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INSPIRATIONAL POETRY

POEMS FOR TOMORROW'S GENERATIONS

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INSPIRATIONAL POETRY
POEMS FOR TOMORROW'S GENERATIONS

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dove flying Poems for Tomorrow's Generations dove flying

by Lynda Doyle Rodriguez



POETRY INDEX

I

II

Tears of a Child Named ‘Stevie’
Monsters in My Closet
A Sinner’s Prayer, ‘The Missing Chapter’
Down That Lonesome Road
Tomorrows Generation
The Migrant Worker
The Price HE Paid
Childhood Days
Too Old
Salvation, Faith, Hope, Love and Charity
Looking Ahead
My Christmas Gift
My Children
On Golden Wings of Angels
Listen, Hear the Cries of the Children
Are We Alone
Sin
A Seed of Life
The Castle’s Secret

What If
This Brother of Mine
It’s Only on Paper
Looking Back
Like the Ostrich
A Storm is Coming
What Can I Give
On Second Thought
Freedom!
Heaven’s Gate
When Everything is Broken
God, Where Are You
How Dare the World!
Where Are They Now
Today is the First Day
Judgment
The Donkey
If Only
Rainbows

Dedications

Reflections


I

Tears of a Child Named ‘Stevie’

Tears of a child named, ‘Stevie,’ don’t mean a thing to a monster,
He calls, ‘daddy;’ this child innocent and scared, his bruises
Soon to heal, but not his broken heart; in time he might forget, but
Never will he forgive this, ‘daddy,’ from hell.

Its funny how he say’s, ‘if you’d just behave, Stevie, you wouldn’t
get hit or called names; tears of a child, Stevie, just won’t go
Away; he'll, keep it secret some place to be used against another

innocent child some day; and on and on, the cycle of abuse continues
Until, you or I make a change; only then will it go away;
Only then, will the cycle of abuse be broken.

I want to live, I’m much too young to die; but like a withered
Tree, the beautiful like, ‘Stevie,’ lay down and die;
I could say, ‘it was the monsters,’ in my head, but that’s a lie; as
Time marches on the beautiful always die; getting
Left behind; leaving only memories of what once lived inside.

As lightening strikes, a scared little boy runs to hide;
But where are you running to little boy, where are you going to
Hide this time?

Once you were a precious angel, sunny and bright as the morning
Star, until darkness crept into your mind; Stevie, your
Eyes used to shine, until the darkness crept into your mind;
I could say, ‘it was the monsters in my dreams, how they made
Me scream, cursing and striking
Somewhere in the back of my mind; but mama, you never heard
Them, you never came to my rescue.

I told myself never to let them see me cry; but times
Marches on, the beautiful ones get left behind;

Run little boy, run and hide, don’t let their evil, angry
Words destroy your mind, don’t let them see
You cry, remember Stevie, only the strong will survive.

Don’t let him take away your life too soon; his angry
Words are just another lie; God does love you
Even when you’re bad, quick Stevie, run and hide; we are
The same you and I, only the strong will survive.

Don’t let him see you cry, run and hide, ‘Stevie,’
But where do we run to, where do we hide this time?
The woods are full of boys like you
And girls like me, like us, all of them are seeking
Shelter from the storms of life, like
You and me Stevie, all of them are searching for
Places in which to run and to hide.

Tears Of A Child Named ‘Stevie’
Written by Shawn Stephen Butler

Monsters in My Closet

I remember screaming, ‘Mama, there is a monster
In my room!’ But mama you
Never heard my scream, you never came to my
Rescue; you didn’t hear my
Cry when he hit me, you didn’t hear my cry when
He raped me, because
Mama, you never came to my rescue.

Even now mama, I see his face, I hear his laughter
In my head; he took away
My childhood, he took away my life,
He took away my dreams; he took away my hopes,
he took away everything; now, he’s
Coming back for more, but I have nothing left
To give, except my soul.
Mama, you never came to my rescue.

I'm dead? or is this what I get for being a child?
It makes me wonder if
God really does exist; the pain in my heart
Leaves no room for joy.
Don’t cry mama, it wasn’t your fault, because you
Didn’t know; but
Mama, you never came to my rescue.

But tell me mama, where do I go, heaven or hell,
Earth or space,
Or, someplace in between?

Tell me mama, I’m alive or dead? Confusion
Is the knife that cuts us all; lying
Here in this pool of blood, suddenly, there is
Darkness all around; don’t
Cry mama, its not your fault, you didn’t
Know; it’s too late now,
Mama, you never came to my rescue.

Written by Shawn Stephen Butler

A Sinner’s Prayer, The Missing Chapter

Ever since I was a child, I’ve been searching, searching
For something to call my own,
Mine and mine alone; I’ve seen my face many times,
yet never knowing who was inside.

How can anybody know, at the age of nine, searching
For the answer to the question
Of, ‘Who I’m? It made no sense to love
Myself, when all I’d been taught was to hate what I
Did not understand.

We were taught never to be afraid, that everything is
All right, that it would work
Out in the end; but it didn’t and like little
Soldiers going off to
War, we must learn to be brave, in the end soldiers
Die, what are we fighting for?

Sometimes I wonder, if I’m just a character
In another person’s dream,
An imaginary face, only I can see.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve always felt this way,
Seeing my face a thousand times,
Yet, never knowing the boy inside; like puzzles, the
Pieces don’t fit this face I see.

My ears hear the strange sounding words my lips
Speak, is this really me? Or, I’m
Just a character in another person’s dream?

Written by Shawn Stephen Butler

Down That Lonesome Road

There is a woman with three children
Standing by the side of the road;
She is scared and all alone and crying
In the rain; the hungry eyes
Of her children show no laughter, no
Joy, just despair and misery.

There is one more mile to go Lord,
Down that lonesome road.

In a rain soaked alley hidden under
Blankets of newspaper
His shelter from the rain and biting
Winter winds huddles
A homeless man, whose
Lost everything he’s ever owned.

There is one more mile to go, Lord
Down that lonesome road.

In daylight hour’s people pass him
By; some judging
Other’s calling him names.

Some, feeling compassion throw change
At his feet; other’s turn
Away, pretending not to see.

All forget Lord, ‘by the grace of God,
There go I’ there
Is one more mile to go Lord, down
That lonesome road.

One more mile to go Lord,
One more mile to go.

Tomorrow’s Generations

Tomorrow’s generation, baby bottles and diapers,
Fussing and crying, stories of pied piper’s.

Tomorrow’s Generation, playing quietly with their
Toys on the floor, hug’s and kisses,
For daddy’s at the door.

Tomorrow’s Generation, swinging in the park,
Laughing and playing, unaware
Of the dark.

Tomorrow’s Generation, learning to read,
Counting his numbers,
Planting his seed.

Tomorrow’s Generation, dancing to the music
Of his times, escorting
His first date, learning early his lines.

Tomorrow’s Generation, pumping gas at that
Local station, saving for his first car.

Tomorrow’s Generation, running wild with
The crowd, a little pot, too much booze.

Tomorrow’s Generation, celebrating
Graduation, a spin
Around the block, wheels that screech, but
Can’t stop.

