Biography of Trevor Toews
I wasn't born in the mountains, but I got here as fast as I could. Colorado.
Trevor Toews Poems
The world is turning clockwise, and the ticking doesn't stop. The rigid hands, like marching bands, move forward round the clock.
The Unborn Child
The unborn child, As she waits in darkness for the coming dawn, Wrapped in solitude's restricting bands, Is nurtured by a life line, fed and cared for
How many of these gleaming, lifeless stones, Will you erect and dedicate with hollow prayer? Will the hordes of idols never be enough? The mystic scenes that decorate your domes?
Have you ever been alone at night, Waiting for first light, And tried to will the earth to spin one minute faster? It didn’t change its pace at all by what you said.
The devil owns the question mark He wields it like a sickle in the grass, Hacks contentment, severs my resolve With all the slicing questions that he asks.
Mind The Space
And tomorrow when you wake up Mind the space that you will take up
Back when the mighty Prince of Peace Could be wrapped up tight in swaddling clothes, Back when His needs were the simplest comforts, Only a mother in love bestows.
Made from scratch we say, We like it better that way, And I wonder Where does the original scratch come from anyway?
The Ifs Of My Life
You know how the branches of a tree Split and split again, Until these thousand passages terminate in leaves, Not one of them the same.
Trash Or Treasure
Night has fallen, Long since the woods were stilled By the wind withdrawing to take another breath Even the owl stops calling
What He Wrote In The Dust
I'll never forget how they picked up those rocks Trembling with anger, self-justified How they pointed at me with those long bony fingers And told Him, almost excitedly, according to law,
He told me if I didn't have a sword That I should sell my garment and go buy one I did so, in obedience to my Lord And I felt better with a weapon to rely on
I am working on something, working every day. It won't be finished for a long, long time. And I don't want to force it to completion anymore. Every time I work with haste, I cause delay
When the rain won't fall from the yellow sky And the last thin cloud goes twirling by And the land where I live is dry, dry, dry There's still a hallowed place where I
The world is turning clockwise,
and the ticking doesn't stop.
The rigid hands, like marching bands,
move forward round the clock.
And desperate backward snatches,
yield nothing in my grasp.
The rolling hearse has no reverse,
that bears away the past.