

### "i bLEed DaRk –

Poems About Pain, Life, Heavy Metal and Jesus Christ"

### By Rob and Trey Weddle

### Copyright 2012 Rob and Trey Weddle

### Smashwords Edition

### Smashwords, License Notes

### This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

POEMS:

Titles A – F

A Tortured Spirit Takes a Stab at Love  
Adieu – A Pep-talk to the Wounded Mirror-man  
After Babylon is Dead  
Because of You; A Dedication of Love to Mom  
Being Me  
Black Ship, _by Trey  
_ Bleed  
Carpe Diem  
Circles in the Sky, _by Trey  
_ Did'ju Forget About Hell?  
Don't Wanna Wake Up  
Fight On, Mighty Warrior  
From Death to Life  
From Knife to Cross, _by Trey_

Titles G – L

Galumphing Shlub  
Gentleman Will

Give it a Minute  
God, Man  
God I Hate That Man  
Gotta Lot  
Hall of the Funeral Stare  
His Blood Covers the Lot  
Horror Cries Behind...  
I bLEed DaRk  
I Can't See You  
I Know That Look  
In Response to Gandhi  
It's Time  
Leatherheart  
Lost

Titles M – N

Mask, _by Trey  
_ Me'n the Devil  
Misguided Souls, _by Trey  
_ Mock, Marvel or Move Out the Way  
My Daughter/My Angel  
My Entourage  
My Little Princess  
My Son  
My Vow to You  
Mystery of the Exploding-Light Goddess  
Needle Fascination  
Never Give Up, Never Give In  
No Fear and No Regrets  
Notes to a Potential Prisoner – A Poem for Rhonda

Titles O – S

Oh, What a Tragic Legacy!  
Painted Toenails on the Slab  
Peephole  
Poem to My Lil' Bit  
Prayer at Siren's Call  
Proverbs 7 (Looks That Kill)  
Rat in the Palace  
Rumors  
S'all Good  
Simple Prayers  
Sir Death  
Soldier's First War  
Stains, _by Trey_

Titles Starting With "T"

Tara, _by Trey_ and _Rob  
_ The Ballad of Robert Lee  
The Cold  
The Crimson Pen  
The Frozen Edge of Hell  
The House of Angelee  
The Little Girl  
The Only Poem in This Book a 10-Year-Old Boy Might Read  
The Scoundrel  
The Seen and the Unseen  
The Tale of Dwight McGhee  
The Waiting  
'Till the Lord Slay the Pain or the Pain Overtake  
Twenty-Seven Club

Titles U – Z

Untangled  
Warrior-Pope  
We Are Not As You Suppose  
Who Am I? _by Trey  
_ Wicked Nightmares  
Your god, as told by God-haters, _by Trey_

Heavy Metal Poems: All Titles

Concert Behind My Eyes  
Gross  
Heavy Metal  
Keep Rockin'  
Metal Head  
Metal is Life  
Omen of Impending Righteousness  
Poison Wine  
Spider-Vibe  
The Overlook

Them

### Dedicated to Laura

### My Little Princess

### You are now, and forever will be, "Mi Vida"

INTRODUCTION

I am a poet.

Many have written about the clichéd "tormented soul of the artist," but the great dichotomy of _my_ soul is that I feel equal parts contentment and torment. While my contentment with life is a constant reminder of how blessed I am, I do have my share of both physical and emotional struggles. But more on that in a moment.

While I feel it is not imperative for an artist—defining "artist" in the liberal sense, meaning "creator"—to have a tormented soul, it does seem tragically characteristic. This is evidenced by great poets such as Ernest Hemmingway, Sylvia Plath and Charles Baudelaire. Despite my struggles of the flesh and spirit, though, I thank God for the happiness I feel. It seems to be progressively intensifying with age, and I pray one day will overtake my whole being completely.

It took half a lifetime to realize I am a poet, and the various goals I've set and fallen short of could fashion a patchwork quilt of broken dreams. For example, I squandered away a few years dreaming of being a full-time, best-selling novelist. I was certain I would outsell both Dekker and King, and could almost see my name in lights, being touted as "the next big thing." The plan was to create the perfect writing environment by spending part of my vast fortune on a two-story, yellow-pine log cabin overlooking a lake. This would be a place where I could relax and pour all my effort into cranking out novel after _amazing_ novel, all the while smoking a sweet-smelling pipe and taking afternoon power naps.

But I finally seen through this smoky illusion, and allowed life to humble my expectations.

This is not to say I will not write novels; to the contrary. It's just that I finally understand the poet in me will drive every writing project I pursue. You see, though I may not have the means (yet) to write novels as my 'round-the-clock gig, there is still, in the recesses of my grey matter, whispers alluding to my impending first work of fiction. In fact, even as I type this, I am planning a future writing project: a story from a trademarked, self-created universe of angelic and demonic characters, called "Demonkill." In my mind, a Demonkill novel simply _begs_ to be written. Someday soon I will place these characters in the midst of a seemingly impossible situation, and then script their remarkable journey to safety. The "Demonkill" name leaped into my head nearly 20 years ago, and I take the fact that I can't escape the idea as a sign this dream will be realized.

So remember the name: DEMONKILL. With any luck, you will not be able to graze the Christian Fiction section of your local bookstore in a few years without seeing it.

I also fancied myself a comic book creator for a while, bringing artists on board with me to make Demonkill come to life in sequential art form. I acquiesced, however, after we took nearly three years to complete one mediocre, 22-page edition. Fingers pointed in every direction, our colorist quit, our primary artist moved out of state, and we all eventually went our separate ways. Eventually, all was forgiven, and they remain my brothers. I believe we simply tried to move the hand of fate, which, as many know, is a hand only God can move.

In another season of my life I fancied myself a bourgeoning rock star. While enjoying a brief stint as a locksmith—a career I had to give up after my first back surgery—I hooked up with a co-worker named Mark, who was also an awesome guitar player. I dug the hard rock instrumental tracks he had laid down on his 4-track recorder, and he dug the poetry I had been writing, so it seemed a natural fit. Since a great song lyric reads like a poem, I shaped a few poems to fit the music better, and he encouraged me to sing lead. We basically locked ourselves in one night a week, intent on recording the ultimate heavy metal demo. Unfortunately, a couple of years into our partnership, Mark lost his father. It was quite unexpected, so to cope with this sudden tragedy, he felt he needed to leave behind many things which reminded him of his past. This included our music, so that, as they say, was that.

Some of the lyrics from my demo are included, and being able to use these "poems-turned-song lyrics-turned poems" as a part of the book is just another reminder of my true calling. Despite all the careers and dreams which have arisen in my spirit, only to die, gasping, bloody and convulsing, it is the _poet_ in me who refuses to "go gentle into that good night" (from a cool Dylan Thomas poem; check it out).

Incidentally, writing poetry is what birthed the writer in me in the first place, during my first round of college as an angry and restless 18-year-old. It was then I met Laura, the beautiful, young lady who would soon become my wife, and lost interest in school completely. I was enjoying my new-found, post-high-school freedom _and_ my enchanting new relationship, so "losing" said interest was no great surprise. Since I had no car, and Laura lived an hour away, I could only see her on weekends when I would bum a ride off of a schoolmate. To help alleviate weekday loneliness I began expressing my feelings in the form of poetry.

Once Laura and I were engaged, I dropped out of college and decided to actually _live_ instead of "wasting" my days merely _reading_ about life. So, I stopped writing for a spell, but the poet in me was not deceased; just comatose.

Many years passed, my children were born, a few different careers came and went, and I eventually finished my Bachelor's Degree in Communication. A couple of years ago, though, while doing my graduate work in Criminal Justice, I was overtaken with a longing to write something, _anything,_ besides 18-page, graduate-level papers. Crafting new poems started as a great way to relieve stress. Since I was extremely busy working 40 hours a week, taking Master's courses full-time and working on my graduate internship at a state prison, writing poems was all I had time for. It was right about the time I was preparing for graduation that a funny thought hit me:

"I'm a poet," I said out loud one morning about 5:00 a.m. to no one, and smiled at the thought.

I previously understood that I was born to be a writer, but the gift of _poetry_ is something I can use in other parts of my writing as well. When I read certain authors like Eugene Peterson and Ray Bradbury, I realize the _poet_ in me will assist in carving out even better novels than I could have before I awakened this "sleeping giant."

While it is possible I will pine away at my craft, only to be discovered once I am dancing barefoot among the angels, I shall at least be dining at the feet of the gods (Poe, Dickinson and van Gogh, anyone?). You, the reader—my partner during this fantastic voyage—will read about my search for the ever-elusive "meaning of it all." You will entertain tales of love, life and loss; of destruction, death and destination. Additionally, you will not only read about light and laughter, but also of darkness and damnation. Furthermore, you will feel my heart cry out in celebration of my love for God and family.

Among the wide array of poetry in "i bLEed DaRk" are a few poems written for Laura, the great love of my life. As of this writing we have been married nearly 25 years; she is my "Little Princess" (my nickname for her since we fell in love as teenagers), and I greatly cherish every moment with her. There are poems to both my children, as well. First, to my 23-year-old daughter, Jessica ("Jess"), who has slain her own demons of spousal abuse and drug addiction with a smile and an infectious belly-laugh. You'll also read poems dedicated to my 13-year-old son, Trey. Though he contends with a spirit of fear, he has a heart of gold, and has a love for humanity which is rare in these hurried times. Nearly every day we spend together is a blissful reminder to not take my life and art _too_ seriously.

As is obvious by the authors listed on the cover, Trey also wrote some of the poems in the book, and they will be marked with the words, "By Trey Weddle." All other poems were written by me, and thus, do not list me as author. Upon what I perceived to be the original completion date of this book, when it only contained three poems by Trey, I told him if he wanted to write a couple more, he could feel free to do so.

"No pressure," I assured him, putting my arm around his shoulder, "Only if you want to. You are listed as co-author whether you write any more poems or not."

He just muttered, "Ok," and went back to his video game. A few days later we were visiting my in-laws. My wife and her mom were at the nursing home tending to her dad, who is in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's disease, while Trey and I stayed back at her mom's apartment. With nothing on television, we began searching for activities to pass the time.

"Hey, I know," Trey said. "Does grandma have any paper?"

After drudging up a half-chewed pencil with no eraser and a gnarled-up notebook with a crooked spiral binder, which my mother-in-law uses to keep score during any one of a dozen card or dice games she and my wife play during our visits, Trey was all set. He sat about writing a poem immediately.

_Scribble, scribble, scribble_ he went on the old tablet, and then ripped out the piece of paper, smiling, and asked, "What do you think?"

"Wow!" I replied after reading the poem he had written in less than five minutes.

Ten minutes later: _scribble, scribble, scribble,_ and then, "How's this one?"

"Cool!" I answered in shock.

This was repeated three more times, until, creatively, he felt drained. Meanwhile, I was absolutely floored, and even more so when I read them and realized they were great, just as they were. They are in the book untouched, word-for-word as Trey penned them (well, except for one _suggestion_ I made for "Your god, as told by God-haters," which you will read later).

"I don't write poetry very often," my (at the time) 12-year-old said to me that night, sort of wrinkling up his nose, as if the idea of writing on a daily basis was almost nauseating to him. "But when I do," he continued, a broad smile creeping across his face, "It just _flows,_ dad."

This is but a minute example of the talent which is housed within both of my amazing kids.

Regarding my aforementioned struggles, it is vital for you to understand that, while my spirit struggles with depression and an underlying sense of self-loathing, my body also dwells in a prison of pain. I suffer from four different spinal conditions—one which also causes hip and leg pain—and have had two major back surgeries in the last decade and a half. I also suffer from tendonitis in my right shoulder, which some days feels like an angry, little chimp sitting on my shoulder, clawing away at my tendons.

Some days I can scarcely breathe, heavy-laden with burdens which nearly smother me at times. With the bleak clouds of chronic pain and depression ever-looming, it is no wonder some of my poetry has a somber tone, something the great Johnny Cash so eloquently noted about himself in his classic song, "The Man In Black."

But nevertheless, I press on, for God, country, family and heavy metal.

"Wait... _what?"_

Yes, heavy metal, the obnoxious and arrogant music which has carried me through much distress and pain. For me it is the loud-mouthed, crazy relative at family reunions, who I am equally amused and bewildered by. Metal's loud and ambitious nature calls to me, and the escapist quality it so beautifully exudes helped me vanquish a grueling adolescence. It remains a vital emotional escape for me, and its _drive_ feeds what I refer to as my "16-year-old soul." A person has to be _driven_ to choose hope amidst winding tunnels of despair; _driven_ to succeed amidst a life of so-called "failure."

I have been a great lover of hard rock music since an uncle introduced me to KISS as a child. This make-up wearing, blood-spitting, fire-breathing rock band forced its way into my life uninvited one scorching summer day in the 1970s. When I was 10 years old, my parents purchased a new house. On moving day my grandparents and their youngest child, Aaron, who is only two years my senior, came to town to help us. The windows of my new bedroom were painted shut, and with the box-fans packed away and no way to raise my windows, the heat in that second story bedroom was almost unbearable. To get our minds off our misery, Aaron unveiled a double record album he had just bought, which had the words "KISS Alive II" emblazoned across the front. The dark imagery immediately captivated me. After digging out my little, brown record player from countless stacks of boxes, I unfolded it like a suitcase (anyone else remember those brown "suitcase" record players from the 70s?), plugged it in and started the first record. The music was bombastic and mesmerizing, and I was immediately enthralled. In fact, I don't remember uttering a single word the entire time the records were playing. By the time the second album finished, I was drenched in sweat and addicted.

Fortunately, or perhaps _un_ fortunately for my wife and sister, my passion for metal has influenced not only my two kids but my nephew, Zakk, as well. Zakk is one month older than Jess, and I took them both to Ozzfest 2001 (a secular heavy metal music festival which Ozzy Osbourne, or in this case Ozzy _with_ Black Sabbath, headlines) when they were 12-years-old. Ironically, Trey was the same age when I took him to see his first hard rock concert: Brian "Head" Welch, former guitarist for the secular metal band _Korn_ , now playing Christian rock. Zakk, Trey and I decided to go see the show, which was held on a Thursday night about an hour away from our home in Springfield, Missouri. Although we were all _exhausted_ for school and work the next day, it was an absolute blast, and we deemed it totally worth the gas, time, money and post-concert ringing ears. Trey had also made some new friends there, a couple of whom he began contacting on Facebook in the following days. We were horrified a few weeks later, however, when an F5 tornado tore through Joplin, Missouri, where we had attended the Spring, 2011 concert. It broke my heart to watch my son desperately search the growing list of fatalities each night on the news, looking for the names of his new friends. To our knowledge, none were killed in the horrific storm, but that made it no less heartbreaking for the people in our region to see the destruction brought upon this quaint little town.

Heavy metal and I are kindred spirits, and one of life's grandest kicks is writing about it. But this is a minor portion of the book; should you not share my fondness for the genre, there are still plenty of other topics herein.

After all, there is no accounting for musical taste.

Just kidding. Well, sorta.

One last note regarding my love for heavy metal: I have buried the names of a few different hard rock and heavy metal song and album titles, but have blended them in with the poetry so that, if you hadn't heard (of) the song or title, you would never catch it. I thought it would be fun for my fellow "metal-heads" to try and find them all.

In closing, I feel it incumbent upon me to spend a moment discussing our very different poetry styles. You will find Trey's writing style is direct and emotional. I made the decision not to be like some parents, who take over a Science Fair project for their child, and then put the child's name on it when it is finished. Trey's poetry for the book was typed straight into the computer from the notebook paper he wrote them on, with no changes or revisions. I hope you get as much of a kick out of reading them as I do. I can only add a hearty, "Amen" to the comment I keep hearing regarding Trey's poetry writing: "He has the gift!"