Late that night, police knock at the door,
Sad, but too late, tomorrow’s generation
Is no more.

The Migrant Worker

From field to field he wanders,
From camp to camp he roams
Never knowing a place
To call his home.

From the orange groves of
Sunny California, to hot sand
Beneath Florida grapefruit
Trees.

From field to field he wanders,
From camp to camp he roams,
Never knowing a place
To call his home.

From the grapefruit trees of
Sandy Florida, he heads
North to the tobacco
Fields of the Carolina’s.

From the sizzling heat of
Southern suns to frigid cold
Of northern hills,
The migrant worker.

From the Carolina’s, north
To the apple orchards
Of West Virginia, Virginia
And Pennsylvania.

From field to field he wanders,
From camp to camp
He roams, never knowing a place
To call his home.

His work is hard, his pay is low,
His housing is always
Shameful and always unfit.
The migrant worker,

Looking across fields and farms
You will find him there,
Harvesting the crops; breathing
Dust and sprays,
Pesticides, that one-day soon
Will take his life.

At the age of 49, his work
Is done; with no
More borders to cross, and no
More fields to harvest,
He is free.

As family and friends lower
His body
Into a pauper’s grave, who
Will grieve? Who
Will care, that pesticides took
His life?

Friends and family lay sprays of
Flowers on his grave; he
Was not a king or a man of wealth
The world would miss.

He was only a migrant, a lowly
Servant of wealthy men
Whose life ended way too soon.

From field to field, he wanders,
From camp to camp he
Roams, never knowing a place
To call his home.

The migrant worker, when the
Harvest is finished
When the season is done,
He moves on.

From field to field, he wanders
From camp to camp he
Roams, searching for better
Crops, higher pay and
Decent housing, the migrant
Worker.

From field to field he wanders,
From camp to camp he roams,
Searching for
The elusive American Dream.

The Price HE Paid

He was born of a virgin in a place
Called, Bethlehem, but the King of
All Kings, had no place to lay His
Head, His bed a cradle of straw,
Where animals were fed.

A star in the East, lit a path for
Three wise men to tread,
Stopping to rise
Above The Christ child’s head.

Gifts of gold, frankincense
And mirth, they
Laid at his feet, they bowed
Down to worship
Him, their new born King.

This Holy Child of God, born
Of humble birth
Left His Father’s mansions
On high,
To dwell with men on earth.

Oh what a price he paid.

As time went by, this child of
God, grew strong and
Tall, filled with knowledge
By the Holy Ghost;
Like His earthly father
Joseph, He
Was a carpenter by trade.

He was called, ‘A Nazarene.’ baptized
By John in the river of Jordan,
He set about doing His Father’s work,
Preaching in the synagogues,
And teaching on the shores of Galilee.

Calling to all men, ‘take up your cross
And follow me,’ He healed
Sick, made blind men to see; He
Never married and raised a family, at
The age of 33, He
Paid sin’s ransom for folks
Like you and me.

I did not deserve the hefty price He
Chose to pay, He took
My place on that old rugged cross,
Trading His life for mine.

Oh what a price he paid.

His name is, ‘Jesus,’ and on an old
And rugged cross, He looked
Down through the years and when
He saw me, He cried,
“Lynda, come and follow me.”
He hung His head,
And gave up His life, I did not
Deserve the
The hefty price He chose to pay

But, it was all part of God’s great
Plan, that His Son
Become, “The Sacrificial Lamb.”

Childhood Days

Oh, to recall once again those
Lazy days of summer;
School is out, no more books.

Flying down the hill, on my
Old red Murray,
Defying the wind, sailing my
Dad’s home made kite
Across the hill.

Childhood days, days filled
With curiosity, with
Dreams, plans and schemes.

The aroma of freshly baked
Cookies, drifting
Down the hall, floating under
My bedroom door, mom’s
Cookies;

Tantalizing my senses,
Teasing my empty stomach;
Mom’s cookies;
Flat and round, with bits of
Sweet and chewy
Chocolate, melting in my
Mouth.

But time has no meaning
When one is young.

All too soon, summer takes wings
Flying away, prisons
Of brick call us back, from nine
To three, once again
We go; fall turns to winters of ice
And snow; making
Days of summer and freedom
Seem so long ago.

While childhood days are wistful
And lazy, sadly,
They do not belong to us forever.
It’s happy, carefree
Days are not ours to keep.

Like days of summer, seasons of
Childhoods are all too
Short and gone way too soon.

As adults we are banished from
A world that in reality
Never existed, some of us are
Banished way too soon.

Yet, whether by miracle or by
Divine intervention,
Through trials
And error of selfish, youthful
Arrogant ways,
We muddle through

Some of us even manage to
Learn a lesson or two.

“Too Old”

I’m, ‘too old,’ the young people say,
Too old, to see the reality of their world
Today; ‘Too old,
Your world is dead, buried along with
The beatniks and coffee shop
Poets of the fifties,” the young people
Say; in their world,
It is okay to stand crooked, straight or
Whatever way.

It is, ‘politically incorrect,’ to speak
Against lifestyle
Choices I do not understand.

It is, ‘politically incorrect,’ the young
People say, ‘to openly teach
Laws and Commandments of a non-
Existent God; I’m too old,
I don’t understand.’

There are many things that I may not
Understand, like computers
And the delicate work of a surgeon’s
Hands;

But life has taught this, ‘older
Generation,’ that
No matter how the world may
Change,
Some things remain the same.

It was by the efforts of this, ‘older
Generation,’ and
Those before us, which created
The changes
Young people enjoy today; but we
Are, ‘too old,’ they say;

We need to step aside, step down,
Retire to our rocking chairs
And nursing homes, and like old
Flowers, just
Wither and pass away.

But where would this generation
Be without the
Writers, the directors and its old
Actors and actresses
And even the coffee shop poets
Of yesterday.

Where would this generation be
Without its, ‘old,’
Veterans who fought and died to
Keep our land free?

Where would this generation be
If, ‘women’s choice,’
Had been one of our options,
Way back then?

How would our, ‘old,’ men have
Dreamed their dreams
If, ‘doctor death,’
Had been allowed to roam our
Town, way back then?

Tell me young people, you’re
So smart with
You’re computers geniuses
And stock
Market portfolios;

Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be, if this, ‘old,’
Generation of
Feeble minds and shaking
Hands had not set
The path and led the way.

But we are, ‘too old,’ the
People say.

Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be, if our, ‘old,’
Men, had not
Built the skyscrapers, laid
The pipes, poured
The concrete interstates?

Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be, without our
‘Old,’ truckers,
Without our, ‘old’ coal
Miners, who dug black coal
From the earth?

Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be with our, ‘old,’
Factory workers,
Oil riggers, and labors,
And our, ‘old,’
Steel workers too?

Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be without this,
“Old,’ generation
Of teachers, who took their
Time to teach?

Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be without this
“Old generation,’ of
Farmers and migrant
Workers too?

Tell me young people, where
Would you’re
Generation be without us, ‘old
Folks,’
Of yesterday?

