Poems from the Wine Press
is alive

Hopefully, the words and poems are vibrant with meaning and inspiration. Also the book lives as it changes and grows. Each copy is dated, and is up-to-date or complete as of that date. However, in the next week or day or hour a new poem may be added, or any of the existing poems edited, trashed or revised according to the whims of an author not subject to some of the restraints "normal" people exhibit.

Come, Enter In was written just before Resurrection Sunday in 1982. It was intended as a "call to worship" from our Father as a part of the Body of Christ was gathering to celebrate. I almost named the poem, "By His Faithfulness."

A River In Me was birthed in 1988 after almost two years of a haunting melody floating around in my head with the words,"There is a river, there is a river." The rest of the song came together at a charismatic Lutheran Pastor's retreat at Lake Arrowhead.

Let My Children Live begins a lengthy section of poetry and life centering around pro-life or anti-abortion. The injustice and wickedness of this present evil age thrust me into God and caused me to look at issues from His perspective. Church Meetings was sparked by the awesome presence of God at the assembly (church meeting) in front of abortion clinics. I experienced the presence and pleasure of God in those places exceeded only at the assemblies in the holding tanks after being arrested.

The Eagle is a favorite of mine. It mixes church and state in an unacceptable way (a sort of American way), but it powerfully sounds the call of God. I pray He uses it mightily to lead many to repentance.

The People vs. Constance Youngkin and Frank Smith was written while enduring the trial in August and September of 1989. The attorney was concerned that the Judge not see it. I waffled and kept it from the Judge, but later was so convicted over my cowardice that I sent a copy to every Judge in the County together with a strong letter.

Hope is a poem of hope during a difficult time. Meredith Hope, our fourth grandchild, was born after the trial and before the stay in jail. One Sunday afternoon, after being in jail about five weeks, Brian and Lisa brought Heidi and Meredith to visit me in the stalag. I held Meredith Hope for several hours. I cried when they left.

The Saga of 1989 is a sort of epoch in my life. It deals with abortion, injustice, and jail. But also, it is an attempt to take the heartbeat of the church. When you hear our heart-beat, you realize we are sick unto death, and unless we repent, we will be removed from our hypocritical position in this land.

The Reception was written while in an anti-social mood, as a reception was being endured.

School Prayer is a little ditty inspired by our hypocrisy as revealed in the Persian Gulf debacle.

Divorce Proceedings was written in court. Courtrooms have a profound effect on me. Poetry is the most appropriate expression of the pathos deep within as I sit in these arenas of vicious, life-altering battles. It was an ugly divorce case. My friend was torn to pieces. The children were ripped and left unmended. The ex was no better off. All were torn.

Tim and Colette were married July 13, 1991 and immediately went to Wichita, Kansas. Their plans were to stay one week, then go on a honeymoon the second week. Reports from Wichita told of this smiling, hand-holding couple. Invitations to their August seventeenth reception said, "Black tie optional. Shoes optional."

Evening and Morning. "Your ways are not my ways," says the Lord. True, but I want my ways to be conformed to His ways. Therefore, I try to consider the day's beginning at sundown. I make my own calendars, beginning sundown Saturday nights. This has been a most difficult and frustrating discipline that illustrates my non-synchronization with God's rhythm. I plan to keep using this calendar until the trumpet sounds. Maranatha!

Maybe Next Time is the meandering of my heart at the end of 1991, as I considered the Lord's promise of His coming and some of the events that ushered in 1992.

Gathered In His Name is a song written for our little house churches and the need for simple, singable songs that exalt the Lord in our midst. It follows the message of Psalm 138 and speaks of the validity and blessing of any church assembly where two or three gather in Jesus name.

Tinker erupted during the "Rubbergate" scandal. May those few righteous leaders in Congress not be harmed by this satire.

(an invitation to worship on Resurrection Day)

Roosters crowed,

men denied.

But, My Son was faithful.

Agonizing prayer

sleeping disciples.

But, My Son was faithful.

Blood-thirsty mobs,

unlawful assemblies.

But, My Son was faithful.

A crown of thorns,

a bloodied body.

But, My Son was faithful.

A way of sorrows

spikes to a tree.

