Non Omnis Moriar (1937)

(Translation from Horace)

(I shall not die entirely)

Cleaving clinging rock I carved a monument,
Sky grazing grandeur of the pyramid it humbles.
Gnawing rains, nor wearing winds, nor centuries
Death's legions plodding endlessly could crumble.
Death shall leave me life, for portions funeral
Flames fold entwining, yet a part shall be eternal.
Fame renewed, increased, endures rejuvenate.
High priests in silence with the virgins to paternal
Jove proceed; while men as coursing cataracts
Praise fling to one who far excels in art, in weaving
Words melodic, like the lowly Daunian
Ruled rustic tribes, then rose to realms majestic cleaving
Lasting lyrics. Noble muse of Delphica
Take pride deserved in me thy son and twine with laurel
Wreaths my hair. (Horace lives eternally.)


The best way to be a pastor is not to be one.

Trout Stream

Tumbling waters boulder broke

Pause where a willow dips,

Laving her leafy tips.

Rushing current's splashing stroke

Swirls in a symphony,

Glides o'er a fallen tree,

Wearied waters torrent tried

Rest in the shadows cool,

Ripple the lillied pool.

Rolling rainbow's painted side

Ruffles the resting stream,

Troubles her wistful dream.

Thomas and Peter believed in themselves despite their mistakes, and became saints.

William Malewitz - The Beachcomber

The Rape Of The River (1938)

Lucid, on gravel bed
The river fled
Gnawing her rooted shore.
Snags formed a fishing ground
Where trout abound,
Haunting the river floor.

Cities her sides infect
Her course deflect,
Harness, enslave her, raped
Polluted, sewage swill;
Untainted till
Beauty her banks escaped.

Murky, on slimy stones
With murmured moans
Staining all that she touched,
Living yet dead, she fled.
Her tethered tread,
Hindered where buildings clutched.

- William Malewitz

Fulfillment, like happiness, has to be earned, not found.

Dreams And Reality

Dreamers dwell in distant realms
Unmindful of the tangled trails that test their conquerors.
Actors grasp the lurching helms
Of present deeds, and careful cruise where rash adventures
Were lost.

Some imagine martyr's crowns;
They picture death with torture; fairly feel the pain's intensity.
Deeds portray these shackled clowns
As weighted by human earthly scales, with standards set, eternity
To cost.

Bowed before the sword of scorn,
Or twisted on the rack of ridicule, how many preserve?
Dreams of conquest, fragile born,
Are trampled in the test of daily deeds, in earthly atmospheres
Are lost.

- William Malewitz, The Beachcomber

Are you working on the solution or are you part of the problem?

Beachcomber

(About my canoe, but knowing that I have been called the Beachcomber helps to understand this one)

Her battered bow attests a ceaseless search,
Each rapids run or portaged round
Through tunnels carved of conifers and birch
Till evening's campsite could be found

Her probing prow proclaims her singing soul.
As paddles pushed and drove her on
Till sunset sought each known, yet unknown goal,
And campfires searched the darkness and beyond.

Now outlined low beside life's surging stream,
A sacrament that's real and now
Attesting human presence, not a dream,
Significant that keel, that bow.

-William Malewitz, The Beachcomber

The world is made up of two kinds of people; the givers and the getters. I've never found an unhappy giver. I've never found a happy getter.

Train Whistles

Each time at a crossing
Train whistles intone
Their song with a feeling
So strangely their own.
From deep in the distance
Low moaning is heard;
The tone is entrancing,
Somehow I am stirred.

Again it is softer,
Night hushes the sound,
Till mellowed in shadows
My window is found.
There dwells in my mem'ry
Long cherished and dear,
A thought of my home,
When train whistles I hear.

- William Malewitz, The Beachcomber

Preaching a sermon is like hunting rabbits. They run in a circle, and you better stop them the first time around or else.

The Lost Poem

The rushing sun-flecked rapids sang the words,
Complaining oar-locks told it to the lake;
Its rhythm was the winged flight of birds,
My stumbling footsteps followed in its wake.

'Twas finely etched in candle flame at night,
The clinging oak leaves lisped it as a prayer;
Away from earth and toil, by starry light
Its shadowed pathway lured me unaware.

That lightly whispered song too soft to learn,
In haunting tones pleads temptingly ahead;
'Twas lightly held, escaped nor will return,
But memories dear now comfort me instead.

-William Malewitz, Songs Of A Beachcomber

The height of felicity lies in simplicity.

Maturity

Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a single grain of wheat; but if it falls to the ground and dies, it brings forth a great deal of fruit. You and I, and every human being, is like a grain of wheat. We have goodness, fruitfulness, talent, and ability within us. The big difficulty, keeping us from realizing our potential, is that, like the grain of wheat, we have on the outside a hard shell. Our shell is always some for of selfishness. Selfishness can take strange forms. It can be self-defense. We try to do good in our life and we get hurt by other people. Our attempts to do good are rejected. We retreat into a shell of self-defense. We hesitate to attempt anything good lest we get hurt.