Salvation, Faith, Hope, Love and Charity

Faith was born on a tiled bathroom floor
In a small four-bedroom house,
In Augusta, West Virginia, the exact date
I don’t remember, it was a cold
November day, during the year of 1975.

Hope was born in a two-bedroom house
In Fairfax, Virginia; the month
Was September, in the year of 1992;
One month after mother’s death.

Salvation was granted, God’s free gift
To me, during a Catholic
Prayer meeting in Arlington, Virginia;
This date is engraved upon
My heart, forever I will remember,
September 29, 1992.

Love, not mine, but God’s Holy love
Took root within my heart
At the very moment of Salvation.

Faith is believing in God the Father,
In His Son, Jesus Christ,
In the Holy Ghost, faith is believing
In things unseen.

Faith, Hope and Salvation from sin
Were the gifts my
Precious Savior gave to me.

The most precious words, I heard
Him say were,
“By your faith my daughter you
Have been saved.”

“Looking Ahead”

It’s too late to change those
Things, that could
Have been changed way
Way back then;

Its too late for wailing and
Groaning, bemoaning
Those things that
May have been and were;

Will never have
The chance to be again.

It’s too late now for looking
Back, wanting
To change that which
Was;
Into that which was not.

And to change that which
Was not into that
Which could have been;

But the future is not ours
To see; its
Not too late to change
What will be;

It’s always too late for
Looking back;
But never too late for
Looking ahead.

My Christmas Gift

I like to celebrate Christmas
The way other people
Do; but my gift cannot be
Bought,
It comes from me to you.

Material things I have little
Of; my gift comes
From within a mother’s
Heart
Bursting with love.

My gift I gave to you on
The day each
Of you were born; my gift
You will
Never outgrow and with
The passing
Of each new year, my
Gift
Is refilled with my love;

I know you’d like bikes
And dolls; hot
Wheel cars, and many
Other things;
But my gift of love is all
I have to bring.

My Children

Each of you, two little girls
And two little boys;
Are my bundles of joy; you
Have given
Me hours of love with your
Golden smiles,
Devilish grins and endless
Noise.

Sometimes you have worn
Hand-me-down
Clothes, seconds, and
Bargain basement specials.
Though life was
Tough and sometimes very
Hard, through it
All, seldom if ever did any
Of you complain.

Within your wisdom of
Childhood
Ways, you seem to under-
Stand; instead
Of expensive toys, you
Found joy
In the little pleasures, life
Had to offer;

As I look back on those
Years, I thought
You should know many
A day, your
Hugs and your kisses
Too, wiped
Away my tears.

Tending to your needs filled
My nights with
Happy, pleasant chores; the
Love each one
Of you had to give, filled my
World with
Purpose and gave meaning
To my life with
Each passing year; looking
At each of you
Now, all grown up you have
Become;

Your love is still my treasure,
Your hugs
And kisses were my reward;
I know, I was
Blessed from above; you are
My children;
And what rich mother could
Have
Asked for more.

On Golden Wings of Angels

On golden wings we soar above the clouds,
On golden wings of angels we fly;
Sorrow fills our hearts; we should not have
Died, we had yet to be alive.

We are the souls of the dead, most of us
Are the souls of God’s
Unborn children; to our death’s we carry
His love that
Some men will never sow.

Soaring through God’s blessed heaven
In triumphant victory
We shout; within the breasts of those
Of us who once enjoyed
Life rests the swords of the afflicted,
Of the
Weak and the oppressed.

From beyond the grave their voices
Ring! “We were
Poor, we were hungry!” They
Shout, “And
Your world knew us not.” We were
Old, sick, and dying
Of our fate, your world knew us
Not; no place
In this world was safe.

While asleep in the wombs of our
Mother’s, death
Awaited us still, to destroy us;
We are the unwanted
Offspring of mostly young, scared
And unmarried women.

In your world we were nothing,
Only a mass of tissue;
Unworthy of life, worthy only
Of death.
“You’re body, you’re choice.” In
The name of,
“A woman’s right to chose, we
Were slain; yanked
Out of our mother’s wombs and
Murdered; for us the
Choice between
Life and death was not given.

God breathed life into our souls
In his wisdom, man
Gave us death; Is that tears we
See? Don’t cry
Mother, we forgive you,
And God
Has forgiven you; as Eve was
Deceived
In the Garden of Eden, so you
Have been also.

Abortion is not a choice, it is
Not a right; it
Is a child; abortion is nothing
More than state
Sanctioned murder; it is also
Political; it is
Nothing more then population
Control; like
China and Japan, control of
The masses.

Listen, Hear the Cries of the Children

Among the ashes our voices ring, our tears
Fall like rain from a smoke laden sky.
Without having lived, we are doomed to die.

We have not made cakes in the mud or
Danced, splashing in rain soaked
Streets; climbed a tree, jumped a fence,
Or done any of these
Childhood things, yet death is our fate.

We were not born children of the elite, we
Were born into a culture
The world has chosen to eliminate, we
Are children of Bosnia.
Hated for our ethnicity we are trapped,
Plagued by destruction.

In the name of, ‘Ethnic Cleansing,’ we
Are pawns in the dreams
And schemes of evil minded men.

The world looks on in silence at our
Fate, not a voice is raised
In protest, no, not one. As were the
Jewish people before us,
So have we become, ‘Adolph Hitler’s
Slaughtered lambs.

Among the rubble of our burned out homes,
Our shops, our schools, our
Churches and our playgrounds, our voices
Cry out for mercy, we look
Towards an uncaring world for justice, but
Justice is not found.

Within the game of political power, our
Pleas fall on deaf ears.
The world turns away, as if they do not
Hear our cries, as if
They do not see our plight.

With greed and speed, armies march
Forward to victory. Our
Bodies lay trampled beneath marching
Feet, thrown along
Dusty streets,
Tossed aside in open pit graves.

Without a backward glance
To the destruction left in their wake.

Those of us lucky enough to survive
Those of us lucky enough
To have found a place to hide will
One-day rise like ghosts
Reminding
A silent world that, ‘Hitler,’
lives, he lives
In the hearts and minds of,
‘Evil men.’

Are We Alone

As into the heavens I stare,
I do wonder,
What other worlds are there?

Surely, in this vast space,
There must
Be brighter stars then ours
Alone?

Other beings beyond
The stars,
Other worlds so near
Yet so far.

Other beings who come
And go,
Other’s we do not know.

Are we so naïve to
Think, we
Are the only ones
who live
And breathe?

The only ones who
Who
Laugh and love?

Oh, what other worlds
Did God
Create? What other
Worlds
Does He own, surely,
Not ours alone?

‘Sin’

Where there is a will,
There is a way.
Where there is sin,
There is
Hell to pay.

For those of us who
Know Jesus
Christ as Lord
And Savior, there
Is no price.

He paid it all
On Calvary’s hill.
Bowing
His head, he said,
‘Yes,
Father, I will.’

A Seed of Life

It was born of seed, nourished by the sun,
Nature’s reward for a job well done.

Air flows through its veins like a river
Of life, its shape is formed
After the destiny of man with many
Up’s and down’s, like
Man, it comes in all shapes, all colors
And sizes too.

