April is National Poetry Month

I just discovered, while reading the Bangor Daily News, that April is National Poetry Month. Thankfully I realized this while it is still April! In honor of National Poetry Month I am going to post one of my late son's poems. Vinny passed away in July 2008. He was only 32 years old. Vinny was bigger than life. He was a world traveler, an adventurer, a linguist, a staunch republican, a Christian, a muscle man and a poet. Vinny also suffered terribly with alcoholism and it eventually got the best of him. Perhaps he felt too much. The poem is quite deep and speaks about his struggle with alcoholism. Poetry is written, often, to make people stop and ponder the words. I hope you will read this poem and ponder it's words.


I have posted several pictures of Vinny while he was serving as a linguist in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Kirghistan . Most of them were taken shortly before his death. One of the pictures shows Vinny sitting in one of Saddam Hussein's castles in Iraq. Another photo is of Vin with his girlfriend, Saltanat. She lives in Kirghistan. And, there is a picture of Vinny standing with his pastor, Rev. Thomas Schallor.


Weak Men Love Much......

Haven't I brought disgrace to Thee?
Haven't You always provided for me?
What's to question? I know my heart is drenched with wicked sin.

Please, oh God, forgive me and let grace through faith begin.

Each time when I am up my failure comes as sudden rain.

I crave it in my bones, my heart is wanton and I cannot foresee the pain.

There in the midst of my misery, You I do not forget, You are all about me.

Here, there, all my thoughts lead to You; there is no place to flee.

Though further into separation do I sink.

I welcome the oblivion of my mind so I do not have to think.

This is not what I want, this is so wicked, my mind judges me still.

There is no peace in me. I can never get my fill.

Haven't I left this place behind?!

It came so suddenly I must be blind.

What kind of monster am I to do such wicked things?

Lately when I come to worship I cannot even sing.

I feel so wrong I cannot even look some men in the face.

Because I know it's You they represent in Your place.

What have I become? Please rescue me from myself.

How? How is it You call me Your treasure and wealth?

I am a man of unclean lips and a perverse heart.

Will I ever have the stability to let Your love start?

Oh, my judging, Pharisaical life.
What sort of husband would I ever make for a wife?

I just can't seem to get ahead.

Seems I am better imprisoned or dead.

Who am I to judge even one time?

When your wrath has been slight for the multitude of iniquity that is mine.

You haven't maimed me. I always have food to eat.

You gave me a mum whose words are tender and sweet.

I feel like a child that gets another chance.

Your mercy and grace make me want to dance.

I, from a generation that is wicked as the day is long.

I'm not worthy but you keep giving me your song.
What love? What love is this?

Instead of wrath You gave me a heavenly kiss.

What is it? How You are I cannot begin to understand.

What a masterful, marvelous, wonderful plan.

Thank you, God, thank you for being so patient with me.

Each time You make me Your trophy it helps me to see.

It's not my sin, nor is it any longer I.

You do not change, You do not lie.

I'm in Your hands. I'll never be taken from You.

You're with me until the ends of the earth, what ever I do.

Myself, being the worst and wretched of all.

I always puff up before I fall.

I expect the hail, the warrior cherub's fiery swords.

I wait for plagues and curses by the hordes.

I hang my head in shame, walking through Your doors in defeat.

Yet, You speak to me softly and tell me I am loved.

You tell me I am hidden heavenly places above.

You speak of times, of days of old.

When You strengthened men and made them bold.

You speak of meager men whom you have made great.

You speak of men to proud to meet their heavenly fate.

You speak of nations who lead an entire nation fold.

You speak of a Royal Heavenly status that, even now, we hold.

You speak of our adversary and how we must flee.

Thank you for this hope that excites me and keeps me alive.

Thank you for loving me and telling not to strive.

Thank you, Dear Father, for calling me son.

How special I feel that You gave Your life to make me one.

Your birth had one purpose; to free my life and make it Yours.

This was done for all; You died for the generations, men and women by the scores.

Oh yes! That is my purpose! To tell those lost about your plan so sweet.

Thank you that I can always run to You.

Without You, God, what else would I do?

Vincent Paul Galkowski 12/75-7/08