Saab• Show poetry

Hi! My name's Jared, and this is my poet's page.  Here you'll find my poems, random ramblings, stories, etc.  Let's see, what can I say about me?  I'm 17 years old, I live in Colorado.  I'm not the best at poetry or writing in general, but I try.  I have an incredibly odd sense of humor, that either makes people laugh or want to shoot me, or both.  It all depends, really.  I'm very random. I'm a Christian and that comes out a lot in my poetry, that love for God is intense and there's no way to keep it out of my writing.  Yeah, that's about it. Well, have a great day. God bless!



So this guy comes up to me and says "What's the vision?  
What's the big idea?" and the words come out like this...

The vision?
The vision is Jesus, obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus.
The vision is an army of young people.
You see bones? I see an army.

And they are free from materialism--
They laugh at 9-5 little prisons.
They are mobile like the wind.
They belong to the nations,
They need no passport.
People write their addresses in pencil
And wonder at their strange existence.  
They are free, yet they are slaves
Of the hurting and dirty and dying.

What is the vision?
The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes.
It makes children laugh and adults angry.
It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars.
It is dangerously pure.
It loves people away from their suicide leaps,
Their Satan games.

This is an army that would lay down its life for the cause.
A million times a day its soldiers choose to lose,
That they might one day win the great
"Well done" of faithful sons and daughters.  

Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night.

They don't need fame from names,
Instead they grin quietly upwards
And hear the crowds chanting again and again,
"COME ON!"

And this is the sound of the underground,
The whisper of history in the making,
Foundations shaking,
Revolutionaries dreaming once again,
Mystery is scheming in the whispers,
Conspiracy is breathing...
This is the sound of the underground.

And the army is disciplined--
Young people who beat their bodies into submission.

Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade in arms,
The tattoo on their back boasts
*"For me, to live is Christ and to die is gain."*

Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes,
Winners.
Martyrs.
Who can stop them?
Can hormones hold them back?
Can failure succeed?
Can fear scare them, or death kill them?

And the generation prays
Like a dying man with groans beyond talking,
With warrior cries,
sulphuric tears and great barrow loads of laughter!

Watching; Waiting; 24-7-365.

Whatever it takes, they will give.
Breaking the rules,
Shaking mediocrity from its cozy little hide,
Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs,
Laughing at labels,
Fasting essentials,
The advertisers cannot mold them,
Hollywood cannot hold them,
Peer-pressure is powerless to shake their resolve at late night parties,
Before the cockerel cries.

They are incredibly cool
Dangerously attractive on the inside,
On the outside? They hardly care!
They wear clothes like costumes:
to communicate and celebrate,
But never to hide.

Would they surrender their image to popularity?
They would lay down their very lives.  
Swap seats with a man on death row,
Guilty as Hell; a throne for an electric chair.

With blood and sweat, and many tears,
With sleepless nights, and fruitless days,
They pray as if it all depends on God,
And live as if it all depends on them.

Their DNA chooses Jesus
He breathes out, they breathe in.
Their subconscious sings.
They had a blood transfusion with Him.

Their words make demons scream in shopping malls.
Don't you hear them coming?

Herald the weirdos!
Summon the losers and the freaks!
Here come the frightened and forgotten with fire in their eyes!
They walk tall and trees applaud,
Skyscrapers bow,
mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension.

And this vision will be.  
It will come to pass.
It will come easily.
*It will come soon.*

How do I know?
Because this is the longing of Creation itself.
The groaning of the Spirit,
The very dream of God.

My tomorrow is His today.  
My distant  hope is His 3-D.
And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer
Invokes a thunderous, reesounding, bone shaking
Great *AMEN!*
From countless angels,
From heroes of the Faith;
From Christ Himself.

And He is the original dreamer.
The ultimate winner.
Guaranteed.


                                   

If you want to be the popular one at a party, here's a good thing to do: Go up to some people who are talking and laughing and say, "Well, technically that's illegal." It might fit in with what somebody just said. And even if it doesn't, so what? I hate this stupid party.

How come the dove gets to be the peace symbol? How about the pillow? It has more feathers than the dove, and it doesn't have that dangerous beak!

I think in one of my previous lives I was a mighty king, because I like people to do what I say.

I think there probably should be a rule that if you're talking about how many loaves of bread a bullet will go through, it's understood that you mean lengthwise loaves. Otherwise, it makes no sense.

Whenever someone asks me to define love, I usually think for a minute, then I spin around and pin the guy's arm behind his back. NOW who's asking the questions?!

I don't think God put me on this planet to judge others. I think he put me on this planet to gather specimens and take them back to my home planet.

If there was a terrible storm outside, but somehow this dog lived through the storm, and he showed up at your door when the storm was finally over, I think a good name for him would be Carl.

If you're travelling in a time machine, and you're eating corn on the cob, I don't think it's going to affect things one way or the other. But here's the point I'm trying to make: Corn on the cob is good, isn't it?

The land that had nourished him and had borne him fruit now turned against him and called him a fruit. Man, I hate land like that.

-Jack Handy