Through love and tender care it grows
And multiplies, like
A loyal friend it is always there.

Like man, when it reaches old age it
Withers and pass’s away.
With each new fall season a new one
Is born to takes its place.

Thus the cycle of an oak leaf begins
It race, a race
Towards an unknown destiny
No man can trace.

II

The Castle’s Secret

My old heart pounds, sharp, like a hammer striking against stone.
After many years of wandering other distant lands, fate has once
Again brought me home; to revisit this haunted land of enchanted
Youth; to relive once more that stormy night fifty-odd years ago

After all these years I had put behind the many thousands and me
Of miles which separated us, I thought at last I had escaped it’s
Memories; not so my friend as life is sometimes cruel biding its
Time to strike, holding its memories in its heart, waiting ...

These emerald hills land of my father’s pride, land of my birth,
Land of long ago days of innocent and trouble free youth, land
Of enchantment, of mystery, lands of strange hauntings are these
Irish emerald hills; like stretching fingers dawn’s early light,

Streaks across an early morning sky racing towards its destiny,
I stand on the valley floor in awe of it all; to my right, rays
Of dawn’s early light reveals a dark gray woods, silent and still.
Before the woods broken headstones litter a ruined church

Yard, like hammer striking stone, my heart pounds, ‘Be still!’
I command, ‘be still.’ To my left standing like sentinels
Of the queen’s old guard green with age is all that remains of
Crumbling castle walls; like hammer striking stone my

Heart pounds, with a will all it’s own memories travels back
Through tunnels of time to those last fading days of
Endless youth, helpless, trapped by forces of destiny, locked
Within memories trance, I am transported to another

Time, another place, early morning light gives way to a dark
And stormy night within those castle walls

As a youthful lad of sixteen sent to learn my
Father’s trade; servant to the Master of,
Manchester Castle; arms heavy laden with
Bottles of the master’s favorite red wines;

A howling wind screamed, thunder deafened
My ears, lightening struck, causing
A great crash, the earth shook; heavy wooden
Shutters banged against the glass

In the great front hall, on the big round oak
Table in the servant’s kitchen, I
Sat my burden down, chilled, I stroked the
Fire, made a mental note to bolt

And latch the shutters before retiring to my
Bed that night; walking into that
Great front hall, I stopped dead still, there
By the fireplace stood the master,

The poker raised in his hand, ‘Thump,’
‘Thump, Thump! It sounded,
As he struck her three times on the back
Of her head; shaking in terror

Like the coward I had become, I turned
To flee, hiding behind the cellar
Door; I wanted to shrink into the stone
Castle walls; I dared not breathe

Afraid he would hear it and know I had
Seen what he had done; he
Wrapped her lifeless body in a bed sheet
Dragging his burden across
The floor, into the dark, stormy night.

Into the driving rain and through the trees
I followed him into the ancient church
Yard, where he laid his burden down; like
Hammer striking stone my heart

Pounds, ‘Be quiet my heart! Be quiet!
It’s only a memory!’ my heart
Groaned and cried with each strike of
The spade into the mud soaked

Earth; his evil deed done, my master
Rolled his burden into it’s
Grave; the ground rumbled, shaking
Beneath his feet; screaming

The hills came alive! Breathing rest-
less souls whom could
Slumber no more! Within it’s grave
Her soul cried for revenge!

‘If only to block out the memory of
His evil, heartless deed
Done so long ago! Horror haunts
This mind no longer sane!

Returning day after endless day,
Night after endless night!
‘Be quiet my heart! Be quiet, be
Quiet! It’s only a memory!

I slap my hands over my ears, if
Only to shut out the sounds
Of those restless screaming souls!
Like hammer striking stone;

My heart pounds, in vain I scream
Out, ‘It’s only a memory!

Restless ghosts arise still, screaming from
Hopeless graves their voices
Slip into my own dark and stormy nights,
Haunting my nightmares,

They linger still, “Justice has yet to be
Served!” they cry; from beyond
Their graves they scream, “ Justice has
Yet to be served!” Lightened

Flashed, thunder roared, the earth
Rumbled, shaking
The ground with its fury; the souls of
The damned would not

Be still, their groaning rang through
The trees, louder then
The thunder, filling the air with anger,
Dread and fear.

Graveyard diggers dropped spades
And picks, fleeing
Down the mountainside, screams of
Terror died on frozen lips!

Running in great haste they laid
Open barren land
Exposing coffins and crates; the
Earth threw up its dead.

Stumbling they came forth an army
Of dark ghost’s with
Missions of terror to complete;
Angry howls from

Within Satan’s bottomless pit,
‘Be still my heart!’

Terror emptied rain soaked streets in the village
Below; mother’s grabbed their young,
Father’s slammed and bolted shutters and cottage
Doors, as if bolts and nails could keep

This army of dead at bay, priest’s stumbled out
Of their beds to the church alter they
Fled; the fearing divine intervention was at hand
The wicked ran and hid!

Sniffing the wind forest animals arose, swiftly
On wing and hoof stampeding
Their offspring they fled to far-off woods, caves
And other secret places.

Hidden behind boulders praying not to be seen
Crouched a lad of barely sixteen,
Trembling, frozen in dead he was, yet unable
To hide his eyes from that God

Awful sight he did witness that night!
When the master could no longer stand the howls
From within the graves of the damned
Clamoring to be set free,

Grabbing the bed sheet he had laid his burden
In, throwing it over the lowest
Branch of a near-by tree wrapping it around
His neck, he dangled there.

Like hammer striking against stone my heart
Pounds! “Be quiet my heart!
Be quiet! It’s only a memory!” Screams
Of terror pour from this young

Lad’s lips, watching until his master’s body
Stopped it’s twitching, this
Young lad of barely sixteen ran from
The God-awful sight

He did witness that dark, stormy night
When the dead came alive!
Until this very day her spirit lingers
Still; the body he tried

To bury refuses to stay dead, or turn
To ashes and dust; on this
Day, October 31, the anniversary of
Her death, her restless

Spirit rises from its grave to haunt these
Emerald Irish hills, stalking
The living, the locals say, searching for
Her killer;

Like hammer striking against stone my
Heart pounds.

“What If?”

What if God had never created the world?
Where would my spirit be; would
It be floating adrift in that dark void sea?

What if Eve had never partaken of God’s
Forbidden fruit; where would
The sons and daughters of Adam be?

Oh, how different life would have been,
Different for you and for me.

What if the world had been flat, not
Round, would Columbus
Have sailed over the edge into a sea
Of infinity?

What if I had never been born? Would
The world have been different;
Or plowed ahead still towards it’s
Unknown destiny?

Racing madly into oblivion of eternity;
What if, what if, our two paths
Of separate lives had not been destined
To cross?

If I had never known you, if by my
Way you had never passed;
If we had never met, never loved;

Imagine if you can, how lonesome, how
Empty, our two worlds would
Have been, if I had never known you, if
By my way you had never passed.

What an albatross it would be floating,
Swimming alone among azure
Seas of God’s infinity, if by my way
You had never passed ...