Regarding _my_ style, I'd like to mention two things. First, if you are a connoisseur of convoluted poetry (which a good portion of it seems to be, at least to my simple mind), devouring it like cornbread and jam, you may be disappointed with most of this book. In my opinion, what is the point of writing a poem which only the _author_ can interpret? We poets have the chance—dare I say the _obligation_?—to express common feelings and emotions which others can't put into words; why should we waste this golden opportunity writing nonsense which 23rd century poetry students will still be trying to interpret? Thus, if drawn to complex poetry like a hillbilly to a Chinese buffet (c'mon, _anyone_ can say "like a duck to water"), my style may be too unsophisticated for you. In contrast, if you find incomprehensible poetry about as much fun as a root canal, then press on! I feel you and I will have much to talk about when the ride is over.

It is, admittedly, a bit _deep_ at times, but hopefully not bewilderingly so.

If new to poetry, it is crucial you understand that reading it in book form is like Nyquil: best taken in small doses. There may be lines contained herein which you will have to dwell on for awhile in order to fully comprehend, but it is worth the effort. If you try and breeze through the book like a Peretti novel, you will miss the deeply emotional experience poetry was meant to be.

Conversely—or "second," for those keeping score—although some of my poems may be erroneously perceived as "odes to wickedness," they are merely a series of transient images, seen through dusty windows, flying swiftly by on my personal road to righteousness. My art springs forth from the unforced rhythm of my soul. It is the cry of a tell-tale heart, plagued by darkness and bathed in light.

Thus, with the opening act clearing their gear from the stage, and the headliners waiting anxiously in the wings, it is with great pride that Trey and I bring you, "i bLEed DaRk." It's a book he simply stumbled into, but which, through multiple hardships and happiness, I have spent 45 years preparing for. I pray your heart and spirit are deeply touched as you brave the path my son and I have paved for you.

Yes, Trey and I were born to be poets.

Thank God.

### POEMS

(You ready for this?)

Titles A – F

"A Tortured Spirit Takes a Stab at Love"

My temper flashes lickety split, ferocious blabber  
Spewing from my mouth  
Knowing my words are knives to those I love the most  
And hating them as they spill out

That's what anger is to me

A victorious Savior, whose very presence terrifies  
Even the most foul  
Savagely ripping Hell's keys from Satan's grasp  
As all darkness bows

That's what love is to me

Spirit perceiving the dread-black cloud, skulking  
Knowing it is on its way  
Fully aware I am helpless to stop it,  
and that it'll ruin my day

That's what depression is to me

A frail man, dying alone on a criminal tree  
Betrayed by one closest to Him  
Mocked and murdered by His heartless condemners  
To expunge even my filthiest sin

That's what love is to me

Scar-tissue only allowing a rare laugh inside  
But for the most part  
Living with the knowledge that I've accomplished  
Nothing, as it tears me apart

That's what bitterness is to me

A soon-coming King, riding a white stallion,  
Calling all believers home  
To dwell with Him in palaces of ivory and gold  
Never more to roam

That's what love is to me

Trudging through each day, understanding my self-loathing  
Destroys everyone around me  
Longing with all of me to love all of me, yet hating me  
And that pathetic reflection I see

That's what low self-esteem is to me

Days may seem to grow darker, but I fear not wicked spirits  
Knowing the world's Creator  
Looks on all of us with delight, as a doting father watches  
His child in a kindergarten theater

That's what love is to me

"Adieu – A Pep-talk to the Wounded Mirror-man"

Why do you bury yourself in denial?  
What heartache opened this gate?  
Say your "bleak future" has nothing worthwhile  
But your lies are wrought from self-hate!

A scowling disdain for who you've become  
Has privately haunted your soul  
Cower in shadows of where you come from  
And taken your eyes off the goal

You are a solder for Heaven and Christ!  
A child of our Father most high  
Did Jesus, our Savior, pay such a steep price  
For you to just wither and die?

When tendons were tearing and mockers were staring  
And His life was grimly devoured  
Did Jesus Christ bear all the torture and swearing  
For you to just act like a coward?

Plunge from atop this mountain of guilt  
And let God forgive yesterday!  
Though yellow roses have started to wilt  
I _refuse_ to watch you fade away

_So what_ if your dreams have gone unrealized?!  
Nothing's gone according to plan  
Your problem is you see yourself through _your_ eyes  
And not part of God's Warrior Clan

Your self-detestation simply won't do  
This cancerous spirit must die  
Thus, I implore you to bid it "Adieu"  
(By the way, that's French for "Goodbye")

"After Babylon is Dead"

After Babylon is dead  
The Lord's heel bruises Satan's head  
The spoils of war are peace and rest  
After Babylon is dead

Suicide refuge shrouded in smoke  
The canopied glory is our only hope  
Shelter in flashes of bluish moonlight  
A candle that waits on a Fire by night

Divining expert, burn your mask  
The soldier of revelry's stirring at last  
All are created in our Judge's womb  
The terror of God will be Lucifer's tomb

Enter the caverns of serrated cliffs  
Buttress the walls with skillfulness  
Counsel of daughters of satanic brides  
Crying to mountains to just let them _die_

Desolate glances shed novel blood  
The slumbering masses hide from the Son  
Chords of iniquity strangling necks  
And feed among ruins in brimstone pits

Convoy of sinners, their last freedom ride  
Unholy vices lay by their side  
But to the souls who will hazard the cold:  
The Lord will meet up with you on your dark road

Salvation's blood courses right through my veins  
Love possessed me at the brink of insane  
I'll not see Hell (only Heaven's terrain)  
God is the reason I've not gone insane

After Babylon is dead  
The Lord's heel bruises Satan's head  
The spoils of war are peace and rest  
After Babylon is dead

"Because of You; A Dedication of Love to Mom"

Because of you I was able to make it through my childhood with a smile...

Knowing you were always there for me, no matter who picked on me  
Regardless of the perilous, boyhood predicament I found myself in at the time

Despite the challenges of the day, I knew you would cook up something fattening and scrumptious, and then smile while reading Edgar Allen Poe by firelight

Because of you I was able to make it though my teenage years (although just _barely_ )...

When depression crept up like a thief in the shadows  
When altered states of mind whispered sweet release  
As bitterness plunged my spirit into staggering depths  
As confusion and anger rose to dizzying heights

At the end of the day you would put your hand on my shoulder as I buried my face in the pillow, and quietly assure me everything really _was_ going to be alright. Somehow, I knew this wasn't just another "mom cliché," but stone-cold truth, spoken from the lips of one who loved me more than herself. Your love was a symbol of God's eternal comfort, wrapping me up like a snug blanket on a winter's night.

You are my _mother,_ my _earthly_ creator, and I praise my _heavenly_ Creator for choosing me to belong to you...

When the world called me crazy, you called me "creative"  
When the world labeled my writing and ideas bizarre, you said I was "artistic"  
When I tried to find my way, you encouraged me  
When I found my way, but it was not yet my time, you prayed for me

You've loved, defended and comforted me; you've laughed at _and_ with me, cried for _and_ with me and even put a swig of gas in my car now and again. You're a beautiful spirit; a creative, funny, spiritual and loving person, and though I could carry on for two days about what you mean to me, this one thing I know:

When my star finally shines bright, on Earth and/or in Heaven, it will be just as much your doing as mine

I am the man I am because of the boy you raised

I love you, mama

Love,

Rob

"Being Me"

I'm sick of this Midwest, Blue Vatican Christianity,  
with "I Love Jesus!" on the bumper  
I think I'm stuck in a rut. Like a modicum of mediocrity  
and devil-fear has my number

Did you know at this moment, believers in some countries  
are being tortured to death?  
Even in my hometown, bar fights lead to murder,  
dads die of cancer, kids are hooked on meth...

It's not that I wish danger on my loved ones  
God forbid! But there's gotta be more  
I give hand-claps of praise while grandmas are mopping  
children's blood off the floor

Thank God for safety, but where's the passion?  
Where are _my_ Gethsemane blood tears?  
Could it be that, to those having teeth savagely pulled out with pliers,  
being _me_ is their greatest fear?

God help me...

"Black Ship"

By Trey Weddle, written at age 7  
_Trey was 12-years-old when I first got the idea to add a poem or two (which turned out to be more than two) of his to the book. At this time, he told me about the first poem he had ever written. It was called, "The Moment," and was about the last second of a person's life, just before they slip into eternity. I asked him if he wanted to recreate it for the book, but he shook his head. "No, dad," he said, "the poem was three pages long and written in_ crayon _. But I_ do _remember most of the words to my sequel to 'The Moment.' It was called, 'Black Ship.'"_

Black ship  
Oh black ship

Your tale is so short-lived

You sail around the world  
Blowing everything you see

You live by the sword  
You die by the sword

Black ship  
Oh black ship

Show me your life  
Show me your death

Black ship  
Oh black ship

"Bleed"

For my thoughts, a pence?  
Common sense built my snake fence  
Ignoring the foolish comments  
of demonic gents, who feign compliments  
Hence, their true colors  
will surely hemorrhage in the rinse  
(Hopefully that made sense)

Do I understand I'm more than a man?  
Plagued with a short attention span  
Yet third cowbell in an angel band  
I'm point-man of a hallowed clan  
Whispering prayers and making plans  
to take a stand against tyranny,  
against "the man"

Do my eyes say, "I'm bound for glory,"  
or do they tell a different story?  
Through evening news (blood-gory)  
and deskwork (dead-boring)  
I can play all _hunky dory_ ,  
ignoring my own memento mori,  
while tragedy remains as common  
as dust at a rock quarry

Let me put it this way instead:  
Did my stubborn head  
listen to a single word my spirit just said?  
Am I a mirror of the garbage my soul is daily fed,  
or do I bleed Christ-red?

"Carpe Diem"

_When my nephew, Zakk (mentioned in the_ Introduction _), was a teenager, I made him a self-laminated sign that said, "Carpe_ Freakin' _Diem" on one side, and "Seize the_ Freakin' _Day" on the other. He was going through a lot, emotionally, at the time, and it was just my unique way of telling him to not let struggles and hurts get the best of him. He thought the home-made placard was so cool that the expression, "Carpe_ Freakin' _Diem," stuck with me for years until I wrote this poem. The word "freakin'" isn't meant to be crude or offensive, but is more of a righteous anger, deciding, through gritted teeth, to squeeze every ounce out of every day, and to go forward in life, never looking back._

Carpe _freakin'_ Diem, man...come seize majestic day  
Rebuke our dark adversity 'till it starts to decay  
Been the victim far too long? It's time to get _old school  
_ By laughing in the wind we swear to never play the fool

Shake our fist at challenges and sweat until we bleed  
Realize that on our weakened spirit darkness feeds  
The enemy of human souls romanticizes death  
In Blood we vow to battle 'till our final, gasping breath

Lucifer will try to massacre our revelation  
Though he can never triumph unless we bow to frustration  
Victory is grueling, occupied by countless strife  
But God will slay depression with a craggy, jagged knife

Some will war against despair, or pain which never ends  
Those who conquer see life through a tainted contact lens  
Some will see the world as dark while others see it light  
But stars abide above the clouds of angry, April nights

'Midst the lure of desperation, run a little faster  
For every plan which works out, 37 bring disaster  
But Carpe _freakin'_ Diem, bro...we seize majestic day  
'Cuz setbacks are a desert rat and we're the birds of prey

"Circles in the Sky"

By Trey Weddle, written at age 9  
_While this wasn't the first poem Trey ever wrote, it was the first of his poems I read. I was so proud of it I put it in a frame, and sent it to a whole slew of friends and family. By the way, to show you how self-assured he is, after complimenting him on how amazing this poem is, I also suggested he should possibly consider changing the second line to "Lights off," since it is the opposite of "Lights on," from the third line. This made perfect sense to me, and I figured he would follow suit with no further thought. After considering it awhile, though, he said, "No, dad, it should say 'Lights out.'" Trey offered no further explanation of his decision; in his mind it was finished. He was only nine years old at the time, and I couldn't help but laugh and proudly honor his wish. I realized later that he kept the line as-is because these were the words his mom and I said to him every night when we tucked him in: "Lights out, buddy!"_

(The Dream)

Lights out  
Lights on

Run all you can but you cannot beat the darkness

Circles in the sky  
Fire comes down  
Strikes the street light

I wake up

I run to my parents and fall back asleep  
But it was not much help

Next...it is all _LIGHT_

I am saved!

The power of God destroyed the devil's hold over the earth

THANK GOD!  
THANK GOD!

You are so mighty

You can not be defeated, even if it was  
The most powerful person in the universe!

"Did'ju forget about Hell?"

Did'ju forget about Hell?  
200,000 new souls disembark every day  
I was curious if you knew that  
Seems to me if you really did care  
It'd show in the things you say

Did'ju forget about Hell?  
People slip-slide there every night  
I didn't know if you were aware  
You seem more concerned about raises, upgrades  
And I don't think that's right

Did'ju forget about Hell?  
Souls plunge into a ghastly war  
People like you and me  
Who used to try and save the world  
But don't even act like Christians anymore

Did'ju forget about Hell?  
People explode through its iron gates  
Determined not to serve Jesus  
Cuz of our inexcusable hypocrisy  
Which begets nothing but God-hate

Did'ju forget about Hell?  
I know it's not cool to talk about  
But we have teens and grandfathers  
Dying with no hope

Recklessly headed for perpetual black-out

Did'ju forget about Hell?  
Hundreds more turn up every hour!  
Screaming steaming seeming grisly  
People who used to be people  
With spirits lovely as April flowers

Did'ju forget about Hell?  
Souls catapult through blistering doors  
Thinking they're invulnerable  
Right up until the moment  
They discover its fiery shores

"Don't Wanna Wake Up"

Dedicated to AIDS victims the world over

This final escape is a dark twilight  
Living's the battle – I'm losing the fight  
One indiscretion has burned my house down  
Selfish pleasure relinquished my crown

If God is the bastion for scoundrel ways  
If Heaven's the honey which righteous ones taste  
If Blood is forgiveness for all who desire  
Then God please forgive me and save me from fire

Cuz I don't wanna wake up in Hell

A fatal disease converts me to stone  
When you're dying contagious pals leave you alone  
I'm _sick_ of this circus – I'm _sick_ of the clowns!  
So I touched His garment and felt love come down

My body's an altar of sacrifice  
In bargain with darkness my death will suffice  
Cessation of being – a demon desire  
The Lord crucified; died to save me from fire!

Death's sting is sin but Jesus, my Lord  
Covered the debt which I could not afford  
Healing is mine if it is God's desire  
But if/when I die I'll fly high above fire

No, I'm not gonna wake up in Hell

"Fight On, Mighty Warrior"

_For_ **Travis Charles Allen** _(09/09/85 – 12/28/05), written and presented to him about six months before he passed away from cancer. He was the nephew of a co-worker, and I wrote the poem after hearing of his plight. I'm told he was deeply moved by it, and hung the poem right beside his bed, which remained there until the day he died. I only met him once, but we embraced as brothers, and the picture of our one-and-only meeting (above) sits in my office as a reminder of how precious and fragile life is.  
Rest in peace, my friend. See you soon..._

Travis _,_

If one were to look straight into your soul  
And consider the wars that have taken their toll  
They'd swear to the heavens they'd seen an old man  
Who is worn in his spirit, yet firm in his stand

You've felt more pain than most ever will  
While fighting the Reaper who seeks but to kill  
Yet here you stand before God and your clan  
So mighty and brave for such a young man

The dragons you've slain (and the ones who still fly)  
Are tributes to how you _refuse_ to die  
But remember, young warrior, you're never alone  
There is One beside you whose Word is like stone

Commander of armies of angelic spirits  
Who soar through sky. When it's still, can you hear it?  
The brushing of angel's wings and battle cries?  
The call of the One with the _fire_ in His eyes?