But, My Son was faithful

I turned My back

I left Him to the darkness.

But, My Son was faithful.

O death, where is your sting?

O grave where is your victory?

The sting of death is sin

and the power of sin is the law.

But thank Me, children,

Thank Me for the victory

through the faithfulness of My Son.

You witness this day

the victory

of the faithfulness of My Son.

You enter in

through His faithfulness.

You share His place with Me

Because of His faithfulness

Yea, truly,

the Lamb is worthy.

The Lion of the tribe of Judah has conquered.

Death could not hold Him!

Death cannot hold you!

Come before Me

with sounds of trumpet and strings,

clashing cymbals and skillful music.

Bring an offering of praise,

and dance before Me this day.

Yea, truly,

the Lamb is worthy.

The Lion of the tribe of Judah has conquered.

Enter in,

to the place prepared for you,

by the faithfulness of My Son.

Resurrection Day, 1982.

chorus

There is a river, there is a river, Ps. 46

whose streams make glad the City of God.

There is a river, there is a river,

that flows from the Spirit in me. Jn. 7

The land is so thirsty in the valley of Baca, Ps. 84

pilgrims are marching to Zion.

Pools begin forming. Living waters abound.

The desert blooms like a rose.

Under the altar, and under the throne, Eze.47

from the depths of people empowered. Rev.22

The streams come together, the river grows deeper,

with trees bearing healing fruit.

You have no cup, sir, and the well is so deep, Jn. 4

where will you get such water?

The water I give you is a rich bubbling spring,

that wells up in everlasting life.

c Frank B. Smith 10/14/88

This song has been used as a teaching tool in various congregations where I have served as a guest preacher. The song, amplified according to my interpretation of the scriptural references, is the sermon. Some have liked it a lot. Another dear friend (not ex, but still) said, "Frank, that's a Honkey, Lawrence Welk song." That may be the best description of the music.

The thrust of the message is who and what we are in God. The New Age may be strong on channeling demon spirits, but we are the living stones, the holy habitation of the Most High God, channels of the water of life for a dying world.

LET MY CHILDREN LIVE

Let My children live,

Let them seek My face.

I am Lord of Hosts.

I am in this place.

Let the womb be safe,

for My children's stay,

Till they laugh and sing,

in the light of day.

Let My children live;

Let them grow up strong.

Teach them of My love,

knowing right from wrong.

Let My children nurse

at their mother's breast.

Give them love and hope.

They're My very best.

Let My children know,

the sun, the sky, the sea.

Let them learn My ways,

at their father's knee.

Let My children live!

Stop this murder now!

Turn your hearts and live;

come, and humbly bow.

c Frank B. Smith 1/8/89

This poem was also written as a song. As I sang it to my daughter, she said, "O, that's, 'Change My Heart, O God.'" So, although this was written to be a song, there is no original music.

Is there a place where the favor of God still rests on a people who fear His name?

Is there a gathering where Father says, "Here is My family - here are My children?"

Is there a place where Christ Jesus says, "Behold My Bride - readying herself for our union?"

Is there an upper room in one accord where the Spirit says, "Here I will fill the vessels and touch them with fire?"

Where, O Lord, is such a place?

I WILL MEET YOU IN FRONT OF THE KILLING CENTERS.

Fierce and strong, an independent bent

marked the face of the eagle.

Haughty? No, clear and confident,

strong destiny under his wings.

Guardian of pastures for downtrodden masses

of earth's tired, huddled poor.

Come, persecuted lovers of God,

come, flourish with me and soar.

Bounteous plenty, the eagle is gorged,

dozing and growing fat.

The serpent slithers and slimes and slides,

and strikes where the eagle had sat.

Once proud, he struggles in a growing storm,

one wing lets him fly on the wind.

An eagle? a sparrow, pathetic and torn,

aloft, but with only one wing.

How long, O God, can the eagle fly,

keeping his sentinel's round?

As long as the wind blows he flutters on high,

when the wind dies, he'll hit the ground.

Blow wind of God! Blow wind of God!

Why don't You hear our plea?

The blood of the innocent cries from the ground,

and stirs up the anger in Me.

Your hands are bloody and greed is your god.

My bride is a consummate whore.

