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The Poetry of Asher Blake

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The Messianic Literary Corner is an independent grace oriented Messianic Jewish ministry, offering scripture studies, scientific and archaeological apologetics, poetry and more!  Click "View Page" below to read more.

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Poetry Collection

The Messianic Literary Corner (formerly the Messianic Poetry Corner) was launched in 1997. It's original poetry ministry continues with the works of over seventy poets.  Click "View Page" to read more.

 

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An independent grace oriented Messianic Jewish ministry, offering scripture studies, apologetics, poetry & more!

   

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The Messianic Literary Corner,  formerly the Messianic Poetry Corner was launched in 1997.  It's original poetry ministry continues with the works of over seventy poets.  We hope you will enjoy the wealth of poetic "God-Praising" talent we have at MLC.  Click the above icon to read our latest poetic offerings!

 

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Introductory Statement

When Jesus first called me I did not listen.  So the Lord had to set the hook in deep.  When I first read John I took the miracles of healing and His gracious words in the simplicity of heart, but I feared what my family would say about a Christian son since we are Jewish. Almost immediately I was in the throes of a terrible illness, chronic schizophrenia, and daily sought the mercy of God the Creator.  For 8 years He helped me cope with every trauma, I could not really manage life, and was increasingly plagued with crises of guilt and fears of Hell – despite the assurances of modern Judaism.   

After encounters with the living Messiah, just reaching out to Him in the worst times (why?), finally I began reading the New Testament again.  This Word was from Heaven, not men, and full of both wisdom and grace. Jesus on the cross was the very picture of the heart of God in relation to our need. A voice asked me what I would do about my family, and I knew I would tell them about my faith.  And as I resolved to tell my family I had faith, my hands were clasped together at my belly and a sword in the Spirit, invisible, extended out from my grasp for a couple of seconds. It was heavy and light at once; it was as light; it was a kind of light saber full of power and energy.

I became largely free from the suffering of my illness that day.  I have a different diagnosis and much more mild symptoms.  My cure, and His presence, the removal of sin, and answers to specific prayers are some of the many reasons I have to believe in Christ.

My book of lyric poems, Staggering Nomads and Black Flag Commandos, under my pen name, Asher Blake, is expected to be self-published in February of 2015.  Much of that book is religious but not all.  If you are interested in ordering the book, or for any other reason, please feel free to email me at the link above.  My website is www.unfailingword.com . God bless you.


Your email to Asher is welcomed

You can purchase Asher's poetry books at LuLu.com (click)


Poetry Collection

 

No Way Connection

 

The Devil eye once raged 

at me and swore

I was a bone born

unfolding

in his hand to harm;

the blade drawn

furtive from the wood

where it was sunk.

 

My hands ran

- shelves and floor -

I raced and found only one hope.

To live, to die, to walk with Christ.

To know the man who died and fell

without defense into their malice

and rose again.

 

You thrusted me through with rescues

enough to inspire

and reassure you were the great love.

 

You chained me to my infirmary bed

when I wanted to live worldly

in Mexico and drink.

 

God, make me like loyal David,

a man of ruddy heart,

and ruddy freedom's cheek.

 

Nothing works but you my God.

 

In zeal the footsteps of my Christwalk

became broad-set.

I felt the foxhole disbelief in danger

- a grin to see the captain

head out under critical fire. Medics hustle.

Firemen waste no words.

 

God, make me like your loyal David,

a man whose heart was ruddy,

and whose cheek ran in ruddy freedom.

 

The Man Who Left No Mark

They say he has forsaken us.
Wandering God, who knows where?
Leaving not happy with his children,
relying on us now to do.

That is what we say of him
behind his back now he
died. What words
did he offer,
thinking on us
who were in town that day?
Who is on our hands
and will not leave our minds,
who left a knocking in my heart
no one knows?
Who knows his word,
that is words 

he spoke, no hill

his friends could sit on
as when he spoke of better things,
Magdalene...
Whisper me a word
he spoke, so none may hear,
whisper sweet, unregistered
we dine at dinner.
None may hear.
How he died at Calvary, when he

kissed my sins and died.
Don't go near there!
Who told you -

who said you could be here!?!