It's Jesus, the Christ, Holy Warrior and Lord!  
S'got mud on His boots and blood on His sword  
He laughs at the wicked who trigger your lesions  
And butchers the demons who seek you in legions

Stand bold and valiant with double-edged blade  
So your heart can find peace and you won't be afraid  
Battle on, warrior! Fight right next to me  
And the One who fought Hell to set your soul free

"From Death to Life"

Death  
Is my curse  
A dreadful sinner  
In helplessness I observe  
My ravenous spirit grow thinner  
My character bathes in wounded despair  
And I reek of self-deprecating and injurious sin  
Last night's indiscretion hangs like dense fog in the air  
For surely I am a horrific offender – far lower than all men  
Ill-fated of my own accord? This my wounded soul cannot afford!

But all are fiends with dirty souls, having fallen short of His glory  
Our Lord declared there is none worthy (no, not even ONE!)  
His uncorrupted blood expunges every decadent story  
Heaven's eternal victories can never be undone  
For it was right here, this very morning,  
In the cooling breeze of the garden,  
Forgiveness outshone mourning  
And I acquired pardon  
I have blessed  
Life

"From Knife to Cross"  
By Trey Weddle, written at age 12

This poem simply blew my mind. Trey didn't ask my advice on it, and doesn't know anyone who has gone through the kind of transformation his words depict. As writers do, he merely took an idea, projected his own feelings and imagination into it, and wrote it. Trey is fascinated with the show, "Gangland," and says this is what gave him the original inspiration.

Shootouts to grill-outs

Drive-bys to drive-thrus

Gangs to churches

Cursing to praying

I was saved by God  
I praise Him  
And I will praise Him for the rest of my life

I love you God  
I will always praise You  
I will praise You

Titles G – L

"Galumphing Shlub"

_Everyone has had those times when you just feel flat-out stupid. Perhaps you said or did something in front of someone that left you feeling like a real idiot; a_ shlub _. This poem is sort of a Seussy tribute to that moment. One intriguing side note: my wife_ HATES _this poem. She finds it revolting, which just tickles me to no end._

Some _pop_ and some _wow  
_ And yet others _glub  
_ Yawning I bow  
I'm a galumphing shlub

My gravy-beard sweats  
In a bowl full'a grub  
It's as gangrene and wet  
As a kankle foot-stub

Crunchy green gelatin  
Sputters and blubs  
Then crawls off the plate  
And goes SPLORCH! like a nub

Chubby I fall  
In a thorn-sticky shrub  
Gotta bleeding eyeball  
Soaked in alcohol rub

Pudgy man-beast  
In a ketchupy tub  
Like a kick in the shins  
I'm a galumphing shlub

"Gentleman Will"  
_For my uncle, William Stroud_

Gonna tell you a story 'bout Gentleman Will  
A man who adversity cannot keep still  
A man of few words and a man of the Cross  
Whose faith is rock-steady through setbacks and loss

Gentleman Will flew to meet Uncle Sam  
When he served in the Army in Vietnam  
But he kept his cool, even through that mad war  
'Cuz he is unshakable, straight to the core

Will lost his daddy in March, '97  
When cancer advanced and sent him to Heaven  
And then Will lost mama some three years ago  
When she went to meet Jesus, to leave us below

But Will just keeps running and winning the race  
With a tear in his eye and a smile on his face  
And even through surgeries, heartaches and pain  
He will never surrender and rarely complain

Ole Will doesn't chase after silver or gold  
'Cuz he's not a rich man (unless you count the soul)  
But wealthy in spirit, he's one of those guys  
Whose laugh travels with him wherever he rides

This poem's for him 'cuz I don't think I've mentioned  
My love for ole Will, though it was my intention  
I don't wanna live like that cowboy, Wild Bill  
Oh Lord, let me live just like Gentleman Will

"Give it a Minute"

I know some long to die  
And I relate to what they're feeling  
They tire in expectation  
Of a nonexistent healing

They're trapped in melancholy  
And desire the "sleep" of death  
They dream of varied methods  
Which can steal away their breath

Their days are long and weary  
And their nights are ebbing dreams  
Bitterly they cry themselves  
To sleep each night it seems

They've sampled meditation  
But it didn't help the pain  
Even drugs and alcohol  
Won't make it go away

They let the whole scenario  
Play out inside their mind  
How and when they'll kill themselves -  
The "peace" their soul will find

So pray you find the moment  
When alternatives are nil  
And keep in mind that when they die  
Their soul will not lie still

Remember there's a Heaven  
And remember there's a Hell  
Remember Satan's all-too-real  
And they're under his spell

A spell of dark confusion  
That has wrapped around their brain  
The devil has dispatched an imp  
To goad them toward insane

Tell them God is real  
And what the Bible says is true  
Tell them God _did_ send His son  
To die for me and you

Remember, when they die,  
By the stroke of their own hand,  
Their soul is cruelly dragged  
To a forever-nightmare land

Remember at that moment  
When the peace they long for dies,  
They'll find "sweet suicide" was all  
An ugly web of lies

To seekers of eternal truth  
We challenge them with this:  
Can they talk to Heaven  
And not shake an angry fist?

Will they whisper Jesus' name  
To find out if He's real?  
The One they thought a fairy tale  
Through you can be revealed

Pray these precious children  
Cry out in their way to God  
And pray they'll find this deathly lie  
Is all a grim facade

We'll stand with them today  
And pray their mind discover peace  
The yearning of our hearts  
Is for these thoughts to promptly cease

Pray they do not victimize  
Themselves with such a crime  
Give it just a minute -  
They'll find harmony in time

"God/Man"

I can't stand here and produce  
Any physical proof of God, man  
Like a row of thorn-bushes  
Or a dented tin can  
But I understand

That's what some need  
They ask, "Why should I waste  
My Sunday in a padded seat  
Listening to stories  
Of how Jesus chose to bleed?  
Why? When I can wear a string of beads  
Or help the street-corner hungry to feed?"

But we know God is alive  
Every vein in our bodies sings His praise  
His blessed, joyful presence walks with us  
All our days  
It's not simply a phase

For the phase was our doubt  
When we swore that, like them,  
"Selfish pleasure is what life is about"  
For some, it took going through  
A frightful _,_ spiritual drought  
Before we figured it out

And now we smile  
While they, seething, shout

"God, I Hate That Man"

God, I HATE that man in the mirror  
And self-hatred breeds when the image gets clearer  
Bloated, gray and balding, skin sags  
Stretch marks, bent back, scars and eye bags

A picture that sits on my desk at work  
Is me at 19 with an arrogant smirk  
Standing by one who would be my wife  
The joy of my heart; the love of my life

But the kid in the picture (the one with the smile)  
What lessons in store, what a long, grueling mile  
Swelling with anger, depression and pride  
Thank GOD for the young woman there by his side!

The mirror was kinder in my younger years  
But the man I see now is less driven by fears  
The one staring back at me has a great life  
Two wonderful children; a fantastic wife

God help me not hate the man in the mirror  
And may I accept him as Heaven draws nearer  
For _this_ man's more simple to love by a mile  
Than the kid in the picture...the one with the smile

The man I am now has faith like a rock  
And finds simple laughter in my daily walk  
Kinder and funnier, with anger at bay  
Braving life's trials like a prep school ballet

God, you love them the same, I know  
But I love _You_ more every day as I grow  
So I promise I'll try to love me like you do  
And let love and laughter skew my worldview

"Gotta Lot"

I've gotta lot to be angry about  
Of this I have no doubt

Mislaid plans  
Mood-shifting sands  
Back-stabbing clans

The injustice forced upon me as a child  
The taunting of others, repulsive and vile  
My spine bending, twisting in degeneration  
Arthritic (my pain doesn't take a vacation)  
Depression, oppression...I'm tired and bitter  
Unfulfilled dreams 'cross this landscape are littered

Yesterday screams  
Malevolent schemes  
Pain so extreme

I've gotta lot to be happy about  
Of this I have no doubt

Peace and laughter  
A promise of the hereafter  
Life's better-promised next chapter

The universe-shattering laugh of a child  
Redemption that washes away all the bile  
A 'never die' spirit despite my frustration  
The pictures from my last Orlando vacation  
The love of a woman who knows I am bitter  
Yet never gave up on me; she is _no_ quitter

A family so beloved  
A past I'm finally free of  
Serenity, like doves

Yup, I've gotta _lot_ to be happy about

"Hall of the Funeral Stare"

Tattered walls bustle with comings and goings  
While spirits are strikingly bare  
Patron Saint Hope sail us fathoms away  
From the Hall of the Funeral Stare...

That place, oh that place! See, it haunts us at night!  
Their gaunt cheeks will zag thru our sleep!  
Movies of bedrails and bedsores and bedpans  
Have battered us mad as a creep  
Residents who at one time were conventional  
Grandparents, neighbors and friends  
Watch their identities scramble away  
Leaving zombies who beg for the end

Trailers, apartments and farmhouses  
Everything _gone_ , save a prisoner's chair  
Saint Uninsanity shy us away  
From the Hall of the Funeral Stare

Black'n'white photographs litter the place  
Mocking each as they shuffle on by  
Once-a-month grandbabies tickle their hearts  
But are gone in the blink of an eye  
What a grim circle we all must endure  
Thrashing all of us into the ground  
Never secede! Let us forge a new creed!  
We can battle the waves 'til we drown!

If our compassion can bully a grin  
Then our closing days here may be fair  
But with our essence we beg, keep us not  
In the Hall of the Funeral Stare

"His Blood Covers the Lot"

Somewhere there's a child rapist  
Who, unbeknownst to himself, laughs while his victims are screamin'  
Resting a cold shotgun barrel to his chin  
Detesting himself, sickened by his own personal demon

Somewhere there's a bitter, liberal extremist  
Finalizing diabolical plans for an animal-testing lab  
She's got two abortions to her credit  
A bomb strapped to her chest as she hails a cab

Somewhere there's a Black Metal band  
Whose songs call my Lord a whore and a liar  
Wearing corpse paint and covered in pig's blood  
Singing about the "glories" of Hell's fire

Somewhere there's a demented mother of four  
Using a ruler to craft her crippling red and black lines  
She's gotta make the 4:30 a.m. flight to Boston  
So she can display her freedom-spitting _"God loves dead soldiers!"_ signs

Somewhere the local Baptist church has been set aflame  
In the parking lot, a giggling trio of teens  
Not knowing the pastor's wife is inside, praying for their souls  
Horrified when they catch her last blood-curdling screams

Jesus died for them all  
And His blood covers the lot...

Whether I like it or not

"Horror Cries Behind..."

What horror cries behind my mask?

Molested by a neighbor boy  
(an act of which almost destroyed)  
A father who was there, but _not  
_ (though his forgiveness has been wrought)  
A double life of sin and prayer  
(the likes of which began to tear  
My lonely spirit right in half  
Although I would pretend to laugh)  
Depression, anger, loneliness  
Perverse deception, bitterness  
Dependent personality  
(which nearly got the best of me  
In a suicide attempt  
But Jesus wasn't finished yet)  
A temper that was so defiled  
I almost lost my wife and child  
I've also had back surgeries  
(my back and legs hurt _constantly_ )  
But through it all I'm still alive  
And still can feel that inner drive  
To study and to teach as well  
Life is Heaven, life is Hell  
Life is what you make it, right?  
So live it like it ends tonight

But tell me (now that my soul lies bare)...

What horror cries behind _your_ mask?

"i bLEed DaRk"

Yes, I confess: my hardcore sagas of war pour forth from a tortured core  
So please don't moan in shock and woe...I _know_ where this conversation goes  
I'm predisposed to the decomposed, while your pros are composed of roses and bows

Brother Larry and Sister Mary Sunshine whine and dine on divine rhymes  
But I was born of a fated bloodline...my spine misaligned, resolved to decline  
Somewhere along the line I resigned my mind to a more ghostly design

From sinister regions I whisper tales of dark legions, heavy metal demons  
And all those damned Hell-dwellers... _screamin'_

When pressed to dress for success, I confess:  
I pull my motorcycle vest a little tighter 'round my chest

And obsess

I've tried in vain to explain, but now refrain, complaining NOT of my crippling pain  
(Which, by the way, can drive a man _insane_ )

Yet it's on these rugged waters I embark  
When it comes to my art, I cry from the heart

i bLEed DaRk

" _Dear Savior, revive the accused! Strangle untruths by a sanctified noose  
Let my tales amuse and confuse those who choose a nefarious ruse  
May the flight_ appear _black as night!  
As long as the white-hot, blood-red light of Christ shines through, and leads to You"_

Controversial skew  
Admonishment accrued  
All of this hullabaloo?  
Eh, it's nothing new

Life's a deranged amusement park in need of a lightning spark  
Chosen to be set apart, I'm a seething burn mark...i bLEed cOLd aNd DaRk

I suppose I could apologize  
From my "crypt" arise  
Improvise...disguise  
But to profess such would be lies

For it is you _,_ not I, who sees through blinded eyes

So, if an admission of guilt is what you seek, I'm afraid the outlook is bleak

If you charge that my art is too dark, as slivers of charred oak bark  
My discourse too scarred, too avant-garde, my words too hard

Please, don't scribble a note to e-mail me later  
Just take it up with my Creator. I'm not a traitor, I'm merely the translator

"I Can't See You"

Our family has seen its share of abuse; both my daughter and my wife were, at one time, married to abusive men, addicted to the chemical or drink of their choice. We blanketed both ladies in prayer, assisting when needed, and eventually they broke free from the abuse that had them shackled for so long. This poem is the cry of my heart for all the women and children living with a monster today. We hear ya, and so does the Lord. Don't give up!

I can't see you  
Cowering in the corner of the room  
Like some woodland creature, aghast  
Hiding from your own harbinger of doom

I can't see you  
Crushed and battered past a ramshackle door  
Bleeding from the mouth and from the soul  
Wanting to die, but wanting to live even more

No, _I_ can't see you

But our Creator-God in Heaven _can  
_ You shiver in horror, drenched in cold sweat  
But even in your agony, you recall  
Times when you should've been slain, yet

Alive you stand!

This monster in your life tortures you  
Because of the anguish which burns them inside  
They act outside the realm of God's will  
No; this dreaded half-life is _not_ in His design

Afraid to stay alive  
But too scared to die, right?

Please know that I am praying for you

Just as your beast will never stop  
Raging against their monster, dark as coal  
I will never cease praying for serenity  
And for you to gain the strength to break free and regain control

The enemy of good wants to destroy you  
But today is the day you defeat him!  
If it takes a day, a month or a decade  
Today is the day you decide to _win!_

The time has come to change

For both of us, perhaps

You've gotta rage against the night  
Simply because this is not right  
If I can't get to you, I pray someone will  
Before your body or spirit is killed

Violence has no place in the home  
So carry Heaven's light in your soul  
Then rage at the night, against the beast  
Until the day you're finally released

We should seek charming rhyme in every moment in time

Please know that, while some wound and tear,  
I'll stand beside you in prayer  
And remember, the Lord is there  
You'll make it through this, I swear

Yet, in some tragedy we can find no rhyme or reason

This is the fabled "dark night of the soul"  
But joy, my friend, comes on swift wings

In the morning

"I Know That Look"

Nobody's perfect, especially us fathers. Sometimes we are dealing with our own childhood issues while trying to guide our sons and daughters into adulthood. This is no easy feat, even for a well-adjusted parent, but we must keep trying to better ourselves, for our family's sake.