“This Brother of Mine”

You were so much older than I twelve, mom said,
When I was born; you were almost a grown
Man before my time; we should have been closer
You and I, seeing there were just the two
Of us; but I was such a baby, it could not be ...

While I was still a child you ran away, time it
Seemed would not permit you to play
The big brother act for me; you ran away to join
The army mom said, ‘to play the games
Soldiers play,’ but don’t think Dal, that a little

Sister of six could ever forget a big brother’s
Love, showing the pictures of you
To all my little friends, proudly I’d brag,
‘This is my big brother,’ I’d say; after all these
Year’s big brother, it’s time for you

To know that, they’re never was a little sister
More proud of her big brother than I.

I remember to all the baseball games, ‘the
Washington Senators,’ ever played we
Went, happily and sometimes
Not so happily, you’d drag your bratty little
Sister with you!

Though I never told you, and hardly, if ever
Showed it, you need to know
How much I enjoyed the time-shared with
My big brother;

You were not always patient when I’d get
Into your stuff; for I seemed
More than determined to make a big
Mess! Always leaving the
Evidence of my crime trailing behind!

But you always loved me and we’re
Willing to forgive!

My Dal, how the years have passed us
By, it’s true what they say
About this thing called, ‘time,’ it
Seems to sprout wings
Fly.

As these childhood memories fill my
Mind, I wipe at the tears
When I think of all we have shared;

Dad’s death in 1959, we laid him
To rest on a cold
February day, mom followed in 1992,
Leaving just the two of us.

No matter how this thing called, ‘old
Age,’ creeps around
My corner and your corner too, just
Wanted you to know
I will never stop loving this, ‘big
Brother of mine.’

“It’s Only on Paper”

I am really growing tired dear of this silly game
We must play, living apart you and I, you
Have your place and I have mine; both of us are
Lonely and unhappy, sadly for now this
Silly little game we must play; so close is your
Love, yet, so far away; I cherish
Each night I steal away to sleep in your big bed
Instead of mine; for now, this silly
Game we must play; yet never forget my sweet,

We are separated by miles, walls and fence, by
This silly little game of pretend we
Must play; yet, never forget my sweet, its only
A silly little game we must play;
I love you now, as I did ten years ago
When you placed that gold band on my finger
And I became your wife; for now
This silly game of pretend we must play; it’s

It’s only on paper my sweet; it’s not fair I know
To punish the hard worker and reward
The lazy, until the system changes for now this
Silly game of pretend we must play;
One day soon, our marriage on paper, will end;
But with our two hearts entwined,
Together thirteen years we’ve been, you belong
To me; not man nor government
Rules can tear asunder what God has brought
Together, remember my sweet, this
Silly game we must play, our separation is not
Real. It’s only on paper.

“Looking Back”

‘What do I see looking back, thinking of years gone past?’
“If only, I could live them over,” I wonder what
Those things would be, I would have done differently?

After reaching the age of wisdom, sometime after 50, or
So, to look behind criticizing those things done before,
Wondering, how life may have been if lived differently.

“Like the Ostrich”

A brave new world looms ahead, a new beginning dawn’s on man’s horizons.
Finger’s of darkness reaching from within Earth’s invisible curtain of time,
The world’s hour draws neigh; but like the ostrich, man prefers the sand ...

Shadows invade, spreading poison throughout the land, European nations rise;
Arising from within a long-dead Roman empire, ‘A New World Order,’ is
Coming together for one last battle, soon to be fought; but like the ostrich,
Man prefers the sand ...

A world of, ‘peace,’ or so they believe, but old-time prophets disagree, there
Will be no, ‘peace,’ only death and destruction, persecutions for those few,
Who refused to take the, ‘mark of the beast,’ let the world remember that
his number is, ‘666; but like the ostrich, man hides his head in the sand ...

What an awesome world man inherited created from a dark blank and dark
Void, spoken into existence by the mighty voice of God; a world of rivers,
Of emerald mountains with snow-capped peaks, a world of dry lonesome
Deserts, of inspiring majestic valleys, a world of bounty and beauty,
A world formed by the Mighty Hands of God, my creator’s, ‘free gift,’ to
Mankind; with one last battle soon to be fought, like the ostrich, man
Prefers to hide his head in the sand ...

As in the days of, ‘Noah,’ the people laughed, mocked and scorned, ‘crazy
Old man,” they yelled, ‘ building a boat!’ But as the rains came down, they
Laughed, mocked and scorned no more, ‘let us in,’ they begged Noah, but
It was too late; God had shut the door ...

As it was in those long-ago days of, ‘old-time prophets,’ America is to-
Day, she has lost her way; she has betrayed her God with her lusts, lusts
Of greed, political power, riches and worldly gain; with one last battle
Soon to be fought, like the ostrich, America hides her head in the sand ...

Different as our world’s may have been, the hearts of men
Have never changed, ‘wicked, deceitful, puffed up with
‘Pride,’ God’s Word, not mine; (Psalms 14:1) ‘The fool has
Said in his heart, “There is no God.” Within his own
Knowledge, arrogance and power, man denies the existence
Of his creator; like the ostrich, man prefers the sand ...

As it was during the feast of, ‘King Belshazzar,’ (Daniel 5:)
So it is in America today, God’s handwriting is on the wall;
But like the ostrich, man hides his head in the sand ...

As branches on a dead and dying tree, our generation is soon
To wither and pass away, what legacy do we leave behind?
To your grandchildren and mine ...

As did Jerusalem right before she met her end at the hands
Of a, ‘Babylonian King,’ America today has turned her
Back on God, replacing Him with idols of her choice, not
Melted down statues of gold, but idols just the same ...

Idols of greed, idols of lust, idols of the flesh, with one last
Battle soon to be fought, like the ostrich, America hides
Her head in the sand ...

America has learned to play God, in the name of,
‘A woman’s right to choose,’ our laws sanction, ‘murder,’
The lawful slaughter of the unborn, the unwanted,
Stand up for choice? How is that choice, when the life
Being taken has no voice? Abortion is not a, right,
We need to call it for what it is, ‘murder’ ...

By, ‘dolly the sheep,’ we can create, ‘life,’ under abortion,
And, ‘euthanasia,’ ‘The right to die with dignity,’ as a
Society, our doctors and scientist have the power to decide
Who is worthy of life and who is not, no matter how one
May feel on these issues, the power over life or death is a
Very dangerous power to be placed in another person’s
Hands, be it, doctor, scientist, president, lawyer, congress,
Or whoever, no one has the right to play God; God is the
Creator of all life, be it animal or human ...

‘Abortion is, ‘political,’ it has nothing to do with, ‘rights.’
It is population control of the masses; ‘euthanasia,’ the
‘Right to die with dignity,’ is a way for society to be shed
Of it’s old, it’s sick, it’s poor and it’s dying,’ where will
It end? With one last battle soon to be fought, like the ...
Ostrich, man prefers the sand ...

America has kicked a ‘Judeo-Christian God,’ out of her
Public schools; in 1962 prayer was removed ...
In 1963, the Bible was removed, in 1980, God’s laws ...
The Ten Commandments were removed ...

