A Lonely Poem

THERE ARE so many others that can start a loud stampede
of people running after them so that they all can read
the script of rhymes that fascinate their scrutinizing minds
to entertain emotions - emotions of all kinds.

But I am just a lonely poem buried here inside
a dusty book unsuited and unable to provide
a morsel of excitement to those readers I can't see.
They're browsing here, undoubtedly, on either side of me.

My words are like a dried up rose with bent and broken stem -
and that's why I'm a lonely poem, unlike the rest of them.
It's dark inside this dusty book. Forever, I will stay -
yet wonder, will I ever see the sunny light of day?

Rejected, I'm compelled to cry, but that I can't condone,
because my ink would surely run and I'd still be alone.
So tears I hold. I'm saddened so- and oh, I'd love to shout.
But I'll be stuck here up until this book I'm in's thrown out.

I prayed that you would find my words because God answers prayers.
He knows my good intentions and I know He always cares.
So when my prayers are answered and you read my story rhymes,
(...)

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From Across the Lake

The cabin built with sturdy logs
(that firmly stood awake)
was nestled snugly in the trees
beside this quiet lake.

A dim and amber light shone out
to greet the lonely eye -
reflecting off this tiny lake
here under cloudy sky.

Through window pane, that sorry lamp -
far off on other side -
had shone from on a tabletop
with unseen chair beside.

And faithful chair supported all
the poet's ev'ry task.
Yet that old chair is empty now,
"but why?" you maybe ask.

You wonder who that poet is
or why he is away.
You wonder if he writes at night
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Mother

If a picture's worth a thousand words,
each word, a pound of letters -
then mother tops the sunsets
and pounds of gold from debtors.
 
Mere words describe so many things,
each one beside another -
and words explain those many things
but can't describe my mother.
 
A million smiles can't match her worth.
She carries loving scars.
Her gifts surpass bright rainbows' arcs.
Her worth exceeds the stars.
 
My mother's very special and
the only one I'll get -
and I'm the one she could afford.
I love her quite a bit.
 
So what explains my mother now?
What in my vast report?
And what describes my mother when
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Rose-petal Mother

The morning dew settles
like tears on rose petals.
They cry out for time to return -
and beckon lost seasons
of God-given reasons
as sad notes on my guitar yearn.
 
You're queen of the givers.
It brings to me shivers
that I was so selfishly made.
Your name defines 'humble'
as my words now crumble
on flowers that I now invade.
 
Your hands were like Heaven,
unselfishly given,
beyond just the people you knew -
from city to country,
from wealthy to hungry -
and all of the rest of us too.
 
As butterflies flutter,
I still try to utter
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A Poet's Prayer

"Father," I pray as I walk along,
"give me the words that would flow like a song.
A poem of promise, of hope and of love
that would focus lost sinners on You up above....
 
The moon's shining bright from behind an oak branch,
but it's cold here tonight on my dear humble ranch.
I'd be so happy if I was a tree,
for they stand much taller, much taller than me.
 
Their tops are much closer to Heaven I know,
and they just get closer, the more that they grow.
There's no clouds in the sky - but if so, they would be
joyously singing up there with Thee.
 
The stars in the sky seem much brighter tonight.
They must be so close they reflect Heaven's light.
The gold, alabaster - the pearls and brass
I bet shine like prisms through diamond-like glass.
 
Oh, to get closer to Heaven - one peek....
could give me the thoughts that would make these words speak.
The sights would bring words and to earth I could bring
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A Wondrous Story

I'd love to be a poet and a real one, you know -
so I could write man's world off allowing God's to glow.
I'd write a wondrous story, that we could all take part
and live it in reality - each one with perfect heart.
 
I'd think outside my circle, with paper, ink and pen -
and think outside my flimsy box to live in peace again -
in gardens filled with blossoms - all colors full and bold -
that I could sweep my arms across and many flowers hold.
 
I'd jump inside my story with the animals and birds,
that live in His fine nature and are camouflaged with words -
that whisper as the breezes blow in true harmonic cord,
that bring us lives so unsurpassed when living with our Lord.
 
I'd peer up to the mountains, at the several waterfalls,
that rain grace down from Heaven where every angel calls -
to show to us a perfect world where He can overwhelm -
where man rejects but God perfects His great creation's realm.
 
I'd never hide inside my world, but fully would expect -
that men would treat each other with a solemn, deep respect -
that women dress with modesty and also could endow -
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The Old & Lonely Poet

On edge of arid desert set
a trailer aged in rust
with tires flattened long ago
and covered thick with dust.
A friend I'd known for many years
had lived alone inside -
and if his lamp was burning, then
I knew he hadn't died.

The lamp seemed always to be lit
but never did complain.
Then sure enough, I saw him there
through dirty window pane.
The Great Depression hurt him so.
I saw it in that place.
I saw it in his lonely words.
I saw it in his face.

The mental stress that he went through
was far too much to bear -
and would have been for anyone
if they were sitting there.
But they were not.  Just he alone
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