God help me, I know that look  
The expression on my child's face which says,  
"Dad, you _really_ hurt my feelings"  
I wore the same mask many times growing up  
Never knowing how imperfect and scared my father must've felt

Like I feel

Never knowing how difficult his childhood was, his adulthood is

Like mine

I was much harder on him than I should have been, I see that now

It didn't hit me until I was a father, how difficult it is  
How much pressure you feel to _always_ have the right answer  
The pressure of _always_ doing the right thing  
And _always_ knowing what to say, and the perfect time to say it

It's impossible to live up to those kinds of expectations

But unlike so many, who have a warped sense of what a 'man' should be  
I shall not be ashamed to apologize to my wife or my children  
Humility is a balm of sorts  
Soothing hurt feelings with ice cream and tickle fights

Imagine if your dad would have said to you  
"I'm sorry, I was wrong – do you forgive me?"  
What kind of _amazing_ bridge would it have built inside you?  
_Between_ the two of you?

But then the question...What happens next?

God help me, I know that look  
The look which says, " **YOU** , dad... **YOU** are my hero.  
**YOU** are the one who builds my self-confidence  
Brick by brick, encouragement by encouragement  
**YOU** are the one who builds my self-esteem  
Brick by brick, compliment by compliment  
**YOU** are the one who helps me define God  
Brick by brick, prayer by prayer  
**YOU** are the one who helps me define the word 'man'  
Brick by brick, action by action"

Dear Lord, my family means more to me than life  
Help me to be the man they need me to be today!

God help me, I know that look  
The one I _know_ God has when I pray  
That look which says, _"It's ok to be human_  
_Mistakes will happen; but you must learn from them_  
_Wake up each morning with a blind determination_  
_To be the man you were born to be_  
_And never be afraid to say 'I'm sorry'_  
_Never be afraid to laugh at yourself_  
_Never be afraid to cry with your children_  
_Never be afraid to hold your hug a little tighter, a little longer_  
_Never be afraid to follow_  
_Never be afraid to lead_  
_Never be afraid to step out in faith_  
_Never be afraid to make mistakes_  
_Never be afraid to clean your wounds in front of your wife_  
_Never be afraid to be her man_  
_Never be afraid to be silly with your kids_  
_Never be afraid of the consequences of a well thought-out decision_  
_Never be afraid to put work away to shoot hoops with your son_  
_Never be afraid of childish remarks from other so-called 'men'_  
_Never be afraid to pray with your family_  
_Never be afraid to lead by example_  
_Never be afraid to..._

Well, never be afraid"

So I shall rise from my slumber this day  
And _try_  
For my wife  
For my children  
I have determined in my heart to fulfill my destiny of love and laughter  
Of encouragement, strength and tears  
I have determined to be a **father**

God help me, I know that look  
That elegant look which simply says:

"I love you, daddy"

"In Response to Gandhi"

I like your Hindu God.  
I do not like your murderous Hindu followers.  
Your murderous Hindu followers are so unlike your Hindu God.

Oh, and by the way:  
I _refuse_ to answer for 10,000 years of disillusioned, so-called Christians

On Judgment Day I shall only answer for me

Do not blame me and my fellow brethren for the past (and regrettable) actions of others

We are but simple, God-fearing folk  
Trying to live life in the best manner we see fit

However, should you need a friend,  
I'd be happy to buy you a slice of pizza and lend an ear

"It's Time"

A reclamation decomposed

As bullet-riddled spirit foes

Are dashing madly to and fro

And tellin' life, "Just bill me"

I'm way beyond just tired, man

A heart chock-full of contraband

And soul, as firm as shifting sand,

Keeps tellin' God, "Just kill me"

I'm thin with animated pain

Can't see the Son for all the rain

A mutiny of the profane

Yet I just keep on fighting

My life is at the half-time show

Yet I have no more thought control

Than when I was 16 years old

And sin looked so inviting

Can purity arrest the night

As shadows hide far outta sight

And low-crawl back to what is right

To snuff carnality?

Alive my body stands a chance

All should desire pure romance

And yet the wounded midnight dance

Awakens that old me

It's time

"

Leatherheart:

A Tribute to Uncle Jim"

By Rob Weddle

_I have two uncles who not only stand as living examples of good-hearted, godly men, but who both served in the Armed Forces in Vietnam; Jim Wright (pictured above, in basic training), Marine, and Bill Stroud, Army. Both seen action, but for some reason I had felt compelled to write a poem for Uncle Jim for a couple of years before actually doing it. I wrote a poem for Bill, as well, which is in this book ("Gentleman Will"), but it concentrates more on him as a man, and his easy-going spirit, and mentions Vietnam only in passing. For Jim, I felt in my heart that his war experience should be the crux of the poem. It was the last two lines of this poem which hit me one morning about 4:30, and kept playing over and over in my head until I got up and wrote them down. I spent several days writing and rewriting this poem until it was just the way I wanted. My wife and I framed it, and presented it to Jim and his wife, Sue, who cried as she read it. Jim is one of my absolute favorite people on the planet, and who, even when I was a kid, treated me with respect. This poem seemed the absolute_ least _I could do after the sacrifices he made (and, emotionally, continues to make) for this country._

The nightmare scenes which you have dreamed I cannot comprehend  
It must have felt to you that wretched war would never end  
Losing friends too young to make amends with death's grim hand  
You led boys into a war we still don't understand

But knee-deep in the blood and guts you couldn't shed a tear  
You marched into the foreign dark without a spark of fear  
To some it's just a number: "Nearly 60,000 dead"  
Yet Vietnam left ghosts who struggle on inside your head

Some hearts are slush and mud, tossed about in angry weather  
But yours beats fierce, encased within a skeleton of leather  
A spirit which was toughened in your unforgiving war  
Many have been traumatized by less than you've endured

But deep within this leather heart there's more than warring phantoms  
This man who laughs at hardship weeps at patriotic anthems  
And though you kept your sanity as those around you died  
Is that the distant gaze which sometimes hides behind your eyes?

Those haunted recollections will be laid to rest one day  
When death turns leather into wings and your soul flies away  
Many years from now your final battle will be over  
And I will shed a tear for you, God's leather-hearted soldier

Your family and your country are forever in your debt  
So here's to you: the toughest S.O.B. I've ever met

"Lost"

Life disemboweled 97.3% of my passion

Leaving me a hollowed-out shell of my former glory

Jesus, when did my dreams die?

Titles M – N

"Mask"  
By Trey Weddle, written at age 12

_Trey had not read my poem earlier in the book, originally titled, "Horror Cries Behind the Mask," when he wrote this one. I told him we probably shouldn't have two poems with the word "mask" in it, and asked him to think about changing the title. He pondered it a few minutes, and then said, "Dad, it's gotta be 'mask.' I can't think of anything else that makes sense." Thus, I dropped the "mask" from the title of my poem, shortening it to, "Horror Cries Behind..." As noted later about another one of Trey's poems, I'm not entirely certain who he wrote this for, figuring he will tell me one day if he so chooses._

You hide your face in a mask of anger  
But you don't know how much good you have inside your heart

We will help you find it  
God will help you find the good in you

You will be a good man

Don't hide yourself in anger  
God will save you!

"Me'n the Devil"

This is one of the "poems-turned songs-turned poems" mentioned in the Introduction that a buddy of mine and I put music to. It was written about the spiritual battle for my little sister's soul, who was on drugs and alcohol, and living with an abusive man at the time. I thank God she is now a happily married, well-adjusted, chemical and alcohol-free mother and grandmother.

This very morning I was praying  
Pleading for my sister's life  
Begging God to show her mercy  
Save her soul before she dies  
Heard a gravel voice speak low  
A winter breeze crawled down my spine  
Far away a grinding noise  
Dark spirits were about to dine

Distant recollections haunt the easy laughter of a child  
Then reality assaults where innocence is thus defiled  
Spitting disillusioned bile can only make a bad day worse  
Dwelling in a world of chaos breeds a vile and evil curse

But in the night it slipped right through; a demon born of pain and strife  
I cried out, **"IN THE NAME OF CHRIST, YOU STAY OUT OF MY FAMILY LIFE!"**

Needless to say, me'n the Devil had a talk today

Those who damn their souls to dark are frenzied, searching for the light  
Most who sleep in daylight tombs are truly weary of the night  
But out of malice God brings life and purity of heart and mind  
Our triumph in the name of Jesus Christ can never be denied!

This morning I was praying  
Sorrow carved into my jagged head  
Her tired face, corrupted mind  
Which lies in dust with those long dead  
Then I heard a gravel voice  
A straining and defeated plea  
A frightened demon called from Hell  
**"Creator God, I beg...show mercy!"**

Yup, me'n the Devil had quite a talk today

"Misguided Souls"

By Trey Weddle, written at age 12

_Like all poetry, this will mean something different to the author, my son, than to you, the reader. He didn't tell me who (or what group of people) he wrote this for, and I didn't ask._

You think you obtain glory?  
You think you obtain victory?

Some call you heroes  
Others call you filth  
I'm one of the few who won't call you either

I pray for you

I see misguided souls but do not judge

For you may find the Lord in the end

I pray for the misguided souls

"Mock, Marvel or Move Out the Way"

Have you ever felt like your soul is  
enveloped in morning rush-hour fog?  
As if your spirit is hip-deep in mud, lost in some  
murky, back-woods, Louisiana bog?  
I'm a child of perpetual light, yet half the time  
feel as if I'm swallowed up in dark  
Heaven is my Florida, yet I feel a driving urge  
to leave behind an earthly mark

I try to pursue holiness, yet most times  
feel like the unwanted foster son  
Will there be one shred of evidence hinting at  
well-spent days when my time is done?  
I'm told I should feel like a Prince,  
royally basking in the presence of my King  
So why is it some days, try as I might,  
this writhing heart of mine doesn't feel a thing?

Poets cry lyrical tears, painting splashy portraits  
of hope and perfection  
TV preachers squeal, "Glow-ray!"  
and then steal a kiss like they're up for re-election  
I, on the other hand, shall not mince words  
(least-ways not all of the time)  
I simply tell my heart to bleed onto every page,  
purging my struggles in rhyme

The Bible likens my journey to running a race,  
though most days I can barely crawl  
Sometimes I just bask in the Son,  
making no visible forward progress at all  
But I shall never stop fighting;  
I shall never turn my back on my beloved Lord  
You can mock, marvel or move out the way;  
craft my demise or climb on board

The choice is yours

"My Daughter/My Angel"

For Jess, with a scribbling of intent to Big Josh

I don't know what you see when you gaze into the mirror  
But let me tell you what _I_ see when I look at you:

Eyes alive... _dancing,_ even...waiting expectantly for the next challenge  
The same eyes which stared up at me as a baby, trusting completely  
In my ability to love, comfort and protect you from all harm  
Sparkling eyes which brought me to life at 5 a.m. every morning  
Eyes which spoke (and _speak_ ) volumes

I see a spirit undaunted by the confines of normality  
Hungering for more out of life than most

I see a powerful woman whose gifts are able to take her places most never could

I see a quiet, unassuming young lady who can disappear at will  
Blending into her surroundings like a chameleon

I also see a glistening star whose inner-light can, in a breath, captivate the room

A charming character whose laugh could steal the sun from the sky if she wanted

Everything you are is everything I hoped you'd be and more!

As your father I regret not one ill word I spewed forth in anger to defend your honor

Now Big Josh must take the place of coming to your defense, but please understand this:  
You'll always be my special little baby-girl  
We're eternally connected by love and _no one_ can take that away from us  
You possess a corner of my heart no other can fill

When I look at you, I will always see the best parts of me

I pray your smile gleams forever, lighting up rooms wherever you go  
I pray your spirit touches thousands as you have touched your family  
I pray you realize the only one who can limit you is _you_  
I pray you find the strength to make all your dreams come true

I release you from the confines of childhood  
Your day has come to step into the sunlight and shine

Spread your glistening wings and soar the Heavens  
For it's time the world be introduced to the angel I've known you to be all along

I love you, babygirl

"My Entourage"

I wrote this poem after being hurt very deeply by a portion of my family. I won't say exactly who, or what it was about, as that might cause "issues," and all has been forgiven, even if the other party weren't aware they did anything wrong.

Life hacks deep like a machete  
Cutting grave and saucy into flesh  
Grating on bones; slicing hopes and dreams like codfish

Fiends will smile while they ridicule  
Glaring into your world like dark spirits

Sucking the life out of life  
Turning their collective back on your grandest triumph

But I _choose_ to be happy  
Despite the world  
Despite the naysayers  
Despite the mockers  
Despite those who look on with disdain

Despite those who dub themselves "family"  
Yet rip me to shreds in private  
Or pay me no nevermind at all

Despite the pretense of compassion

Despite words feigning life  
Yet screaming "DEATH!" behind blue and jaded eyes

Despite every last one of 'em...

I know who loves me  
And though but a handful  
_They_ are the ones in _my_ entourage

"My Little Princess"

For Laura

Can words describe your loveliness?  
Fire laced with sly finesse  
Fascinating, captivating  
Splendor leisurely cascading  
Eyes entice and draw me in  
To sensual delirium  
Simple little lover's smiles  
Content ascent; delight beguiles

Through lows and stratospheric heights  
We prize both fierce and gentle nights  
Tears of ecstasy or pain  
Days of sunshine, days of rain  
From nights of merriment and joy  
To tragedy meant to destroy  
You're my soul, my life, my heart  
And Hell could not tear us apart  
You're the smile behind my eyes  
The brilliant light that never dies

Bathed in beauty, to the excess  
I love you, my little princess

"My Son"

For Trey, written in 2009

I can't believe it's just been 10 years  
Since I first looked at you through eyes filled with tears  
" _This is my_ _son!_ " I proudly exclaimed  
And my heart filled with love as I whispered your name

So little you seemed in your blanketed nest  
And I smiled as you fell right to sleep on my chest  
Your tiny hands wrapped 'round a finger or two  
"He's sleeping," I smiled, and soon I'd be too

We taught you to walk, your mother and I  
Our hearts broke a little each time that you cried  
But we were determined to chase fears away  
And surround you with laughter and love every day

You learned all your colors and then how to read  
And never once doubted we'd meet every need  
Your joy seems to burst out of every smile  
And your feet seem too happy to walk every mile

You are a miracle, I pray you know  
What an honor I have in watching you grow  
I know I have fallen short a few times  
But despite all my faults you _continue_ to shine

To say I'm a father is my greatest joy  
And I marvel at you; my namesake, my boy  
You're my gift from Heaven, of that I've no doubt  
For you have a light which cannot be snuffed out

So as you grow taller and stronger each day  
Please know I will never be too far away  
I'll be right behind you 'till this race is won  
Proudly telling the masses, "This man is my _son_ "

"My Vow to You"

For Laura

More beauty than a sunrise  
With a smile which brightens every room

A joyful soul who wars with me  
To stay the wretched hand of gloom

A lady when occasion calls  
Yet fearing no one in this world

A tired, splendid woman  
With the spirit of a little girl

You're my little princess  
And you know I'd freely die for you

But I choose something tougher:  
I will vow to always _live_ for you

"Mystery of the Exploding-Light Goddess"

For Laura

How does one finagle a star from the atmosphere and conceal it?

Would it not rupture light from the star-bearer's eyes?  
From their laugh?  
From their smile?  
From every pore of their being?

Would people not be drawn to the one with celestial light  
Bursting forth like a goddess?

So that's it, then  
I've solved the mystery

With a glowy-eyed smile you inquire,  
"Which mystery would that be, my love?"

