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.

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.

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.