We are losing our freedom to Believe and profess that
Belief in our Judeo-Christian God, we can pray and
Worship any,’ other,’ God that man believes in,
Our children have the right to wear, ‘head coverings,’
But wear the cross and they’re expelled, why?
The Cross-represents the God of the Bible, the Cross
Represents the WORD of God and a belief
Which leads into faith in the God of my Bible ...

America has kicked God out of her courts, kicked
His Word out of the workplace, God has been
Banned from all places, our pastor’s no longer
Have the religious liberty to preach the Word of,
God, preaching instead, doctrines of men ...

Changing the incorruptible Word of God into ...
That which is pleasing to the ears of men with,
‘Itching ears,’ (2 Timothy 4:3-4), not my word ...
It is the Word of God; like the ostrich man
Prefers the sand ...

In his quest to do his own thing man becomes
A victim of his own delusions, deceiving
And being deceived, (2 Timothy 3:13) ...

Lacking Spiritual rules to govern his behavior
Man becomes scattered like mindless mice, in
His own wisdom man declares, ‘God does not exist’ ...

Man was not a, ‘created being,’ he was not
Formed out of the, ‘dust,’ of the ground this
Creature called, ‘man,’ crawled out of the sea;

Evolving into, ‘whatever,’ nature meant it
To be; within the passage of time, give or
Take a few billion years, this creature called
Man, learned to walk up right ...

Evolution is not a science, it is a religion
That denies God as man’s Creator, when
A Holy God does not exist, nothing is
Taboo, man has learned to justify sin ...

Nothing is right or wrong, the Bible with
Its story of Creation, of Adam and Eve,
Is nothing more than poetry and fairy-
Tales of a long-dead generation ...

With one last battle soon to be fought ...
Like the ostrich, mankind prefers the sand ...

Wait! All is not lost, there is still hope!
Man’s new quest is searching for that,
‘Invisible God,’ which resides in all
Of us; man is now walking the bridge of
Denial; denying the Almighty God
Of Abraham, Issac and Jacob, man’s
Final hour draws neigh ...

Like the ostrich, man prefers the sand ...

Heeding not the warnings of old
Time prophets in his final hour man
Stands alone; helpless, floundering,
Like a soon to be dead fish,
Flopping and squirming at the end
Of the fishermen’s line, begging to be
Set free from the sharp hook
Digging into its jaws. But the hook
Is buried too deep ...

Proud of his catch, the fishermen refuses
To throw back his prize; as the helpless
Fish is, America has become, caught in
The grip of her sins; with one last battle
Soon to be fought, like the ostrich
America hides her head in the sand ...

And like the old-time prophets those of
Us who know and believe that, ‘God is
The Truth and the Light and the Rock of
Our Salvation,’ shutter at the price our
Country may pay for her sins, when you
Choose to walk away from God there is
Always a price to pay ...

As a country haven’t we learned
Any lessons from the attacks of 9/11?
That because America’s sin is
So great, God has withdrawn His hand
Of protection; after that terrible
Tragedy, all the country knew that God
Existed; it was, ‘politically correct,’
To pray again in public, to thank Him
For keeping our loved ones safe.

“Politically correct,’ to give the God of
Heaven and earth, Glory, Honor and
Praise, then back to business as usual;

Fighting over the Ten Commandments in
Public Square in Alabama, fighting
Over the words, ‘under God,’
In the allegiance to our flag; back to
being, ‘political correct,’ as if
Nothing had happened, as if nothing
Had changed; as a country we
Had been brought to our knees in prayer.

With one last battle soon to be
Fought, like the ostrich, America
Hides her head in the sand ...

“A Storm is Coming”

Black clouds gather, thunder roars,
Lightening splits the dawn,
Animals run to hide;

A storm is coming ...

Like tornados funnel clouds whirl
Across sand dunes, ripping
Past dry gullies;

A storm is coming ...

Wild, howling winds moan
Across the plains,
Cashing giant red oaks down to
The earth.

A storm is coming ...

The moon is turned to blood
By God’s unseen
Hand, turning day into night;

A storm is coming ...

Mountains topple into the sea,
Stars tumble
From God’s heaven;

A storm is coming ...

Violently, the earth shakes her
Fist at mankind,
World armies march forward;

A storm is coming ...

Jerusalem is their goal, sights
And wonders to be seen,
Old-time prophets rise from
Their graves.

A storm is coming ...

With one voice the prophets
Cry, “Repent! Your
Redemption draws neigh!”

A storm is coming ...

One last warning from God,
“How long, Oh
Lord, will justice be denied!”

A storm is coming ...

But humanity is too blind to
See, Revelation
Prophecy ringing true.

A storm is coming ...

“What Can I Give”

What can I give in return for all He has given me,
The Bible tells the story of the sinless life
He lived; on Calvary’s Hill, He bowed His head,
Giving all He had to give ...

What can I give in return for all He has given me?

Betrayed by one of His own, for thirty pieces of..
Silver, in the garden where He prayed;
What gift do I bring worthy of my great King ...

Quietly over the years, He whispered my name...
Oh, what gift can I give, for all He has
Given me ...

Being the only true friend I have, He never gave
Up on this lost sheep, He just waited
Patiently for me to say, “Lord, here I am,” Oh ...
What gift can I give in return for all
He has given me ...

What gift do I own, worthy of Him, a humble ...
Servant, who became my King ...

What gift can I give in return for all He has..
Given me; I will give Him all
I have to bring ...

I will give Him my life, I will give Him,
Glory, Honor and Praise, I will
Worship Him when times are bad, I will
Give Him a life washed by His
Blood ...

I will give Him a life tried in His fire,
When He is finished with His
Perfection of me ...

The end result will be, a life clean ...
And morally pure, a life...
Worthy of the gift He has given me ...

“On Second Thought”

Dear Charles: As I grow older, attacked now and then by nostalgic
Memories, lost in spaces of times past, I wonder, if again the ...
Choice was yours to choose, what would you do differently this ...
Time around ...

Would you take stock of your situation, viewing it from a different
Light; perhaps, this time around, you would count each sweet ...
Second of the ticking of the clock, stopping if only for a half.
Minute your choice again to ponder ...

Renewing again your thoughts ...” maybe life’s not so hum drum.
Dreary in reality as it seems to be..” Or, would you again take the
Easy way out; what would you do this time, if again the choice ...
Was yours to choose ...

Would you choose death over life, or would you just grumble and
Return your rifle to its resting place upon the closet shelf ...
Renewing again your options to make, “well on second thought ...
Maybe not today” ...

You missed the best part of those golden childhood years ...
You missed too, those rebellious, misunderstood, fighting teenage
Days; Charles, you missed all the love they each had to give, but
Most importantly by losing touch with reality, you missed the ...
Best part of all ...

You missed that glorious transition of four butterflies from ...
From gangling unknown youth into the wisdom of adult ways ...
You missed the pleasure of grandchildren too, four little girls ...
Three little boys, seven of them now ...

You missed those sweet baby days again, of bottles
And diapers, of longings to be fulfilled in the ...
Loving arms of grandmother; Charles, you missed
The next generation, that shining moment of pride.