Just this:

How can people be drawn to you more than anyone I know?  
More than me?  
I may be the writer, yet within moments  
People discover _you_ are the earthly light keeping my darkness at bay  
Though I would not have it any other way

For without _you,_ there is no _me_

But the answer to said mystery;

That of your endless and inexhaustible encouragement

That of your amazing and earth-spinning grin

That of everyone around you being drawn to  
The radiance which peeks out from you  
Like a wool blanket striving in vain to cloak the sun

Is easy...

YOU SWALLOWED A STAR

"Needle Fascination"

Written for Jess, when she was addicted to drugs

Needle fascination  
Foul hallucination  
Drift awhile in stench and bile  
Then wake in desperation

Tomorrow is too distant  
Future nonexistent  
Wanna run into the sun  
But habits are persistent

I can see your splendor  
Still so young and tender  
But all you see's a dull and ugly  
Corpulent pretender

Lucifer's a liar  
Destined for the fire  
Turn your back on nights of black  
And ill-fated desires

Heaven is before you  
And I can help restore you  
So don't sedate your own self-hate  
'Cuz I'll always adore you

On terror shadows dine  
'Till hate becomes a shrine  
Through self-disdain my faithfulness remains  
Sweet child of mine

"Never Give Up...Never Give In"

Written for Jess, early morning, Monday, June 7, 2010; the day she left for a drug rehabilitation center in Mesa, Arizona. I woke up around 4:00 a.m. with the last stanza echoing in my head, and it persisted until I finally got up and wrote the poem.

You are most beautiful and most treasured  
The finest of daughters a father could ask for  
My immense love for you cannot be measured  
And now it is time for you to be restored

I pray God's peace encircle you each day  
I pray His wisdom go before and behind you  
I pray happiness surrounds you in every way  
I pray each morning you find His mercies new

Jessy, I fight back tears as I pen these rhymes  
I _detest_ life for what it's done to your spirit  
I pray the devil burns deep in **HELL** for these crimes  
I pray he fries, screaming loud, so I can freaking **HEAR** it

I stand and shout at the cold, northern wind  
Screaming, "SATAN, YOU CANNOT HAVE MY BABY GIRL!  
YOU LIE; SHE IS _NOT_ A WRETCH, FOR ALL HAVE SINNED!  
AND NOW IT'S TIME FOR YOU TO SLITHER BACK TO THE WORLD!

YOU ARE NO LONGER WELCOME, SPIRIT OF THE DARK!  
I REBUKE YOU WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY WEARY BEING!  
WITH TEARS AND SUPPLICATION, GOD LIT THIS SPARK  
AND NOW, MY FAMILY AND I EXPECT TO SEE YOU FLEEING!"

You are a wonderfully strong warrior for our Lord  
But for now, please trod this hard road with grace  
For losing you is what I _cannot_ afford  
So take your recovery at a tranquil pace

And remember...

Never give up  
Never give in  
Until Christ returns  
Or Death calls us to Him

Never give up  
Never give in  
Until He returns  
Or Death calls us to Him

Never give up  
Never give in  
Until He returns  
Or Death calls us to Him

"No Fear and No Regrets"

Taken from our family motto:  
"No fear of the future, no regrets of the past"

No fear of a grim tomorrow  
No regrets of yesterday  
Don't look back in abject sorrow  
Force yourself to shine today

Worry's like a shadowed storm cloud  
(Lies designed inside the mind)  
Phantom thoughts who don a shroud  
With power only _you_ define

Remorse will execute delight  
When lifeless history invades  
Makes you veil the morning light  
In worthless tears and darkened shades

Greet the escalating dawn  
With thoughts of blind determination  
Tell the world you're no one's pawn  
Then let God birth a new creation

Fearing what is imminent  
Will masquerade true cheerfulness  
Optimism soon will end  
When hope bows to profound distress

Massacre your guilt with laughter  
'Till it cannot breathe...deceased!  
Past regrets are just cadavers  
May they ever rest in peace

Eager minds will hail the Son  
With aspirations well in tow  
Dreams can never be undone  
If you ignore the status quo

Have no fear and no regrets  
Of what's to come or what has passed  
Failure is an idle threat  
Go make your vision come to pass

"Notes to a Potential Prisoner – A Poem for Rhonda"

As mentioned in a previous poem, my daughter was in a drug rehab in Mesa, Arizona – a long way from our home in Springfield, Missouri – and Rhonda was her roommate. Rhonda had finally gotten her life together, after years of drug abuse, only to receive the news that the police had charged her with an old, drug-related crime. By this time she had reconnected with her children, "found God" and was sincerely trying to do right, so this came as quite a shock. It was also clear to everyone it was an attack from the enemy of her soul in an attempt to cause her to stumble. Upon hearing the news that she might have to go to prison for an offense committed in her "former life," she sunk into a deep depression. I felt compelled to write her this poem, and my daughter told me it meant a great deal to Rhonda. I don't even know her last name, and have no idea what ever happened to her, as my daughter left rehab and came back home to Missouri a couple of weeks later. I pray Rhonda is home with her husband and children; at peace.

Good morning, Lord. I'm...I'm not sure where to start  
I come to you with a cheerless and overwhelmed heart

" _I know, child. I can feel the pain  
Stirring within you like torrential rain  
I know you're scared and you don't understand  
But NO PART OF THIS is out of my plan"_

Your...PLAN??!! How can THIS be your PLAN, Lord?!  
My body, mind and spirit are practically in one accord!  
Through blood, sweat and tears I've come so far!  
I've gone through so much, Lord! I've worked so hard!

" _This is only an imprisonment of_ _body_ _, child  
But your mind and your spirit are free to run wild  
For they cannot imprison your goals and your dreams  
So let them explode as laser beams!  
Try to find laughter while others will wail  
And KNOW that your God can NEVER fail!  
Do NOT let the enemy win this fight!  
For when he asked if he could have the right  
To put you through trials you're experiencing now  
I pondered awhile, then made him a vow  
I said, 'You MIGHT send her to prison awhile—  
You dark enemy, so wicked and vile—  
But what you mean to destroy her will not!  
For she is my child; much loved and blood-bought  
What you intend to use as a catalyst  
Of her eventual destruction will just  
Take her to places which she's never been  
Where she'll be My light in a cavern of sin  
This will allow her to help out the poor  
And the wretched to carry addictions no more  
Like Peter and Paul in the Bible, I will go  
With her each day – everybody will know  
She's a warrior of God! You cannot defeat her!  
For I love and believe in and will now fight for her!  
Satan, you think that THIS will destroy  
This child of mine?! NO!! I will deploy  
Her to a new battleground when this is over  
For she is my daughter, my love and my_ _soldier_ _!'"_

Precious Savior, I know not what to say to this  
Should this happen, I'll miss the freedom, and morning's tender kiss  
But if this is the path to Heaven, I'll take it  
As long as You're with me I KNOW I can make it

" _Lo, I am with you_

ALWAYS

Even unto the end of time"

Titles O – S

"Oh, What a Tragic Legacy!"

I knew a man of bitter air  
With sharpened eye and tongue  
His presence I could hardly bear  
As he grew old from young

Not a single friend had he  
Oh, what a tragic legacy!

He lay there upon death's bed  
His wife as still as stone  
Though they said he'd soon be dead  
She'll be no more alone

For she knows not what love can be  
Oh, what a tragic legacy!

He growled at her into the night  
'Till full she felt of him  
Darker, blacker grew her plight  
Until his eyes fell dim

For not one shred of love had he  
Oh, what a tragic legacy!

No tears shed beside the bed  
As breath ebbed slow away  
No joy had we, but felt instead  
He'd squandered every day

And still in death a scowl had he  
Oh, what a tragic legacy!

She planned a cold and perfect wake  
With flowers bright and fair  
All "mourners" there but for her sake  
Contriving thoughts and prayers

For such a bitter life had he  
Oh, what a tragic legacy!

Although he lived in misery  
I'm glad I knew that man  
For I love all life's mysteries  
And steal joy where I can

My faith, my wife, my family...  
Oh, what a golden legacy!
"Painted Toenails on the Slab"

Painted toenails on the one  
Cold-dead upon the slab  
A bright red polish bold  
Against the walls so tan and drab  
Thursday worries stolen by  
An evil act of hate  
A vibrant girl whose day unfurled  
A sudden, ugly fate

Labcoat solders now begin  
Inspecting flesh and bone  
Grayed abrasions screaming out  
A story of their own  
One faux golden earring, where the other,  
No one knows  
Cut away the matching outfit  
Carefully she chose

Methodically the cause of death  
Reveals a dreadful truth  
Rope burns all around the neck  
A shattered jaw and tooth  
Then her broken shell is stuffed  
Into a metal case  
Until someone she knew can put  
A name to her sad face

Tears and cries of "Why?" are heard  
Though answers will not be  
Random chaos ripped  
The fabric of serenity  
Shadows there inside the tomb  
A shining light snuffed out  
And left behind a world of anger  
Worry, fear and doubt

But in a Heaven not so far away  
She is set free  
Her soul to dance among the angels  
Barefoot and carefree

"Peephole"

Got my cherry slush  
Hold a royal flush  
In my crooked hands I hold a half an ounce of weed  
One eye shut up tight  
Pinched and frozen sight  
Universe in circles while the icy mountains breed  
Bells are ringing out  
A strobe-light flash of doubt  
Colored bubbles sparkle and explode inside my head  
Double-swinging lovers  
Jelly in the cupboard  
A blanket wrapped in Kool-Aid stains to cover up my bed

Step two feet back when you talk stand in front of me  
So I can see you clearly

Fear appears as round and hazy  
Do not faze or shake me, dear  
Hello? Who's here? Perhaps I'm crazy  
But I see through my peephole clear

Cut my paper skin  
The magic's creepin' in  
Yellow pigments flaky lying dead right at my shoes  
Ride a magic broom  
Liquid orange room  
Never threaten me again I'm paid up on my dues  
Violet walls will crack  
A needle full of smack  
When the powder hits my nose I'm freaking up my head  
Jumping Jacky Frost  
All I held is lost  
All is hopeless, lifeless, man; it's meaningless and _dead_

Phantom drums appear  
Scratch my bloody ears  
Bloody speakers start to cough in choppy clouds of smoke  
I'm not paranoid  
_Wait...I heard a noise!_  
Control is the illusion when I'm ridin' high on coke  
On arthritic knees  
Begging Jesus please  
Melt the fog and wipe the sweat off of my fevered brow  
Clear away the door  
I've seen this one before  
As angels tend to wounds that speak of ancient, broken vows

Step thirty-seven feet back; the door is gonna blow  
The Lord has saved my soul!

Joy annoys as demons listen  
Lucifer has fallen here  
Hell beware – I'm on a mission  
I see through my new eyes clear

"Poem to My Lil' Bit"

_This poem is for my precious daughter, Jess. I am fully aware that I mention wrapping baby fingers around mine in the poems to both her and Trey. I am further aware that a poet is not supposed to repeat themselves, but since this is_ my _book, and that particular memory—along with both kids falling asleep on my chest when they were babies—is precious to me._

Sometimes it seems like only yesterday  
You curled your tiny hand around  
My finger, your head lying  
Gently on my chest  
Breathing easy  
\- At rest -

Making tiny child noises, squeezing such  
Laughter, so many tears, from your  
Beautiful eyes, and I would  
Smile from my  
Heart at last  
\- Happy -

Do you fully understand that this feeling,  
For a loving father, never ends?  
I still long to protect you  
With everything I  
Am, even if  
I can't

But you remain the angel of my heart  
My shining little girl, and one of  
My great creations, my holy  
Discovery. I take you  
With me always  
\- Everywhere -

You were dedicated to the Lord, and are  
An amazing and beautiful creature  
Full of His great love, hope,  
Faith, laughter, mystery,  
Light, joy, beauty  
\- All of it -

Please carry me in your heart, and know  
I am standing right there beside you  
At all times. My dedication  
Is that rare, cool breeze  
In the desert. Know  
I love you, babe  
\- Forever -

"Prayer at Siren's Call"

Our house is located a couple of blocks from a nursing home, and we tend to hear sirens on a semi-regular basis. One of the traditions in our family I'm most proud of is that, upon hearing a siren, we try and stop to pray for the entire situation. This poem is not a verbatim "Now I lay me down to sleep" prayer we recite, but is a dedication to our tradition. It is a prayer for the Fire Fighters, Police Officers, Emergency Medical Technicians and all others who put themselves in harm's way to secure the safety of strangers, and for the victims and their families, who never expected tragedy to visit them when they woke up today.

"Go with heroes, God, I pray  
And clear a path to let them pass  
Keep them calm amidst the fray  
On streets of blood and broken glass

Strengthen hearts of valiant ones  
Who risk their lives for us each day  
Bless these daughters, bless these sons  
Who dance in peril's flame today

May those caught in scenes of death  
Be comforted by Heaven's light  
Let the dying feel Your breath  
Caress their cheek at final night

Peace to those whose loss is near  
Be God to those who stand afraid  
Calm, I pray, these hearts of fear  
And let the sirens quickly fade

In Jesus' name...

Amen"

"Proverbs 7 (Looks That Kill)"

Once, God spoke in whispers, saying, "My son, remember what I say  
Treasure and obey my commands, and you will not perish in dust  
Guard my teachings as your own eyes; write them on the tablet of your heart  
Treat wisdom as a sister, and she will guard you from sly and beguiling lust"

Yet, from the window of my apartment, I peek out through the shutters  
And watch foolish men, young and old, fling themselves into the abyss  
Scuttling down the road toward houses of concealed and lethal desire  
Accidentally damning their souls, unaware that something is even amiss

In the twilight of the evening (and sundown is just the beginning, mind you)  
A creature of lust approaches them, dressed as night, plans of clever deceit  
She's always there, one minute hidden, the next minute bold as Vegas-neon  
Laughing, raucous and stubborn; born to wander lonely city streets

She grabs and kisses them deeply, passionately, with no shame or apology  
Sighing, "I have the makings for a feast; I know the burning I feel, you feel too  
I have covered my bed with perfumed and silk sheets imported from Egypt  
Let us make love all night, for I have reserved all my passion only for you"

Her clever words and come-hither glances seduce weak men into error  
Thus, many follow her blindly; an ox led to the butcher, a deer ensnared  
All fixated, careless animals, shot through the liver with a treacherous arrow  
Trapped, not knowing she would kill them, not even the wisdom to be scared

Again the Lord said, "My sons, listen to me; Pay close attention to what I say  
Don't be tricked by her; never go where she leads, and you can be saved  
She has ruined countless good men who have naively, needlessly perished  
Her illusory abode is a house of fools on the road leading down to the grave"

Whether swathed in flesh or staring out from a clandestine computer screen  
Hallowed men of destiny must vow to shun this cheap and damning thrill  
We've all suffered the pangs of Madame Lust, promising quick adventure  
But hear me, brothers: this demonic spirit is _not_ of God...

She's got the looks that kill

"Rat in the Palace"

Here, amidst all the golden silk  
There scurries a vermin, sir  
I speak the truth! For in this palace  
In this... _cathedral_...as it were  
Skitters tiny claws on marble floors  
Transporting ugliness and disease  
We must now dispatch a man from the village  
Who will dispel this dreadful creature with ease

Thus screams my heart in the temple of God  
Upon first entering the door  
My soul enemy, the village man, whispers  
"Unworthy vermin, nothing more"  
My sin wreaks putrid, bringing foul odor  
To such a brilliant and sacred place  
And I weep at my fetid wretchedness...until

Until

Until I see Your face

And you remind me I am born of you, my King  
You alone make me worthy  
And your hallowed blood expunges filth  
As I and my family begin to sing

"Rumors"

Yes, the rumors are true  
Jesus _is_ the only way to Heaven  
I know, it's been misconstrued  
Some say there are many ways to God  
Or at least, what, six or seven?

