat.
On that beautiful Sunday afternoon I arrived at the country club, feeling confident that this day I would be in command. The memories of past blunders were hidden deeply in my subconscious mind.
I proudly stepped to the Number 1 tee. My mind was recapping the proper procedure to get that record-breaking drive. "Address the ball, knees bent, eye on ball, left arm straight, follow-through after contact..." Falling into a state of total
concentration, I executed my most magnificently smooth backswing ever. I knew the solid contact had hurled my ball into infinity.
I was trying to get the projectile in eyesight when a loud, ear-piercing "bang" echoed across the course. It was then that I ocated the ball; still rolling from a bounce off of the side of a metal equipment shed.
The first hole was a par three. After seven strokes and three carefully executed putts, the ball fell into the hole. I Repaired my divots on the green, and replaced the flag. Looking to see if my game was being witnessed, I made my way toward the second tee. My rented pull cart was making a "squeak, squeak, squeak" noise, counting cadence with my steps.
Behind me, I recognized the "whir" of a motorized golf cart. When I turned, I saw five of the shiny machines, each proudly mounted by a senior citizen. With a fake, "happy golfer" smile, I waved for them to play through. They quickly sunk their balls and rumbled past. I kept my smile and waved but thought, "I hope you
get mud on your tires, you bunch of ancient Hell's Angels."
From that point, my game became increasingly worse. On the fifth tee I sliced a ball out of my fairway, across the rough, and straight toward a lone golfer on an adjacent fairway. In panic I yelled "fore...fore!" just as the ball hit him solidly on his right golf shoe.
By the time I had played the last hole, I was in total devastation. My clubs were in a severe state of disorder, My clothes looked like I had refereed a mud wrestling match. Of the two dozen balls I started with, three were left. One of them had been cut by my five iron. I chipped the iron when I hit a rock in the rough near the eighth tee.
I was trying to regain my composure as I walked toward the clubhouse, when a wheel fell off my cart. Some dude in a "Bob Hope Classic" T-shirt sauntered by. He smiled as I carried the piece of junk.
Struggling to get through the door, I took the cart to the desk clerk. When she beheld my glory, she asked in disbelief, "What happened?"
I considered telling her that it was run over by a pack of senior citizens, but instead I offered to pay for the damage. She promptly agreed to my proposal of five dollars.
That day I left the golf course a little wiser and much older. Once again, I had met the challenge. Once again, I had tested my skills against the great outdoors. But will I ever again put myself through this hell on earth for no logical reason? Of course I will.
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(Prose)

    THE VICTOR

    Dr. Joel Philip Church
    April 15, 1990

    The Victor saw the conflict between ego, intellect, and society. He saw the destitute homeless under the Brooklyn Bridge and he gave them homes. He saw a mother trapped in the clinches of poverty on a mountain in Tennessee and gave her food. He saw a child in San Salvador, orphaned by civil turmoil and he became her father. He saw a man in Russia starved for theocratical knowledge and he taught him. He saw an innocent in prison and freed him. He saw a boy in New York abused and degraded and he comforted him.
    He defeated the demons of evil and darkness. He conquered the antediluvian concepts of the righteousness of mankind. He proved the world system can be free.
    He retreated into the confines of himself to contemplate the victory over all wrong. His retreat became a cage and he became a prisoner, locked and separated from existence. He cried for release but no one heard. He reached for a hand to pull him to freedom but no one was there. Now he is a captive, unable to climb to safety but no one knows. The world celebrates the present but no one remembers the Victor. He is lost in a fog of forgetfulness. If he should perish no one would morn.
    The Victor is defeated.
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(Prose)

    INSOMNIA

    Dr. Joel Philip Church
    April 13, 1990

    The night was too long. Sleep fled like a cotton-tail rabbit from a hungry hound dog. Eye lids closed in an attempt to defeat the demon of anxiety. They closed tight then sprang open as if being incarcerated in a fixed stare by some imperceptible force.
    One o'clock, two o'clock. The tick-tock of the ancient time-piece was tranquil and soothing on a good night, but last night reflected the soul of a jack hammer. Each "tick" became an ear piercing scream. Each "tock" cried with the voice of infinity.
    Three o'clock. Eye lids became heavy and sleep was imminent. Suddenly out of the hidden depths of the sub-conscious, an unspoken wail caused the eyes to again open wide. The wail was from a seemingly defeated segment of an inward battle.
    Four o'clock. Outside the window the normally comforting reverberation of a spring shower became a driving force, a tumult of mixed pandemonium. A drop of rain fell on an old abandoned Coke can. Bang! And again, Bang!
    Five o'clock and the rain shower desisted. Morning sun was finally glowing in the East. No, It was just a distant car headlight. More darkness. Laconic darkness.
    Six o'clock. Daylight commissioned a sun-ray to dance on the bedroom wall. Another beautiful day. Like the appearance of a long-lost best friend.
    Another day has dawned. This day is unique. It will be a wonderful day. I just know it will.
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Freedom Bible College and Seminary

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