Preferring ease and pleasure and wealth,

to My kingdom and glory and power.

September 1989.

THE PEOPLE

VS

CONSTANCE YOUNGKIN

and

FRANK SMITH

"'Necessity?'

Nonsense, the children aren't real.

'Defense of others?'

They chose, let them suffer.

'Free Speech? First Ammendment Rights?'

Once upon a time,

when the land was young and idealistic -

maybe.

Now, for countless laws and

myriads of nuances, our great gurus

tell us what's real and legal

and just and true.

So, Connie and Frank,

go rob a bank,

and we'll treat you well.

But, the children must die!"

America, servant of hell.

Written in September 1989 during the trial(?).

Darkness grows stronger,

destruction seems ripe.

Yet Lisa's great belly

was churning with life.

A 4:00 a.m. wake-up,

to a fog shrouded drive.

Hurry to the waiting place,

surrounded by a hive.

God's peace on drowsy heads

the vigil is begun.

Nurses and doctors and fathers

some pacing, some on the run.

Silent prayers and nervous chatter,

eager eyes in darkness grope.

Brian comes, his face like sunshine,

"Her name is Meredith Hope!"

With the cry of the new-born

the message is clear:

God still sends His children,

the future is here.

In the days of weary battles,

when I felt I couldn't cope;

I remembered God's great faith and love,

and from Him, there is Hope.

The faith of our God

is beyond this world's scene;

not in armor or weapons,

it's in babies serene.

Is there a future for mankind

lost in drugs and deep fear?

The cry of the new-born

says, "God is still here!"

from a victim

of

America's religious fervor:

Frank B. Smith

Brave souls blocking a murderer's door,

no innocent victims this day.

Rabid opponents, who jeer shout and mock,

and others who gather to pray.

Then an army of cops - America's finest,

come with horses and dogs and fear.

"The babies must die," their actions decry.

"you criminals get out of here!"

"Will you leave?" "No I won't," this grandfather spoke,

"They'll kill babies as soon as I'm gone."

"Get up and walk and the pain will stop,"

as nunchuk's bruise muscle and bone.

Sidewalk justice continues, nine hours in cuffs,

worshipping saints jammed in tanks.

Pain in the body, pure joy in the soul,

as Jesus had joined in our ranks.

Released, but entrapped in a system of mud,

created for justice and law.

Once there was truth for the tired, huddled poor,

now statutes stick in their craw.

Finally a trial with muzzles in place,

"Don't say why you did that deed!

God is not welcome, the children aren't real,

just answer us, how do you plead?"

While kangaroos hopped like teeny toy soldiers,

said the black-robed, blank, smiley face,

"They're a menace, you know, it's guilty we show;

and jury, remember your place.

I am god in this room, what I say goes,

what laws and words you can hear.

You're too dumb to hear why, you might not comply;

but I'll put 'em in jail, never fear."

And true to his word, nothing was heard,

that explained why babies should die.

So Connie and Frank were sent to the tank,

while loved ones continued to cry.

"Hands over your head against the wall."

Life continues, but my world is the wall.

"Don't look around! Keep you eyes on the wall."

How soon can this sheep be put in his stall?

"On the line...strip...bend over...spread 'em."

Jesus, I feel like an it, degraded and such.

Did You really hang naked in shame on the cross?

Do You actually love me that much?

Warmth sucking concrete - the drunk tank floor,

my bed for the first night in jail.

A pillow of shoes among hundreds confused,

contentiously men rant and rail.

A 4 a.m. transfer, pictures and prints,

chained to a bench, a dark hall.

"Father what's happening, what must I suffer?"

I pray as I stare at a wall.

"What you lookin' at, Home Boy?"

screamed the voice from a darkened cell.

A quick turn aside, a nervous shake.

"Have I died and gone to hell?"

Circles of men, eager for truth

clutching for help and for hope.

"Give me acceptance, courage and strength

before I'm surrounded by dope."

The boys in men's bodies listen and think,

how the prodigal came to his head.

Diving in dumpsters, he rose empty and cold,

"I'll go home to my family," he said.

"The dude in the story's not like my old man;

that drunk kept our house full of strife."

But God as your Father will wash and receive,

if you want a new birth, a new life.