The other day some dude asked me  
"You Jesus people think you have found the only light?  
So all other religions—i.e. the whole world—  
are going to Hell? Ok, explain to me, _genius:_  
Why is it only Christians are right?"

I can't tell ya, bro

I didn't write the Book

"S'all Good"

In mourning of the lost art of "The Pursuit of Holiness" within the church

S'all good!

S'all I hear from hypocritical twice-a-monthers  
The "holiness challenged"

"Wait, why'd you order a whiskey and cola, bro?"  
"S'all good! Bible only says 'be not drunk.'"  
While a 19-year-old at the next table is confused  
He didn't think Christians were supposed to drink

A week later

A casual conversation is peppered with TV-PG curse words and locker room talk.  
"Wait, when did it become ok to talk like this, bro?"  
"S'all good! I'm not taking God's name in vain."  
While a 34-year-old thinks, "I'm not wasting anymore Sundays in church.  
Looks to me like we're all the same."

The following night

Charley Black surfs the net for new porn.  
He's read all the old stories.  
Fourteen blocks away, Charley's wife Judy is pressured into  
sleeping with her married boyfriend, the deacon _._  
Two hours later they pray, "Forgive me, Lord. I won't slip again. S'all good!"

The same prayer they've uttered 87 times before

"Simple Prayers"

Have you been taught to pray?  
I have, I dare say  
By podgy, stodgy professors  
In the most excruciating of lectures

They tried to teach how to preach, what to say  
Although most of their words have skulked away

There are many sides to me  
But I'm primitive when I spout God-pleas  
Just a one-trick pony, to be certain  
Once I step inside my prayer closet  
And draw the curtain

So be forewarned: if you ask me to pray in front of others  
My unembellished prayers fail to impress some Christian brothers

My words are a poor man in rags  
Creeping into God's throne room  
Not like those rare and haughty Theology-hags  
Whose elegant words have the aroma of costly perfume

No, I never keep the darkness guessing  
I simply praise God for His countless blessings  
And then begin:

"God... _move_ in the lives of men  
Attack! Invade with Your love  
Overwhelm the enemy with grace  
(The thing he's most afraid of)  
Forgive...and save... _now..._ today"

I'll never put on Pharisee airs  
For, leaving a slug-trail behind these uncomplicated prayers  
(after exclaiming it)  
Are several minutes of claiming it

It's no three-point, master-stroke  
"Look-at-me-on-the-street-corner" prayer  
But it's there  
Cascading from a heart laid bare

No, I'm not ashamed of my simple prayers

"Sir Death"

A fiend alive, a beast I died  
And no one dared to cry  
Except a mother, old and frail  
Who wiped a tear-dimmed eye  
For she seen not the monster there  
Laid cold upon the slab  
Blue skin cut and bruised  
18 holes jagged/ragged/stabbed

Chemicals had full eclipsed  
A barren strand of joy  
Pock-mark riddled from the needle  
Crafted to destroy  
Shining eyes within the boy  
Had long-since left the man  
Sickness fraught, a death brought on  
By scarred, unsteady hands

The gentle woman whispered low  
And tried to clean my wounds  
But futile as one drop of rain  
On tan and sandy dunes  
My soul, a cloud of muddy grey  
Trapped in a frame of bone  
Stood long beside my lifeless body  
Shaking and alone

I longed to hold the aging woman  
'Till her grief had faded  
But Death looked on with fiery eyes  
A spirit gaunt and jaded  
"This is not permitted"  
Said the ghost of blackened coal  
"You had your chance, for God decreed  
'One life, one chance, one soul'

"Wasted ye the days of sun  
So here, your Judgment Day  
Look upon this scene awhile  
Then we'll be on our way"  
Had my soul a beating heart  
It surely would have broken  
But sinners past have had their chance  
So not a word was spoken

Wasted I the days of life  
In drug-induced illusion  
A creature of inflamed design  
A victim of confusion  
Myself I killed, more bitter still  
One glaring truth had I:  
This woman cherished her first-born  
And wished me not to die

I went to speak but found no sound  
To bring apology  
Then Death had grinned his bitter grin  
And sauntered next to me  
"You have no voice," he laughed  
"No words are spoken by the dead  
Your thoughts and deeds in life  
Are words your wretched soul had said

"You've gazed upon this scene too long  
And I must not be late  
For many wait on Death's grim hand  
To intersect with Fate  
The fright of sinner's dying breath  
My single joy afforded  
I saunter in when nights of sin  
Have yet one more aborted

"A sunrise for the living brings  
The chance of God's salvation  
And yet upon their final moment  
Sinners find damnation  
Their life is gone, thus comes the dawn  
The law of sin takes root  
So Hell awaits with yawning gates  
All dreams and schemes are moot"

So turning from my mother  
With a grief no human knows  
I motioned unto Death  
That I was ready then to go  
Beneath the ground my eyes beheld  
A faint and orange glow  
And suddenly I knew it was  
The flames of Hell below

So while the fire takes my soul  
I have one desperate plea  
Embrace the Light, rebuke the night  
And do not follow me!

"Soldier's First War"

From the Desk of the President, Regarding our Dreaded Enemy:

" _This leader is cunning and vile  
A plague upon civilized nations  
Morality has been defiled  
But justice takes no vacation_

You've heard conflicting details  
But America, doubt it no more  
Democracy never fails  
And thus, we are going to war!"

My take:

My men have trained for this day  
This glorious, battlefield morn  
We must keep darkness at bay  
It's going to be quite a storm

Now we're unleashing _hell!_  
The echo of gunshot and screams  
The fiery sky casts a spell  
As one of my grandest dreams

Our attack is steady and strong  
A massive weapon of war  
I'm exactly where I belong  
I will doubt it no more

My loved ones fade into mist  
Then slip to the back of my soul  
Love and war can't co-exist  
If I'm to survive the foxhole

But today I'm SUPERMAN!  
A colossal destroyer of evil!  
Opponents fall, man-by-man  
The strong turn weak and feeble

Wait: one has broken the line!  
Five years of training unleashed  
This adversary is _mine!_  
Yes, I have _slain_ the beast!

But a _man_ falls by my side  
He shivers, winces and cries  
He's not but a frightened child  
His eyes...his eyes... _his eyes!_

Life skulks away like a thief  
Horrified eyes turn to glass  
And I struggle with my belief  
As a dozen thoughts rise and then pass:

"Is this real?"

"What am I doing here?"

"We have to keep moving."

"I just _killed_ that guy."

"Would you rather it was you, lying dead in a mangled heap?"

"Breathe, Lieutenant."

"Of _course_ this is real. This is as real as it gets."

"His eyes...did'ju see his eyes?"

"You've got work to do."

"Does he have a family?"

"Stop. Breathe. Think."

"This is your _job,_ man. Let's go to work."

"Stains"

By Trey Weddle, written at age 12

My son knows I am hopelessly addicted to crime shows such as "Forensic Files" and "The First 48." I had one of these types of programs on when he came in for a moment to see what I was watching, and then walked out. Five minutes later he brought me this poem. When I asked him what it was about, he said, "I was trying to think of what a killer would say if he was sitting in prison right now." Personally, I think the second-to-last line is pure brilliance.

Stains

Will this come out?  
Red on my shirt

KNIVES KNIVES KNIVES  
All I think about

"I'm sorry God!"  
I cry out in my sleep

I'm sorry God!  
I'm sorry God!

I cry out,  
"I love you God!"

You saved me from my dark covering  
I will always praise you

Titles Starting With "T"

"Tara _"_

By Rob and Trey Weddle, written when Trey was 10 years old.

Trey had to go to work with me one day when he was out of school, but neither his mom nor I could take off work. He brought what we call a "fun bag" (full of books, MP3 player, comics, PSP, etc.), but even with that, he was getting bored after a couple of hours. I decided to take a break, so I bought him a Dr. Pepper and a bag of peanuts and we wrote this poem.

I recall when we were young  
Our hearts were free and full of fun  
Movies every Friday night  
"The Mummy," "Wolfman," "Frankenstein"

But sister, that was long ago  
And only God and you and I know  
That so many tears have been shed  
So many nights you have bled  
So many prayers have been said

For you, Tara

To see you lying there each day  
So frail, my love, what can I say?  
I'll hold you 'til the pain is gone  
And pray you live to carry on

Through all this your eyes still glow  
And only God and you and I know  
That so many tears have been shed  
So many nights you have bled  
So many prayers have been said

For you, Tara

"The Ballad of Robert Lee"

_I was surfing the internet for interesting poetry and found an_ amazing _poem, first published in 1874, called "The Ballad of Judas Iscariot" by Robert Buchanan. While I would_ never _compare my poetry to such a work of art, it nevertheless inspired me to write the following poem (along with "The Tale of Dwight McGhee")_

There was a man named Robert Lee whose crooked spine did ache  
The pain was so intense some days he felt his back would break  
He carried on—despite his agony—with school and work  
But in the stead of festive grins he wore a bitter smirk

Nightmare recollections seemed to haunt his fitful sleep  
While emptiness from all the hurt into his mind would creep  
Bitterness and sadness came together as his foes  
The weight of life, a catalyst for that dark road he chose

Abhorring who he had become, he said he wanted change  
But happiness seemed foreign to him; laughter felt so _strange_  
Yet he knew he couldn't go through life with all these feelings  
So from his heart he cried to God for utter, total healing

Our days are written long before our mothers give us birth  
But God created everything; the sun, the stars, the Earth  
Surely He would wipe away all pain without a trace!  
So Robert Lee stood patiently, a smile upon his face

But lessons learned are earned and not a gift to man that's given  
Wisdom isn't cheap, or in a heart that isn't driven  
He read in the Bible that God's grace would see him through  
So whether healing came or not, he'd change his attitude

Maybe in the place of frowning he would smile at others  
Perhaps he could love his neighbors as if they were brothers  
Maybe He could laugh a little warmer and more often  
Perhaps it was choice—not life—that was his spirit's coffin

So Robert Lee on bended knee did thank his God for all  
For every tiny miracle which kept his mind enthralled  
But also for the gloomy times, for he discovered this:  
Life's a roller coaster ride he did not want to miss!

"The Cold"

I have a strange fascination with Norway, the birthplace of black—and unblack—metal (HUGE fan of the latter, by the way). The brutal, extended winters, from my understanding, are both mesmerizing and terrifying, and this poem, along with "The Frozen Edge of Hell," sprang forth from my great longing to visit this beautiful land so far from my own. Perhaps someday...

It's so bitterly cold outside

Icy roads encumbered by harsh, jagged winds  
A black-ice slide on a lonely street

Somewhere a homeless child dies with a frown

This weather makes me sick!  
I'm ready for Spring...

I'm so bitter and cold inside

Icy stares made worse by jagged, harsh words  
Foggy mind horizons

Arthritis screaming through every bone

Somewhere, like a homeless child, I die inside

This Winter makes me sick!  
I'm ready for...

I don't know

Something

"The Crimson Pen"

Oh scarlet pen!  
Lead me where too few have been  
Salvage nests of heinous men  
Dance near enough to smell their sin

Oh mighty gift/curse!  
Monkey-blood us like a nurse  
Crush devilry with winged bursts  
May purity craft Satan's hearse

Oh great harbinger of soul!  
When wickedness exacts a toll  
Your gentle spirit plays a roll  
When sonnets expeditiously extol

Oh crimson sword!  
Be the flawed hand of the Lord  
Where demons leave their stalls untoward  
Let cadence rage against the hoard!

"The Frozen Edge of Hell"

The Dark  
The Cold

If given the chance, they devour you

It's not a season or an event  
For us, it is Earth and life  
Winter seeps in every pore like oxygen  
We can't escape it – have no desire to

The cold is my mother  
The snow, my brother

Here we sport icicle beards and wooly parkas  
As gracious words and laughter are enveloped in speak-fog

Thirty-three below zero this morning when I rose from slumber

Everyone in town knows someone who has succumbed  
"My cousin" or "aunt" or "friend's son froze to death"

"Crazy," you mutter, shaking your Arizona head

Perhaps

But Winter is magic  
Rainbow prisms reflecting off pointed, crystal trees  
Reaching for the sky like pallid fire

Our world is enveloped by jagged, glacial mountains  
Painting the backdrop with a majestic splendor you will never know

Like a stunningly beautiful demon  
Dancing gracefully on the frozen edge of Hell

Yeah

Well

I guess if I have to explain it,  
You wouldn't understand anyway

"The House of Angelee"

I really hate writing poems like this, since I'm a father of two beautiful children, but as all artists know, when the muse begins to whisper in your creative ear, ya gotta do what'cha gotta do.

Here lies our precious Angelee  
A broken, lonely girl  
Buried in a summer dress  
And worthless string of pearls  
Her days had all been spring time  
But her nights were frightened prayers  
Her grandpa had abused her  
Till no life in her was there

What spirit could possess a man  
To do a thing as this?  
Abandon sense for lunacy?  
Grace evil with a kiss?  
Angelee on bended knee  
Would cry out to the sky  
"God if you're there, let me escape  
Or please just let me die"

The old man stunk of whiskey when  
His toothless grin he'd shine  
"Angelee," he'd whisper low  
"Sweet darlin' baby mine  
Come give grandpa sugar" he'd slur  
In his drunken state  
By the time her mother found this out  
It was too late

He walked into the courtroom  
Stoic, lifeless eyes of glass  
Her mother thought dear Angelee  
Might rest in peace at last  
But the judge released him  
On a technicality  
The paper read, "There'll Be  
No Justice For Sweet Angelee!"

Hoping liquor would expunge  
The memory of his crimes  
He'd drink himself to sleep each night  
To sounds of old wind chimes  
In fear of coming retribution  
Madness scuttled deep  
Like spiders in his mind  
Slow thoughts of suicide would creep

Her mother's grief almost destroyed  
A life of dreams and plans  
Countless nights she'd fantasize  
Of murdering that man  
But when she went to kill  
The architect of her nightmares  
She found his body swinging  
Underneath the basement stairs

At last it was her mother's turn  
To cry out to the sky  
"How could God allow my precious  
Angelee to die?"  
Then in a dream she heard a voice  
Which brought her heart to tears  
It stole away her anger and it  
Calmed her deepest fears

"Mama," Angelee said to her  
"God did not do this"  
And then she felt a breeze  
As gentle as her daughter's kiss  
"Hidden sickness drove grandpa  
To do it" she explained  
"Heaven cried that day –  
Do you remember how it rained?

"I'm with Jesus," Angelee said  
In her angel voice  
"You can die or make the most  
Of life...it is your choice  
Thousands more there are like me  
Who die in fearful silence  
I can't die in vain!" she cried  
"Stand up against the violence!"

That was long ago and though  
At night sometimes she weeps  
The mother of our Angelee  
Has promises to keep  
She vowed to seek out troubled girls  
And set these captives free  
Inside a home of love she calls  
"The House of Angelee"

"The Little Girl"

_Another poem written while my daughter, Jessy, was on drugs. I wrote this after a particularly gut-wrenching phone call from her, which she doesn't even remember. I thank God every day for giving me back my little girl. Incidentally, I originally wrote the last two lines as, "My greatest sin is I believed in her right from the start," but changed it later. I felt that particular ending, although accurately reflecting the way I felt at the time, was hope_ less _instead of hope_ ful _._

Mutterings of needy things  
Are heard in desperation

Bat her eyes and vomit lies  
While I drown in frustration

Brandished knives inside our lives  
While fire spills about

The little girl of pink and curls  
Can wrench my soul right out

My love possessed is dying, lest  
A sliver of her cares

I conceive with heart on sleeve  
I'm open for who dares

To murder bits of heart and spirit  
(I'm an easy mark)

But it's no sin that I've believed in  
Her right from the start

"The Only Poem in This Book a 10-Year-Old Boy Might Read"

_When my son, Trey, was 10, I tried to read him a poem, but he grew_ so _bored with it, I just had to laugh and give up. A few days later I decided to write a poem I thought he might actually read, which is where the title came from._

Ninja kicks to invisible bad guys  
Fighting and laughing and crossing your eyes  
Making guns out of sticks and old brooms  
And guns out of everything else in your room

Professional wrestling's super-bowl cool  
And so are burping contests at school  
But I better go I know you're getting bored  
Blah blah and HOOHAW and a big bloody sword

"The Scoundrel"

This was written as the final project for an undergraduate poetry course. I contacted the professor for feedback, sincerely curious about what he thought, but the only reply I received was my grade: a solid "B." Ah well, perhaps you will enjoy it more than he. As a side-note, there is no greater evil than wool sweaters, which I mention in the next two poems.

