The Poetry of Asher Blake
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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.
You can purchase Asher's poetry books at LuLu.com (click)
The Devil eye once raged
at me and swore
I was a bone born
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
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
he spoke, no hill
his friends could sit on
kissed my sins and died.
who said you could be here!?!
He crept in with lepers' beds.
the Tempter moved them
from the tree.
look good to eat as wisdom,
and tempt a savoring palette?
who left us here?
“They will come for you
Sometimes the joy
is demanded of us, and we obey.
We even stumble over lovely,
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,
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.
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.
 From Proverbs 31
You can purchase Asher's poetry books at LuLu.com (click)