The tears mark the ache and desire for change.

There was Bo and Walter and Trip,

and a host of others who wanted to come.

but feared out on the streets they'd slip.

"They're not worth it, Reverend," the deputy sneered,

"They lie and don't mean what they say.

They find them a fix as fast as they're out,

it's just a game they play."

O, Jesus, my Lord, does this cynic speak truth?

Is the world, things and comfort the aim?

Is my life laid down for Your Kingdom and will,

empty and striving in vain?

"Smith, 887, roll-up," the voice breaks my night,

transfer to the place in the hills.

Fresh air and sunshine, bright stars in the sky,

will add to my sorrow and ills.

A ferocious fence - "razor wire" they say -

sparkling in the sun like circles of light,

pierces my heart with an aching dull pain.

The closest I love are far from my sight.

Learn all the lessons,

get it straight.

Who's cruel and vindictive,

who's filled with hate?

Which deputy castrates,

by badge, gun and pride?

Which master shows kindness,

and just lets it slide?

"Man walkin'," hide the crosses.

"Man walkin'," stash the smokes.

"Man walkin'," snap to attention.

"Name, last three numbers! No jokes!"

"Man walkin'," warns your comrades,

it comes by whisper or by shout.

"Man walkin'," makes my heart thump.

"Walkin'" - the enemy's about.

Roll-up again, to a work camp this time,

a stalag, far from the fuss;

so down to the hall to wait on the wall

for the chains, and the ride on the bus.

Deputies belt us with iron and locks,

chained, then cuffed to another.

One wrist on mine, the other on his.

Is this man really my brother?

A year away from my stay in jail,

I still jump at a uniform.

"Walkin'," I think. An enemy's here,

get in line, you'd better conform.

Where are we going? What good do we do,

to warehouse these people awhile?

We train 'em up good in a jail neighborhood,

then release them to crime with more style.

Does anyone care, does anyone dream,

how to bring these people to life?

Or is it only more jails, more crime, more

cops, more drugs, more strife?

Father forgive us, for we have sinned,

we've given up the gates.

Wickedness roams through the City of God,

the things You said Your soul hates.

Innocent blood, flows in our streets,

unchecked by the powers that be.

Pompous piffle from preposterous pulpits,

we have eyes, but we do not see.

Our highest court has twice made a law

that Your gifts are not welcome here.

First it was blacks, non-people, no rights,

and now it's Your children so dear.

In the place of justice, where law should prevail,

there is arrogant wickedness.

In the halls of congress, where truth should prevail,

there is little righteousness.

Are You coming now to judge our land,

and give us our just deserts?

Or is Your mercy extending us grace

to make right the wrongs and the hurts?

Rulers of Sodom, people of Gomorrah,

hear His voice, awake from your dream.

Let justice roll on like a river,

righteousness like a never-failing stream.

Who knows but what the Lord might turn,

and let His up-raised hand

be unto us for good, not ill

to bless a contrite land.

Once in a moment of eternity,

His up-raised hand did smash,

the substitute, His Son no less,

Who took for us the lash.

So if in Him we now are found,

our lives are hid from wrath.

And righteousness with justice for all,

mark those who walk His path.

Cackeldy cack, cackeldy cack,

thorns crackling under the pot.

Cackeldy cack, cackeldy cack,

I sit like a drunken sot.

Cackeldy cack, cackeldy cack,

Please, may I now go home?

Cackeldy cack, cackeldy cack,

cacklers constantly roam.

Cackeldy cack, cackeldy cack,

Much trivia to be endured.

Cackeldy cack, cackeldy cack,

"This too shall pass," I heard

Cackeldy cack, cackeldy cack,

strangers like long lost friends

Cackeldy cack, cackeldy cack,

I long for the time it ends.

Cackeldy cack, cackeldy cack,

why didn't I make an excuse?

Cackeldy cack, cackeldy cack,

I coulda said, the dog got loose.

Cackeldy cack, cackeldy cack,

another group - O, I am undone!

Cackeldy cack, cackeldy cack,

Is this all my time in the sun?

"Like the crackling of thorns under the pot, so is the laughter of fools. This too is meaningless." Eccle 7:6

Rhythm and cycles -

what patterns are best?