He lumbers oddly, rank with hooded grin,  
withered fingers clutching vulgar blade.  
A wolf and warrior, sword into the wind;  
hounding brood into an early grave.

Cloaked in sorrow, it, with plot, advances.  
I can't explain this phantom. Now he seeks  
pause from rite, those haunting midnight dances.  
Fiends that hemorrhage darkness, fat and sleek.

The sleep of seeming death prevents my stirring,  
like old chap's catnap in their padded pews.  
As pain and once again is reoccurring,  
I'm rendered cold against the villain's ruse.

Tears veil brittle mirth, and blood-encrusted steel  
pricks the spine. I feel the terror of my birth.

You (defined as "unknown") share the burden.  
"You" bear your own scoundrel, foul and torn.  
S/he is covert behind the curtains,  
stealing ecstasy on sallow shores.

We creatures of the Earth must storm the gates!  
Wicked scoundrels, looting home and land,  
will shrink into the horror of their fate,  
as we beget the flight from seething hands.

Lest we all succumb to rogues, concealing fetters,  
malevolent and numb, and sporting woolen sweaters.

"The Seen and the Unseen"

WHAT IS SEEN:

Stained ceilings, wounded feelings, paper-work headaches, throbbing leg aches, dust, rust, unflinching cries, the rich (most which have alibis), tattered carpet, deep depression, shattered dark (which breeds oppression), scars on worn and bloated faces, stars who fly to sexy places, blood-soaked towels on paint-chipped floors, broken vows and ill-hung doors, angry tears and bitterness, crippling fear which breeds distress, falling leaves from dying trees, a scorching Arizona breeze, road-rage drivers who know better, high gas prices and wool sweaters

WHAT IS UNSEEN:

Freedom purchased with Jesus' blood, gloom-crushing joy and hate-murdering love, a cool Spring breeze and childlike laughter, death-bought victory hereafter

Much more is seen by this human eye  
Than remains unseen, but the time is nigh  
When Jesus' love will obliterate hate  
Where life strangles death at His evermore gate

For now I pursue the splendid unseen  
And beg the concealed overshadow the seen  
I delight in forgiveness (that tender, May wind)  
Like a vagabond's wish to which angels attend

" _For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is_ _unseen_ _. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is_ _eternal_ _."_ **2 Corinthians 4:17-18 (NIV)**

"The Tale of Dwight McGhee"

My name is Dwight McGhee  
I have a tale to tell  
One day my heart attacked  
And sent me straight to Hell

But first the world went black  
And then clean out of sight  
My soul leaked out my head  
And slipped into the night

I gazed upon the scene  
In horror and relief  
For I was finally free!  
(Or so was my belief)

I drifted for awhile  
A ghost who rode the wind  
But unexpectedly  
I started to descend

Dragged deep in the earth  
Through flame and molten rock  
For years it seemed I fell  
Then stopped in sudden shock

The air was thick with pain  
Within this barren place  
It stole away my breath  
And burned against my face

My eyes beheld a gate  
A single iron thread  
Such twisted, ancient hate  
Imprisoning the dead

Above a message burned  
Which I gazed on in fear  
"ABANDON EVERY HOPE  
ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE"

I tried to crawl away  
But soon felt claws of steel  
Hollow out my spine  
Beside, a creature kneeled

With eyes of painted black  
And fur of tangled mud  
His teeth were razor sharp  
And caked with victim's blood

One hundred feet or more  
This creature must have stood  
I cried, " _Why am I here?"  
_ Yet it was understood

This Hell was justified  
The dread and parching thirst  
I died in unbelief  
And now my soul was cursed

So through the gate he walked  
While I just wept and wept  
The blistered, jagged earth  
Grew hotter with each step

The ground began to shake  
A sound like thunder there  
The screams of burning souls  
Now wafted through the air

A solid wall of sound  
Began to dissipate  
One thousand billion shrieked  
" _GOD HELP ME!"_ or _"TOO LATE!"_

Hope was dead as dreams  
And there was no release  
The darkness had revealed  
The torture no one sees

We walked ten thousand miles  
And that much yet again  
Through suffocating flame  
And pungent reek of sin

The fire burned my hair  
'Till I had none at all  
And flesh dripped from my bones  
'Till none was left to fall

When I had no more tears  
To streak my weary skull  
And when the agony  
Had left me bleak and dull

He threw me violently  
Into a pit of fire  
The screams of the abused  
Played like a demon choir

The tortures he imposed  
I dare not utter here  
I fell into despair  
Each time to rise in fear

A blazing ocean wave  
Swept through twice an hour  
Those once merciless  
Lay shivering like cowards

This nightmare carried on  
How long I do not know  
For time does not exist  
In worlds above, below

But from the joyless sky  
A faint and foreign light  
And every soul in Hell  
Was awestruck by the sight

So as the light increased  
The ghouls began to shake  
Then Jesus Christ arrived  
Inside the fire lake!

All at once I saw  
His eyes, two pools of flame  
His robe a blinding white  
Against the fiery plain

I longed to worship Him  
To let His love surround  
But I was stuck in Hell  
Where lost cannot be found

Yet after what seemed years  
Of panic and dismay  
He smiled right through my soul  
And ripped Hell clean away

I screamed, " _How can this be?  
The damned cannot be saved!"  
_My darkness bled to light  
I rose up from the grave

Then Jesus said to me  
"Son, I can do all things  
The damned are damned indeed  
Yet I've given you wings

"The rest are there to stay  
But I'm not done with you  
For you must tell the tale  
Of how I rescued you"

I cried until I laughed  
My tears a cleansing stream  
And peace surrounded me  
For I had been redeemed!

Raised from death to life  
From pit to palace home  
A castle proudly stood  
Where once lay broken stone

And from December clouds  
An April sky broke free  
Scales fell from my eyes  
A blind man now could see!

A revelation dawn  
He whispered, "Follow me..."  
And now you know my story  
The tale of Dwight McGhee

"The Waiting"

Everyone has those moments when it seems like prayers are going no farther than the ceiling, and Heaven itself has gone on siesta. There is no "Earth-shaking" advice I can give, other than to keep trying, keep pushing, keep fighting, keep praying...

Pray. Hope. Believe.

SILENCE

Pray some more  
Get mad and yell at a room that doesn't care how I feel  
Cling to seemingly withering hope

Time passes

I believe, Lord

Even though at times I'm...  
Disheartened. Discouraged. Disappointed.  
But never disowned  
Never (completely) disillusioned  
And NEVER (well, almost never) disloyal

Pray. Hope. Believe.

Lord, I hate these days of waiting!  
These nights of despair!

But still I wait

Feign non-anger

Cackling frown  
Grinning scowl  
Sighing howl  
Still I wait

Pray some more

Still waiting

25 years and counting...

"'Till the Lord Slay the Pain or the Pain Overtake"

It's wrapped itself 'round every sinew and bone  
And governs if I'm in a crowd or alone  
If early Spring morn or a cold Winter's night  
Relentless in combat with hunger to fight

The beast has a bloodthirsty look in his eye  
And whispers of death in his fierce battle-cry  
The man in the mirror resembles not me  
As he mocks the worn visage which only I see

I shake a weak fist to the bitter north wind  
And vow to my pain that I _will not_ give in!  
If this is my cross, then bear it I must  
Until sleep has triumphed and I fade to dust

I wrestle with pain every hour awake  
'till the Lord slay the pain or the pain overtake

"Twenty-Seven Club"

Dedicated to the ill-fated members of a faction most never intended to join

We're nonsensical, thrashing about  
Familiar spirits, fabulous and frenzied  
Gnashing crooked teeth on wet bone  
A hunger to feed...a hunger to bleed

The crowd, akin to one, snaps at attention  
Garbled demons chunk grey matter to ribbon  
Cracking spines on forlorn brood  
All breathing hell, as if death is a given

Teetering much closer to life than most  
Belching fire in Park Avenue swamps  
Dragon-skulled prey, seething and drunk  
As foul cravings snake down gut-stenched walls

Veins swell as young hearts implode  
Lashing badges, collars and clocks  
Raise a valiant fist high to the 27 dead  
All hail the victorious man in the box!

Never splay us on laboratory glass  
The beast weighs too complex for tests  
Let us rage, let us fly and crash out  
Then fall in the tomb with a haughty growl...

Smoldering more vivid than the rest

Titles U – Z

"Untangled"

Untangle me

Jesus God!  
Wipe the sweat from my fevered brow

May liberation purge incarceration

Expunge livid tears from jaded eyes

Be my 11th hour revelation

Let this valley of mock-death yawn with rogue blood  
To the horse's bridle

As labored hands reach toward the heavens

I cry for aid  
My voice fails me

You alone are morning's first light

The Pale Rider

My nerves, once coiled as an anxious serpent, unravel, to find...

Sleep(?)

aHA!

Liberty

Take in the boundless air of a sparkling child  
At play in the fields of the Lord

Untangled

"Warrior-Pope"

Jesus is no hippie

I can sense your disillusion  
Through the terror of my room  
I live to bleed for Christ  
And orchestrate the ending of your doom  
Fangs that scrape the cement walls -  
What terror is the devil's soul?!  
Victims litter barren ground -  
Your loathing shanks a jagged hole

Jesus-hippies terrified of anything  
But love and peace  
Yet our Lord never smoked a pipe  
His wrath is more akin to beast  
Author of _all_ holy things  
He is, of course, but lest ye sleep  
He feels every bat-wing flutter  
He hears every rat-claw creep

Master of the shadows  
With His evil-killing sword in hand  
Laying waste all that which  
Seeks to devastate with one command  
Eyes of purple fire  
Dominate both darkness and pure light  
You expected peace and flowers  
Not this soldier...not this fight!

_That's_ the Jesus whom I serve  
The One who stole the keys to Hell  
The One who casts out demons  
And the One who rattles prison cells  
Midnight dancers cry in sunlight  
Wailing for a slivered hope  
Come with us, we laugh at death  
With Jesus; Savior, Warrior-Pope

"We Are Not As You Suppose"

A poem for Satanists

We are not as you suppose  
God is not as you've been told  
Nothing you've been sold is true  
Lucifer has lied to you

You the type who seeks the truth?  
Say you need eternal proof?  
Well, nothing we could ever say  
Can take your gnawing doubts away

But here is something Christians know:  
The devil is a liar, bro  
Double-dealing is his game  
And he deceives us _all_ the same

He's the Father of all lies  
And you are lost within his eyes  
Do you think his word is true?  
He lies to everyone but _you_?

What makes _you_ so special, man?  
Do you even understand  
Your soul might soon be in his hands?  
S'why we chose to take a stand

See the fury in our eyes?  
It's the _darkness_ we despise  
Satan's longing to consume  
All those who walk the path of doom

Because, ya see  
We are not as you suppose  
God is not as you've been told  
**Nothing** you've been sold is true  
Lucifer has **lied** to you!

"Who Am I?"  
By Trey Weddle, written at age 12

_This is one of five poems Trey wrote during his "poem-writing marathon" discussed in the_ Introduction _. While he has certainly not experienced the types of parental abuse he conveys in the piece, he has seen and heard about his share of mistreatment while watching his big sister struggle through a drug addiction and spousal mistreatment by his ex-brother-in-law. He has a very giving heart, and it tears him up to watch people go through such misery. So, as all great writers do, he tried to expel a portion of his inner pain by writing it out, or "spirit bleeding," as I like to call it._

Who am I?

"You're worthless!" my dad says as he leaves marks on my face  
"You're a brat!" my mom says while sticking needles in her arms  
"You're weak!" say the jocks as they knock my books to the ground

Who am I?

I find an old man who hands me a book saying, "Holy Bible"

Jesus saved me!  
I praise Him

I'm a Christian, that's who I am

"Wicked Nightmares"

It's in the black of darkness  
I'm widowed by the light  
I have not one escape to shield me from the fear of night

Hiding in the shadows  
Frustrating tears and sweat  
I clench my fist and shout into this netherworld abyss

Screams are rather tainted  
Born in Satan's womb  
No dragon skin or gift of men is worth this dungeon tomb

In chemical illusion  
I sought to free my head  
But all addiction can invoke is hunger for young death

My years have all been wasted  
I've tasted suicide  
But my self-sacrifice will fetch eternal genocide

Heaven is for heroes  
Hell seeks out the fool  
I dare to stand up tall in front of all and keep the rules

I curse these wicked nightmares  
I've never been so scared  
I break my vow and humbly bow in simple, childlike prayer

And find...

Peace

"Your god, as told by God-haters"  
By Trey Weddle, written at age 12

Trey discovered a rock band he really liked, but was disappointed when I denied his request for their latest CD. I had been reading the band's lyrics before I purchased their latest album (which I always do) and discovered they were extremely anti-God. I take matters of my children's souls very seriously, and while some would scoff at such a thing, many believers will agree that it is simply the right way to handle things. Needless to say, Trey was really bummed out by this, and though he possesses a child's understanding of the Lord, this poem is his attempt at making sense of this rock band's stance against our Savior. Incidentally, I didn't change any of the poems he wrote for this book, but did make a small suggestion on this one. The second line originally read, "He's a jerk!" I asked, "Do you think you should say 'jerk,' Trey? It's not really poetic." He thought for a moment, and then replied, "Yeah, you're right, dad. Let's change the line to 'He's a deceiver.'"

Your god...I've heard about your god

He's a deceiver  
He let his followers get killed  
He doesn't care!

If he cared he would've saved them

He isn't real  
He's a fake

Your god is nothing  
You go to church, bowing down at the altar

Your god doesn't know anything

You're wasting your life following a god that isn't there

You're wasting your life

CAUTION:

HEAVY  
METAL  
POEMS  
AHEAD

Heavy Metal Poems: All Titles

"Concert Behind My Eyes _"_

I can't explain it  
So don't ask me to

My black t-shirts with...  
\--------( **GASP)** \-------  
... _"skulls"_ (she whispers)...  
On them

Or _fire_ or _dragons_ or a _tattooed demon child  
_ (or is it an _angel_?) _smoking a cigarette  
_ and on and on, ad nauseam

Seems strange to some, a man of my age  
_Gray hair (what's left of it), shadows of facial wrinkles forming  
_ Would don such malicious attire

But in my head I feel much different  
Ah, if you could only see inside my spirit!

You'd laugh and join in the merriment  
You'd feel the heavy metal pounding in your temples  
You'd close your eyes and feel the music  
Washing over you like a sweet, pulsing river  
You'd see the 80's hair flailing about  
From a stage full of spandex and purple fog  
Smiles so broad, laughter so uncomplicated

In a magical land before Cobain  
Nine-eleven devils  
and Pathetic Correctness

Guitar solos  
So loud  
So raucous

So _amazing_

You see, there's a concert behind my eyes which you will never hear  
This is what keeps the hint of a smile on my worn face, despite the years

So, to the young in body, I say this:  
The license on COOL is not age-dependent  
Mock _not_ the young in spirit  
The ones such as me

For life flies by in the flicker of an eye

Turn around  
Blink twice  
And you are me

"Gross"

"Lemme tell ya just what I think of heavy metal!" you groan

"It's just so loud and _stupid_. All sweaty and _gross..._ "

Wow, your sense of vernacular simply _flows_

How deep your thoughts seem to grow!