The oldest four, all girls, will in time as nature ...
Demands, give birth to a fourth generation, one ...
One already has and you missed it Charles, you ...
Missed the birth of your first great-granddaughter ...

I remarried two times after, and before moving ...
Trying in vain, to start my life over, I did my best,
To help each one grow into womanhood and man-
Hood too; it wasn’t an easy job Charles, being ...

Being both mother and father too, your boy’s, are
Still struggling through it on their own, they did ...
Not have a father to teach them what they should
Know ...

Just thought I would tell you that nothing was ...
Ever the same those twenty long years ago after,
You put a bullet into your brain; I am a senior ...
Citizen now, as you would have been ...

Through God’s love Charles I found the strength
To forgive you, a long time ago; but you were ...
Selfish to end it all the way you did ...
Your marriage would soon be over, I ...

Understood too well your pain, my marriage ...
To the dummy from hell, would soon bite the ...
Dust too; we could have worked it out then, it ...

Wasn’t too late to make amends, but you ...
Chose the easy way out; on the fifth day ...
Of cold November of 1984, depressed ...
You grabbed your rifle and squeezed the ...

The trigger, forever ending my dream of ...
Us getting back together; and your ...
Timing, oh God, it was just perfect...! Two
Days after our first son’s birthday ...

I wonder within the madness of your ...
Brain that day, did you stop, even once ...
To consider the pain your death would ...
Cause to those of us you would leave ...

Behind; the anger, the confusion ...
And the guilt felt by those of us who, in ...
Spite of your faults, loved you still ...

Through their tears and pain, they ...
Questioned, ‘why?’ Charles, your name ...
Sake, clutching your old guitar to his ...
Chest, tears falling like rain, begging ...

Pleading, for you not to be dead ...
‘I didn’t know him, mom,’ he’d cry, ‘he ...
Took that chance away from me, why ...
Mom, why?’ ...

At the age of fifteen, he was as much of,
‘A man,’ as his dad had once been ...

“Tell us why mom, tell us why?” How ...
Could I Charles, how could I tell them ...
What I didn’t understand ...

And Shawn, so much the duplicate of his
Dad, he wanted so much to be with you
Charles, big tears welled up in his eyes..
“I don’t have a dad anymore.” ...

Today, both your boys carry still ...
The tell-tale signs and scares of your ...
Suicide; making my heart thump with ...
Fear, that one-day within their own ...

Depression, unable to cope with life ...
They may follow your example and ...
Take the easy way out of life and its ...
Problems ...

Kelly, our first daughter, a mother and
Grown woman before her time, she ...
Cried so hard, holding our first grand...
Daughter, Rosa in her arms, ‘oh mom,

She cried, “he held her only once, my ...
Little baby will never have the chance
To know her grandfather; he will never
Hold her, feed her a bottle, and tuck her in

Bed for the night, sing her a song ...
Or kiss her good-night; “ Oh mom ...
Why did he do it, why? Didn’t he ...
Know, that no matter what was going ...

On with him and Carol, that he still ...
Had us, that we still loved him, that ...
We still needed him in our life, why ...
Mom, why did he do it!?” ...

And Susan, the little girl we had tried
So hard to conceive, it was her ...
‘Fault,’ you took the easy way out, ‘if
Only she would have been there,’ you

Would have been alive today; out of
All four of them Charles, it was ...
Susan that understood you the most;
“Oh mom,” she cried, “If I’d only ...

Been able to be there, he wouldn’t ...
Have done it!” ...

Twenty years, is that all its been ...
Charles? Seems life a lifetime to ...
Those of us you left behind; the ...
Saddest part I guess is not having ...

Had the chance to say, ‘good-by ...
God speed, enjoy your eternal rest ...’

I blamed you for it all you know ...
For everything that went wrong in,
My life from that day forward; it ...
Was your fault, all of it, until 1994,

My life was a mess, and it was all,
Your fault for leaving me all those
Years ago; if only you’d been ...
There, like you’d promise to be ...

When the dream first began back...
In 1963 ...

The fall of these my middle days creeps
Away ever so slowly, pressing into ...
Those golden twilight years, quickly ...
Stealing whatever time is left ...

Within realms of it’s old age, wisdom’s
Insight tends to study past events ...
Begging, longing, sometimes praying ...
For one last chance to change the ...

Course of one’s destiny ...

If again Charles, the choice was yours
To choose ...

Would you choose life over a violent,
Untimely death ...

Or would your choice be the same ...
As before on that sad, tragic day ...
Of November 1984 ...

What would you do Charles, if again
The choice was yours to choose ...

“Freedom!”

Can you not forgive me mother?
As I have forgiven you; can ...
You not accept me, as I have ...
Accepted you ...

You needn’t treat me like ...
A child, you needn’t hold ...
My hand; if you leave me ...
Alone on my own two feet ...
I will stand ...

But no, you do not accept me
For who I am, you want to ...
Mold me into someone I ...
Can never be ...

In your long years of life ...
Mother, why can’t you ...
You understand, I can ...
Never be you ...

Why can’t you understand?
Can a wild animal be ...
Caged, and still be free ...

You cannot change me ...
Whatever life’s path I am ...
Destined to follow, I ...
Alone must choose ...

And I choose to stay free ...
And always be ...
Only me ...

Heaven’s Gate

Beings clothed in white sang praises
To His name, glorious they were ...
Brighter than the brightest star ...

I dreamed I was there, in His ...
Presence at Heaven’s gate ...

No more rain, no more tears ...
Done were earthly cares ...
Gone were earthly fears ...

I dreamed I was there, in His ...
Presence, walking streets of gold ...

Oh, I dreamed I was there, joining ...
In that angelic choir, singing ...
Praises to His name ...

The King of all Kings welcomed ...
Me home through Heaven’s gate ...

I dreamed I was there ...

It’s true what the prophets say ...
There is no more sadness, no ...
More pain, He wiped every tear ...
From my eye, as I walked ...
Through Heaven’s gate ...

I dreamed I was there, in His...
Presence, walking streets of ...
Gold, singing praises to His Name ...

Shouting in triumphant victory,
Walking through Heaven’s gate ...

What a joyous day that will be!

When the King of all Kings ...
Welcomes me home! What ...
A glorious day that will be ...

Singing praises to His name ...
Walking through Heaven’s gate ...

“When Everything is Broken”

When everything is broken, take it to the master
In prayer, look not to man, but to Him who ...
Made heaven and earth ...

My world had crashed, pieces of my life lay ...
Like shattered glass at my feet; old wounds ...
Could not, would not, be healed ...

When a quiet, soft voice whispered in my ear..
“Give it to me..” ...

It was then I learned that when everything is
Broken, take it to the Lord in prayer ...

Only the Kings of all Kings, can fit ...
The pieces back together again ...

When everything is broken, take ...
It to the Lord in Prayer ...

“God, Where Are You?”

When everything goes wrong, how often
To we ask, “God, where are you?” ...

When pain fills our hearts, when tears ...
Fall like rain, when the storms of life ...
Fill our days and our dark nights ...
Never seem to end ...

