Whispers of the Spirit: A Collection of Poems

By David E. Milam

This book is a collection of poems complied by one author over a span of twenty-five years. David Milam's writings include themes of theology, family, historical figures, along with holidays, nature, and everyday house chores. His work is thoughtful and witty. At the age of 78 he is delighted to finally share his work with readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543918304

Book preview

Whispers of the Mind,

Whispers of the Soul,

Whispers of the Spirit,

Only for those who

Intuitively hear it.

Whispers of the Invisible Wind,

Whispers of which there is no end,

Whispers of All Time and Eternity,

Whispers of Love in the Midst of Reality.

Whispers that no one know but you and I,

Whispers that touch your mind’s eye,

Whispers that kiss your inner divinity,

Whispers’ silent, impression imagery!

—Written at author’s Poets’ Corner in Denton, Texas, February 22, 1988

Prophet upon a pinnacle,

Dark abode of circular light,

Standing on Holy Ground,

Dove of love touching you.

Wind of God piercing thee,

Bird of Powerful Mystery

Righteousness perfects thy soul,

Universal lore keeps the whole.

Elijah all alone on mountain peak,

Whence cometh you where I seek

In the Eternal’s own time

Tangent to Epitome’s prime?

Hidden thoughts from way on High

Higher powers beckon you on,

Upward to the ascension,

Flight of chariot to another dimension.

Elijah, clothed in shroud of Death,

Beauty of life is thy wealth,

Protective powers in thy heart,

Ere, they never, ever depart,

Bind thy anklets around thy feet,

Suffering love is not a defeat;

Knowledge beyond mind is here,

Spiritual sciences even dare,

Elijah, come, stand tall and high,

Reach thy will into the sky,

Silently stand and call us up,

Until, we, with thee, in communion sup!

—Written in response and interpretation of N. C. Wyeth’s painting, Winter, 1909

The billows below,

The waters carried me on,

Bobbing and splashing and hanging on for dear life!

And, in the not too far distance,

I saw the ship and sails;

And I, by the mast, did quail!

Did any see?

Did any know?

Where shall I drift

From this life below? What awaits us in the deep?

Will my soul, Oh God,

Thou wouldst keep?

Out to sea, ocean, and tide, Bring me to an Island’s pride, rising waves below me free,

Until, at dawn, I see Thee.

—Written in response and interpretation of N. C. Wyeth’s painting, The Wreck of the Covenant

Church, God’s house of prayer.

I sit, I stare;

My lips form no prayers.

Hard pews, swinging gates

Keep you out or in,

Makes sense both ways in this awareness of sin.

Deep, simple mystery of life,

I sit; I sit alone with, with myself…

To think, to know, to see, to hear, to feel, to live.

Why, whence, and what brought

Me here to sit alone in Church?

God in me, God out there,

God in here…

O wooden house of the gods,

O Christ-heart of the Eternal,

At last, we are alone… Peace?

—Written in response and interpretation of Andrew Wyeth’s Maidenhair, a picture of a girl sitting alone in Church

Merlin’s mysterious alchemy

Empowers his reigning gifts

To chosen ones across the heavens,

Charioted by reindeer feet

Shooting across a vast expanse,

A vision of supple tenderness;

Waning eyes clearly see

A figure and form floating nearby,

Calculating arms and vicarious charms,

Enhancing the driver, Merlin or you,

To move speedily on through

Seduction’s wake and rise,

To another third paradise.

Beyond and above,

Sent to tempt Merlin’s love,

Love of magic, majestic lore:

Ah, O God, how much is there

To all of life? How much more?

—Written in response and interpretation to N. C. Wyeth’s The Magician and the Maid of Beauty

Out on any of the farms,

Tired, tired human arms

Reach for bucket and pails

Hanging near bins to take

The feed to waiting cows;

I see this clearly out the

Shanty-like barn window,

That the cows are there,

Chewing their cud,

Waiting, licking salt,

Casually looking bored:

Animals, life, pails, nails,

And a cup on a board.

Silent life, all is over,

Nothing more, just chores.

Nothing more, just chores.

—Written in response and interpretation to Andrew Wyeth’s painting, Spring Fed

At a hat and chair,

I seem to stare;

Placed there by you,

Who, I never really knew.

Oh painter-person of my hone,

And ever, so slightly, quietly upon

That old cane-bottom chair,

Squeaking as I leaned back in it,

Upon a dare by you; then

Mom would yell, "Sit up! Don’t

Lean back in that chair,

You’ll break the back;

Now, put your hat there,

And come in here, leave it upon

The chair; I’ll have something else

For you to do!"

The hat and chair,

They had no cares.

—Written in response and interpretation of James Wyeth’s Wolfbane

One more try,

Weak though I be;

One last shot at

The passing beast, I see!

Come, oh men of mine,

Lift me up on a pillow and thigh,

That I may see with dimming eyes

The terrible look on a crazy face;

Ah, he comes for me as well as all the human race!

Fight, I shall, with strength of arrow and bow!

One hides in my corner’s bed,

A hand to sorrowing head;

A foe to all fear,

But nothing is really here;

Be gone, o angel of death,

I shoot thee, satanic leer,

Return to thy abode,

Bother none here.

Come, I will battle with thee to the very brink!

One last shot is all I need,

I