Well, I hate to boast, but here goes:

Your ignorance ignites the flames of my indignation.  
You have made an _amazingly_ asinine evaluation  
of that which arouses such pure dedication  
within the confines of this generation.  
Melodious, heavy metal creations,  
dubbed "musical degradations,"  
are mental salvation, a blood-  
brothers' socialization, a  
decadent celebration  
of innovational  
separation.

Yet, we must get back to your genius-level annotation

That melodic alliteration which was so... _uninspired_

Had I the need to employ a dolt, you'd be hired

Honestly, all you people just make me tired

Well, not to enshrine you in mire, but

You'll not see me go all insomniac with blinding fret  
about your judgment, like it's some ghastly threat.  
Please take note: your standpoint _does_ matter  
to me, same as that humpbacked alley-cat  
(our three-legged mop, drop-kicked  
with my old Slipknot high tops)  
who died by rapid SPLAT  
(massacre by cat-trap!)  
buried out in back  
in plastic wrap.  
(Oh... _snap_ )

"Heavy Metal"

Alternative, Black, Christian, Death, Doom, Folk, Funk, Glam, Gothic, Groove, Industrial, Neo-classical, Nu, Power, Progressive, Speed, Stoner, Symphonic, Thrash, Viking...doesn't matter, it's still metal to me, man. The first two lines say it all.

To those in the know:  
I know you understand  
Heavy metal's a crow  
Resting on a frail hand  
A dashing skullcap  
Sporting two metal horns  
A black rose in the gap  
On a sidewalk of thorns  
It's a demon of madness  
Who hates what he dreams  
Or a chick who hates sadness  
And rocks 'till she screams  
For some it's a Bible  
For others a blade  
For all it is tribal  
A primal campaign  
These itching eyes hear  
Sweaty bones in the heat  
It's heart-pounding fear  
We can set to a beat  
It's devils and imps  
Dragging perverts to Hell  
Or a cage full'a chimps  
Retching on their own smell  
It's guitars and drums  
Purple lights and white fog  
It's millionaire bums  
And their pentagram blogs  
It's ugly and loud  
Yet it's beautiful too  
It's pungent and proud  
Like a cell with a view  
It's an ear-bleeding shriek  
From a parasite child  
It's a creepy old freak  
Wading in his own bile  
It's a dog with a limp  
Flashing vampire fangs  
It's a golden-grilled pimp  
Mocking teenage birth pangs  
It's a twitch and a spasm  
A mountain of sound  
It's a mass of sarcasm  
Incensed and unsound  
It's blood on the floor  
It's an angel on high  
I'm a fan, I'm hardcore  
And will be till I die

"Keep Rockin'"

_As previously stated, if you are not a fan of heavy metal, the devotion one feels is hard to explain. I_ almost _didn't include this poem, as it seems to spit in the face of my moral code of beliefs. My love for the genre, however, dances gracefully in sync with every corner of my soul. I am not attempting to make any sort of a statement, but rather, am simply trying to put words to my deep love for this angry, crazy, loud, fun and raucous music I call myself a fan of._

I felt it in my spirit  
Tuesday eve or Wednesday morn  
Though some don't wanna hear it  
I'm a metal rebel-born

A restless feeling settled  
Deep into my ragged soul  
I need my heavy metal  
Man, I need my rock'n'roll

I need to feel the bass  
Thump in time with pounding drums  
Right up in my face  
Until my ears are bleeding numb

High tops, untied laces  
And my wicked, air guitar  
In the mirror making faces  
And pretending I'm a star

I need to crank it louder  
'Till I'm breathing once again  
An ambiance of power  
To the neighbor man's chagrin

I just need my metal  
It reminds me I'm alive  
Like an adolescent rebel  
Setting fires of the mind

I need to have some fun  
And though it may seem odd to you  
For me it is addiction  
It is life and blood and truth

Forgive the metal horns  
That I flash with my right hand  
This adolescent scorn  
Will make me feel more like a man

So if you're mystified  
And just a little bit annoyed  
I pray you keep in mind  
That every boy must have his toys

So let's just make a deal:  
You live your life, I'll live mine  
Commemorate diversity  
We'll get along just fine

Keep rockin'...

"Metal Head"

Seems to me achieving fame in the genre of heavy metal must be similar to jumping into a giant meat-grinder. Fans take angry, young musicians and put them up on a pedestal to worship, hanging on their every word as if it were gospel. The story seems to go like this: take a young singer or band who likes to party, give them fame and fortune, and then have the audacity to be shocked when they are found cold and blue from a drug overdose on a tour bus. Sad but true.

Heavy metal rebel  
Faded inks on yellow skin  
Fabricated hate conceals  
Despondency within  
Money, fame and greed:  
The demigods he will appease  
Gloom asphyxiation  
Like a scorching desert breeze

That metal-head's a junkie  
Were he honest, he'd agree  
Brazen lies from livid eyes  
While yearning to be free  
Quietly he plummets  
Toward a yawning, fiery cave  
Dancing 'round the edges  
Of a famished, open grave

The rock'n'roll machine's a beast  
Who eats 'em all alive  
Drugs and booze ignite the fuse  
Surviving's one-in-five  
The music is pure magic  
But at what cost to the Shaman?  
A world of eccentricities  
Where odd bleeds into common

Crawl like snakes on acid  
Through a sea of broken glass  
Whiskey river liver  
But it's never gonna last  
The rage that fed his metal head  
Just played him like a pawn  
So pray someday he runs against the wind  
To rule the dawn

"Metal is Life"

Metal is life

What, you don't believe me?

Ok...

But riddle me this:

Have you not had that _one_ perfect moment in time  
When life reminded you everything is sublime?  
Rockin' on a big-city, neon Saturday night  
When everything just felt... _right_?

With the drums in your heart and the bass in your soul  
When your favorite song comes on the radio  
The wind in your hair, untroubled  
Feeling simply... _invincible?_

No

Probably not

"Omen of Impending Righteousness"

All hail Christian metal!

Flailing, thunder-crashin', sweaty pandemonium  
Hyena's laughing at bloody-eared decibel levels  
We're foster children in a stained-glass museum  
Takin' the fight to the very throne of the devil

Delighted ditch-dwellers smile like monkeys  
While blood trickles and supplications shriek hard  
We'll meditate upon prayer requests later  
But for now – let's molest Hell 'till we're fearlessly scarred

No disgrace in a pit-fetched punch in the face  
Ain't nuthin' but a throbbing twinge of metal  
Gotta keep thrashin', bro, aggressively slaying darkness  
'Till Armageddon's golden dust has finally settled

Bringin' belligerent harmonies to demonic gangs  
Yielding rusty, blood-encrusted, double-edged swords  
Slicing and dicing every branded teller of vice  
Bangin' heads and castin' out devils for our Lord

Slaughter murky thoughts in a river of pure crystal  
Assassinating hate with songs of massacre and bliss  
Sinister religions beware – I ain't takin' no prisoners  
Crushin' brimstone fiends with a sanctified kiss

I won't threaten any quantity of violence I can't deliver  
Screamin' at gravel-faced hellions like full-on homicide  
Proud to be a part of Heaven's obliteration of doom  
Executing holy heavy metal 'till force and destiny collide

While awaiting the sacred hammer's fall, I'll be all up in your face  
Like a hard rock of offense on that spacious, wicked path  
Don't give me that Satanic _"sheep are meant to be slaughtered"_ rap  
I'm the hand of doom, man – A harbinger of God's wrath

Call my art what it is: an omen of impending righteousness  
I'm a brilliant, blinding light – I'm a holy-metal rebel  
Laying down bloodthirsty tracks of heavenly rage  
With all the vein-poppin' spit I've got I'll shout at the devil

Just another day in the trenches...

"Poison Wine"

_I read an interview with a band several years ago, and it had been conducted a few weeks after a tragedy had occurred at one of their concerts. Apparently, there was no assigned stadium seating, so when the doors were opened before the show there was a mad rush by tens of thousands of fans to get the best possible seats. In this human stampede, several people were killed. The nonchalance of the band, however,_ really _annoyed me, so I sat down and took out my frustrations in rhyme. The name "Shaky Lake" is simply fictional, and (hopefully) bears no resemblance to any rockers, living or dead. I just thought it was a freakin' cool name._

Come and taste my poison...

Hallow eyes will recognize the mighty Shaky Lake  
My brain is like my San Diego skin, it's half-baked  
Steal a bird to London, disappear into the fog  
Sunburned and sweating like a California god  
Ride the snake to Paris for an afternoon brunch  
Amphetamino acids and a non-dairy lunch  
Throw me in the limo; wake me up when we arrive  
Pump me full'a lighting juice to make me feel alive  
Sharpen eyebrow pencils, I wear Black Number Nine  
Draw for me cool circles up around my eyes  
It makes me look malicious and I think it's so funny  
That the stupider I get I seem to make a lot more money

Keep a mind hazy  
Go a little crazy  
Get a little wicked  
Start your own business

Wake up from my bunk to find one hundred thousand drunk  
Laugh until they hiccup then I beat 'em like a punk  
Toss 'em to the killing floor, their feet up in the air  
When they're stone-dead there's not a'one of us'll care  
Reinforce my money bags with leather and cold steal  
The kids are skipping dinner to see me – no big deal  
Sleeping with a freaky demon – rolling in the sticks  
My number is 800-CALL-ME-666  
Sexual fantasies are dripping in green pus  
Bandage us in liquor, man, don't even pray for us  
We'll limp onto the stage and then we'll slam 'em to the floor  
When they finally wake up we'll be flyin' out the door

Down a fifth of bourbon  
Shotgun turban  
Blood in the backstage  
Let me out of my cage!

Got sand in my pockets and between my toes  
Got drugs in my briefcase and up my nose  
Might dance with the devil, bro, you just can't tell  
Shoot life in my veins 'til I'm spitting pure hell

I'm my own savior and today is my god  
Pleasure is lord until I'm plenty dead and gone  
I built me a golden altar; come my child and see  
Assaulting foolish children when they dare to bow to me  
Steal away their laughter and I'll turn 'em on to dope  
Make 'em chant their praises to a heavy metal pope  
Lure them in (delirium!) and leave 'em in the gutter  
Then gut 'em out and throw 'em down and go fetch me another  
My every word's a falsehood, I don't even know the truth  
If you dare to get too close then I will burn you too  
Like a devil I will drag you in; I want your soul  
Everybody calls me "Little Death"  
I'M ROCK'N'ROLL!

Turn you into charcoal  
Barbeque your soul  
_(God brings freedom  
Death will never beat Him)_

"Spider-Vibe"

There...

Can you feel it?

That wicked spider-vibe  
Cooper-crawlin' down your greasy spine?

A slow burn

It starts with a brain-thwacking bass guitar  
Flat-out shattering windows and teeth

Insert drums that rattle and hum  
A compelling flame who _seethes_

Encircle the mix with honeyed, ear-piercing guitars  
Moving you in ways nothing else can

Add the sundae-cherry vocals, sweet and livid  
And then you have it

A wall of noise, man

A _band_

(Let's throw a monkey-wrench in the mix:  
Rhyme one/four, two/five and then three/six)

It's a light born of a youthful spirit  
Spit/exploding out of your eyes  
Out of every pore of your being

You must suffer it, not merely _hear it  
_ Hell revolts and Heaven sighs  
Cuz with heavy metal, hearing is seeing

Engaging every muscle, every sinew and bone  
It grates your teeth and boils your blood cold  
Gutting enemies and wrapping love-arms about your soul

Melodious chaos – a whisper-crushing moan  
A beast with teeth, an idol of gold  
A malevolent ballerina; stunning, stoned and out of control

(Mix it up; give 'em two that rhyme  
Then do the intro a second time)

It's coffee can clamor by rickety boys  
An angry step-child with precarious toys

There...

Can you feel it?

That wicked spider-vibe  
Cooper-crawlin' down your greasy spine?

(Done; good job! Let's hope that they  
Accept us as we are one day  
But for tonight there is no doubt:  
We jam 'till the cops've kicked us out)

"The Overlook"

I seem composed through the car window  
Yet the dude behind me will muse, _"Where's that ungodly music coming from?"  
_ I play it cool, not willing to publicly play the fool  
Before I commence the ceremonial pounding of the steering wheel drum

I've watched most of my friends and family grow up and out of this music at some point

They trade CDs for _money_ and then cultivate new interests  
Embarrassed by the thought of motley crews and black t-shirt crowds  
But not me, Jack... _no_ way  
I still play it way too loud, and fly the metal flag proud

It lifts my spirit when nothing else can  
It paints a smile on my tired face when the day has pounded me into a stupor  
Some have soap operas, some have chocolate  
Some even use... _(gulp)..._ country **music**...as a stress remover

(Lord, forgive me for using the "C" word)

My release valves are screaming guitar solos played by hair-metal gods  
Yours is A&E "Dog" marathons, needlepoint or local politician chitchat  
How 'bout this: You don't give me grief and I'll return the favor  
As long as music doesn't throw my emotions into the proverbial spit-vat...

Who CARES, man?

My manner is peaceful, my voice even and low  
My smile is deceptively wide and my goatee is almost always condiment-free  
Thus, I shock some in the mall when spotted at the HOT metal store  
But God allows me to be a chameleon, blending into the marquis

This is not to say I'm a Sunday morning charlatan  
Flailing my arms in worship not 12 hours after illicit sex or utter inebriation  
No, no...I'm a believer  
I'm just one who's driven by thunderous fire and unrelenting salvation

Dare to open your eyes and look around now and again  
Step out from behind your rose-colored stained-glass windows some day  
You'll find there are thousands like me: flawed and forgiven  
I'm no impostor...Not me, Jack... _no way_

I tire of this conversation  
Thus, let me garble a summation:

If we're both to make it to Heaven, surging through the ceiling blue  
You'll have to pray through

And overlook my demon-hatin'  
headbangin'  
evil hangin'  
inverted Satan  
slay-the-devil  
heavy metal  
rebel yell

"Them"

Jean-clad demoniacs  
Thrashin' like their hair's on fire  
Blistering adolescent maniacs  
Got the guts to fly a little higher

Beer-barrel buddies and grandsons  
All sweating, all bleeding, all happy, all legit  
Rarely noteworthy or handsome  
But ask them if they'll lose any sleep over it

Unreserved angst prevails  
Screamin' like freedom, sunrise blinding hell  
Crankin' it up never fails  
It gets the boys jumpin' like a voodoo spell

This was never the plan  
Yet God knows I can breathe it like Jesus  
I'm sorry, I really am  
But what do you propose I tell the masses, crying, "lead us?"

What'll I do about _them_ , man?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ABOUT THE AUTHORS:

Rob Weddle:

**Rob currently lives in Springfield, Missouri, with his wife and son. He is a faculty member of Global University, a Christian, distance-education university, where he works with both undergraduate and incarcerated students. His hobbies are reading scary books, listening to scary music, and trying not to nod off in his** _amazing_ **family room recliner after an arduous day of fighting the good fight.**

Trey Weddle:

**Trey lives with his parents in Springfield, Missouri, and is a member of his middle school jazz band.** **When he's not listening to scary music or reading scary graphic novels, he is kicking butt and taking names on many different video games (on many different game systems). In the next couple of years he also hopes to turn his body into a lethal war machine in preparation for high school wrestling.**