 

He crept in with lepers' beds.
He squabbled with fighting children,
by and by he simply made their troubles
fly. He ran out there, there was a sign,
where the man cried from
the mine field. What man
went there? Why, he lived
in an asylum, Worcestershire,
Gloucestershire, friends, friends
all followed, touching him
as lambs.
The family he had there
he boasted they did his meek will.

What was the thing he said
to gentle, gentle, people
at the square? He carried something
there that day - our hate,
that yet stays with me.
He told them not so,
not right, Pharisee,
and brought it on.
Something wrapped about him
there, our jealousy.
And serpent, serpent,
we forgot, they took his clothes
apart. Healer, healer
is it done? Naked, scorned,

the Tempter moved them

from the tree.
Was his race won?
Did the fruit that dropped

look good to eat as wisdom,

and tempt a savoring palette?
Do we go away so serpentine
from something so direct?

Nail down
that he was at the front,
the head of all the world,
which was then beginning
to be established in its ways.
He led himself,
(did he love the world?)
to the grave, to holes in rocks,
to caves for rich men,
to garden pits,
sitting close to us like a baby
wrapped at our breast,
not stopping -
the Christ child was lowered
down further to an endless pit
beneath where she longed
to follow, but the sword
pierced just her soul,
she yet breathed.
Walking there, what said the one

who left us here?

 

“They will come for you
if you are good.
They will come for you.
Do not cry for me,
but for yourselves,
and your children
at your breast.
The tree my Father
gave is Love.
They murder it,
they chase the dove.
For terror overspreads the Earth
since Adam's bowed to Hell.
If shown the fresh face
of God they spit,
what will they do
when they aged and weathered it?”

 

Inside The Outer Law

 

Sometimes the joy

is demanded of us, and we obey.

We even stumble over lovely,

unknown lyrics,

and out of key,

raise up a song to God.

We pound the dinner table,

an old man is shaking while he smiles,

we praise Almighty God.

Friday night, my sister at wine

and Kiddish time, gives her gifted voice

to mock-cantorial inflections

with sudden, shameless piety.

The dances too require no special skill.

The reverend hands of fathers and their friends

pull you in a circle, an ancient fever transposed.

The only yarmulke we need is the hand of the Lord.

           

At my sister's wedding

I dance like a possession.

My father's tongue momentarily lolls,

eyes rolling, chairs hoisted up.

She is the only one married,

giving my parents a prince,

a grandson, boisterous and doted upon.

At 18 months he holds court

before all admirers during Kiddish

They pour him juice of grapes and rinse his hands.

The only thing displeasing him is he can't eat only bread.

 

We sing the song of the excellent wife.

The Queen says, 'and what, O son of my vows?

Open your mouth for the silenced,

for the rights of all the unfortunate.

Open your mouth, judge righteously,

and defend the rights of the afflicted and needy.

An excellent wife, who can find?

For her worth is far above jewels.

She girds herself with strength,

and makes her arms strong.

She senses that her gain is good;

her lamp does not go out at night.

Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain,

but a woman who fears the LORD,
she shall be praised.'
[1]

           

At a table filled with the Sabbath,

neighbors sip wine magnified by crystal,

eat reflections of silver,

and speak over the white tablecloth.

The Holy Script of light, that perpetual sign,

crosses back and forth across

the brilliant ritual like a violin bow.

Unless we shut our eyes,

we see Christ's body in breastplate and fire

gleam on the long table and its lacy shroud.

Feed on me, says He.

Eat up light, and bless this

glimpse of everlasting rest,

the family asking for union.

 

Christ Poem

 

The enemy may have an even starker vision

of His majestic throne and fearsomeness.

The King was bald Kristallnacht.

He wore stripes when His arms were long.

 

Hashem, when you saw your children

made small before killers,

was it harder to be Abraham, their Father,

or Isaac, their brother?

 

How bleak to hear the birds of consolation

fluttering in every empty head and stomach

of rabbis and wives and finding no place to land.

Starving brothers called Him traitor,

 

Samson grinding in the dungeon mill.

But Christ goes into the fray looking

to win glory. My God has thought

of glory even in a lentil field.


 


[1]    From Proverbs 31

 


Your email to Asher is welcomed

You can purchase Asher's poetry books at LuLu.com (click)


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