Daytime for labor,

nighttime for rest?

Awake to the morning

a new day to bear;

work hard and accomplish,

then crash and repair?

This is the world's way,

trudging through life.

God has a different

road for His wife:

Prepare My beloved,

attend what I say.

Your rhythm and cycles,

submit to My way.

Evening and morning,

darkness then light.

The day starts with rest

to equip for the fight.

Creation was finished.

Formed 'ere the night,

your first day's existence

was rest, My delight.

We walked in the garden

in the cool of the day.

No shame was between us,

work was like play.

Then satan destroyed

our relation of love.

You chose his deception,

so I stayed far above.

A promise I made

to you, now dead:

Your heel-injured seed

will crush satan's head.

I will restore

more than the loss.

I will indwell you

because of the cross.

No longer your enemy,

not just your friend.

I will live in you

and accomplish My end.

Rest in Me, children,

dwell in My love.

I am Immanuel,

not, way up above.

Enter My Sabbath,

your rest and delight.

Live by My presence,

not by your sight.

From rest comes all living,

all hope and delight.

Evening and morning,

the day starts with night.

Not just waiting - looking. Leaning forward to see as much as

possible from the windshield. "Nope, not this hill."

Maybe the next curve. Maybe next time.

"Are we there yet? Are we there yet?"

the children feverishly shout. "Not yet, just a little while."

"How many whiles now Daddy?

Maybe the next while?" Maybe next time.

Endless hills and curves and trees and signs, but not yet.

It should be just over this hill.

Maybe the next hill. Maybe next time.

Nervously pulling back the curtains watching for the mail.

"Sorry, that's all for this address."

Maybe tomorrow the check will come. Maybe next time.

Storms of death raining from the skies - the war to end all wars!

Maybe the next war. Maybe next time.

Let's get together this week - dinner, or just some quality time.

Let's see, here's the calendar.

Maybe next week. Maybe next time.

One more time of prayer, one more struggle to get the mind of

Christ. One more session with the brothers.

Maybe the next one. Maybe next time.

More fasting, more praying. Another healing service, another

televangelist. The lump is still there!

Maybe the next evangelist. Maybe next time.

Another year and still not out of debt, still no raise. I thought

for sure we'd be financially healthy by now.

Maybe next year. Maybe next time.

Futile, frenzied map-makers in a mutating world. Sovereign ethnic

nations being readied to appear before the Lord.

Maybe the next nation. Maybe next time.

Behold how the mighty have fallen. Political charlatans, religious

crooks, self-serving servants. "God, expose all wickendness."

Maybe the next expose. Maybe next time.

More Peace Conferences. Peace for Jews and Arabs. Peace for Los

Angeles gangs. Peace for neighborhood racial violence.

Maybe the next peace conference. Maybe next time.

I felt hopefully certain 1991 would be it. Jesus would come and

we'd all go home.

Maybe next year. Maybe next time.

MARANATHA!

Your name and Your word are exalted

over all the things that we love.

Whatever has been or is destined,

Your name and Your word are above.

In Your name we gather together.

In Your name we greet with a kiss.

In Your name we bow in submission.

Good things are here in our midst.

Your name draws us closer together.

Your glory is here in this place.

Your word is exalted among us.

Please, Lord, now show us Your face.

February 1992, from Psalm 138.

Tinker, tinker, tinker,

is the way we earn our keep.

Tinker, tinker, tinker,

every moment till we sleep.

The constituents all love us,

we tell them they're so wise.

Then we tinker with the problems,

and multiply their size.

Tinker, tinker, tinker,

it's the only way to go.

Tinker, tinker, tinker,

it's like a circus show.

It's fun and oh so easy

for us Sherwood Forest kin.

We take away your money,

and tinker while we sin.

Tinker, tinker, tinker,

this work is more like fun.

Tinker, tinker, tinker,

the perk's forever run.

While tinkering with budgets,

we tinker night and day,

Our own funds need no watching,

the bank will always pay.

(sing)

Hi ho, hi ho,

a tinkering we go.

We work and play

and tinker all day -

Hi ho, hi ho, hi ho,...

Frank B. Smith,