Our selfishness can take the form of self-pity. Poor me, nothing I do is right. Everything bad happens to me.

Our selfishness could be more obvious like booze to excess, drugs, sex outside of marriage, ect. It could be anger, bitterness, hatred, revenge or dishonesty. Evey sin, for that matter, is selfishness.

But what does Our Lord say we must do with our hard shell of selfishness in order to live a fruitful life? It must fall to the ground and die. How much of our selfishness has to go? All of it! If we could bury all of our selfishness in one day and get it over with, it would be easy. Since this is impossible, we have to bury the grain of wheat ever day. Then only will we live fruitful, happy lives.

If we refuse to bury the grain of wheat, Christ said, it remains just a grain of wheat. In other words, we remain in our shell of selfishness and in that shell, we love no one, not even ourselves, and that is really what hell is.

When two people get married, it's like burying two grains of wheat side by side, and hoping they will come up one. They psychologically must leave their father and mother and cling to each other, and the two become one. This oneness is not achieved until both bury their selfishness totally, after much sacrifice. If they, through selfishness, just hurt each other, instead of becoming one, they end up two people walled off from each other by their thick shells. The more they irritate each other, the thicker their shells. We must indeed learn daily to bury the particular forms of selfishness that form our shells. Only then can we live fruitful, happy lives.

- William Malewitz, Songs Of A Beachcomber

Song, The Sword

O storm stalked sphere, awaken!
Crimson clouds blot out the Son.
Song's cushioned, cased in velvet words,
A stifled thing.

O song forged sword, forsaken!
Battles watched are never won.
Young men, unsheath thy swords, let words
In battle ring.

O rust dulled barb, long hidden!
Softened song has worn thine edge.
Cease resting, rise in flashing light,
A keener thing.

Can swift swords strike unbidden,
Slashing strew that tangled hedge,
Slow, choking earth in twinings tight
As "isms" cling?

O bard, peace lulled no longer!
Clasp thy pen, send forth a song.
Bright, gleaming clear in tones of steel,
Thy words let spring.

Thy pen's clean blade make stronger,
Whet its edge. Set right the wrong.
Foil singing, cleave the air and feel
The strength it brings.

- William Malewitz, Songs Of A Beachcomber

People die in bed.

Imprisoned Soul

(Inspired by seeing an eagle caged in a zoo)

Pinions preened in mountain gales,
Storm sheened, swept smooth and glossed.
Talons cooled by cloudy trails,
Fire eyes, wedged wings wind tossed

Noble bird! Thou Freedom's sign,
Cage cramped, dull worn with dust.
Spirit free, untamed, designed
Sky king, earth bound by lust

Weak thy wings by worldly cage,
Flex free, escape and fly.
Soaring strength a battle wage,
Leave earth, world bonds defy.

Eagle soul to vistas soar,
Wheel wide, breast winds and glide.
Free soul to heaven's shore
Speed, sky winds feel and ride.

Pining spirit, prisoned bird!
Skies call, fresh winds entreat.
Freedom dwells above assured;
Earth's murk, world force defeat.

-William Malewitz, Songs Of A Beachcomber

There are too many administrators in the Church, and not enough pastors.

Sunset

The sun's last longing look at the quiet cove
Caught a heron soaring slowly o'er the lake.
Day paused to meditate, a birch before her eye.
Earth seemed to contemplate the day about to die.
The lake, lest left alone, with caresses strove
Mirrored trees to charm till moon and star should wake.

A water-lily slowly her petals closed.
Dusk clad beauty silent stood. Then soft and low
Her vesper antiphon intoned. With plaintive strain
Nocturnal nature's dulcet tones joined in refrain.
The chanting swelled as song was in song inclosed.
Velvet shadows softened, gilt with sunset glow.

Reluctant rower slowly in rhythm rowed
Shoreward. Chapel's silent spell was strongly felt.
The stirring symphony, the soft enchanting light,
Incense, a rhapsody, intoxicate delight;
This finely-formed cathedral, God's abode.
Reverent the rower lingered - nature knelt.

- William Malewitz, Songs Of A Beachcomber

You may be a diamond in the rough, but if no one discovers you, you never get a chance to show your light.

Songs Of A Beachcomber By William Malewitz

"A Beachcomber is a restless searcher for treasures other men may have lost. The search for truth and beauty must be ceaseless. Poems or songs as they are sometimes called must be lived before they can be composed. Some from college days represent the hopes and ideals of youth. May the thoughts and ideas found along the many and varied shores of life by a Beachcomber bring you joy."

- William Malewitz