How often do we ask, “God ...
Where are you?” How often do we ...
Seek his face; how often on bended ...
Knees, do we seek His Grace ...

How easy for us to complain ...
When prayers go unanswered ...
When trials come our way ...

How often do we want His ...
Blessings ...
Without the trials ...
Without the pain ...

How easy it is to bicker and judge ...
Stumbling through one trial ...
After the other ...

How easy it is to lay blame ...
On the King of all Kings ...

How hard it is to humble our pride..
Saying, “Lord, here I am ...
Your will be done Father ...
Not mine” ...

Forgive me Lord, instead of being God
‘Oriented,’ I have been ‘self’ ...
Oriented, forgive me Lord ...

Forgive this lazy servant of the, ‘me.’
Generation, I am guilty as charged ...

Forgive me Lord, for not responding ...
The first time to Your Call ...

Forgive me Lord, when in the mist ...
Of plenty, I whine and complain ...

Forgive me Lord, when I cry over that
Which I have not, instead of being ...
THANKFUL for Your BLESSINGS ...

Which I CANNOT COUNT ...

Forgive me Lord, for fretting over ...
TRIVIAL matters, instead ...
Of plowing ahead for the GLORY ...
Of Your KINGDOM ...

Teach me Lord to Pray ...
Teach me Lord to be humble ...
Teach me Your WAYS Lord ...

Take me Lord, here I AM, Ready ...
Willing now to answer Your Call ...

Take me as Your Servant Lord, here I AM,
Use me Lord, YOU are the POTTER Lord,
I AM the CLAY, shape me and mold me ...
FATHER into who you want me to BE ...

You are the potter Father, I am the clay ...

“How Dare the World!”

Oh Lord, how easily Your Holy Name
Is denied and blasphemed from their
Lips; while a diamond cross of gold ...
Dangles from around their necks ...

Oh Lord, how the world dares ... ... ...
To mock spiritual things they do ...
Not understand; how dare they ...
Lord, how dare they ...

How dare the world decide ...
That death is the fate of forty ...
Million of You’re unborn; how dare ...
They Lord, how dare they ...

How dare they play God ...
“How long, “ David cried, “Will ...
Your justice be denied!” ... Oh Lord ...
How they dare play God ...

“Where Are They Now”

Where are those who said, ‘you never will, you have no skill.’
Where are those who laughed, mocked and scorned our ...
Childhood dreams and plans ...

Where are those whose taunts invade our dreams still ...
Where are those who lived in glass houses and threw ...
Stones our way, where are they now ...

Where are those who were too quick to judge and condemn ...
Who laughed at us, too afraid to look in the mirror, too ...
Afraid of the shallow image staring back from within ...
The looking glass ...

Where are those long-ago bullies who took our lunch ...
Money and our books, who stomped our jackets ...
In the mud and chased us home from school ...

Where are those who tormented our days and invaded ...
Our nightmares on stormy nights ...
Where are they now ...

They are dead, buried in the sea of forgetfulness ...
Buried in the sea of God’s forgiveness ...
Where are they now, buried in the past ...
Bathed in God’s Love ...

“Today is the First Day”

Today is the first day Lord, help me
Not to waste it; remind me Father ...
When I complain, of your blessings,
My heart cannot contain ...

For there are many a different path ...
They walk, knowing not of you nor,
Of your great plan of Salvation for ...
Man ...

How helpless they must feel Father
Never to be forgiven, knowing ...
Not the warmth of your love nor ...
The sweetness of your grace ...

Remind me Father, as your child I,
May come boldly to your throne ...
Seeking your face, making my ...
Repentance known ...

Keep me Father, let me always ...
Walk in the sunshine of your love;
Let my mind always be open ...
To your thoughts and my heart ...
Receptive to your voice ...

Remind me Father that today is ...
The first day, let me not repeat ...
The mistakes of yesterday, for ...
Today is a new day; ...

Another chance I have by my ...
Actions to show, that I belong ...
To you ...

Another chance I have to respond
Willingly to your call; let me not..
Forget today, to lift you up ...
From the earth ...

Let me not forget today to sing...
Praises to your Holy Name; by ...
My actions, with my words ...
And by my deeds, let me glorify ...
You ...

That others, friends, neighbors ...
And strangers too, will know ...
That I belong to you ...

When this day is over and I am ...
Tucked safely in my bed, let me
Not forget my prayers; giving ...
Thanks to you Lord ...

For being my Savior, my ...
Shepherd and my guide ...

With a smile on my face a song
In my heart and your words on
My lips; let me look forward ...
Towards tomorrow for ...
The new day you will bring ...

No matter what new trials may
Come my way with the rising ...
Of each new sun, let me be at ...
Peace; knowing always it is ...

You Lord who is in charge ...
Not I ...

If you choose Lord to take me
Home before the dawning of ...
Day break, in your presence I,
Will be, one more angel ...

In that heavenly choir singing
Praises to your Holy name ...

It is not important Lord, on ...
That day, how little, or how ...
Much I leave behind ...

It is not important Lord, on ...
That day, the car I drove ...
The clothes, new or old, I ...
Wore ...

It will not be important Lord
On that day, in which ...
Neighborhood I lived, rich ...
Or poor ...

What is important Lord, on that day,
Is, from my lips those I loved ...
Heard your words and were saved...

What is important Lord, on that day,
Is that my life was given to you ...
And lived by your standards Lord ...
Not by the world’s ...

What is important Lord, on that day,
Is that your words had taken root in
My heart and in my mind ...
And your spirit dwelled within me ...

What is important lord, on that day,
Is that my talents were used in ...
Your service ...

Most important of all Lord, on that
Day will be that loved ones ...
Friends, neighbors ...
And strangers too ...

Knew that by my words, by my ...
Actions and by my deeds, that I ...
Belonged to you ...

Judgment

Oh Lord, let me not be too quick to judge;
That is your job Father, not mine ...

Let me instead look for that which is ...
Kind, that which is spiritual ...

Where there is hate, let me replace it ...
With your love ...

Where there is anger, let me replace it ...
With your peace ...

Where there is sorrow, let me replace it,
With your joy ...

Where there is despair, let me replace..
It with your hope ...

Where there is sin, use me Father to ...
Speak your words to replace the sin ...
With your forgiveness and show ...
Your plan of Salvation ...

Where there is homelessness, by your
Love, let me offer shelter ...

Where there is hunger, in your name
Let me offer a meal ...

Where there is deception, where there
Is darkness, armed with your Holy ...
Word, let me show your light ...
And offer truth ...

Forgive me Father, so many times
These acts of human kindness ...
Have been left undone ...

Let me not be too quick to judge..
Lord, that is your job Father ...
Not mine ...

The Donkey

I want to be a sheep, not a donkey.
A sheep is obedient to the voice ...
Of his shepherd ...

A donkey is stubborn, headstrong,
Wanting it’s own way, with a will
All its own ...

A sheep is meek, gentle and mild,
Willing to be led; trusting in His..
Master its needs to be met ...

Lord help me to be a sheep ...
Not a donkey; trusting in you ...
Lord, my shepherd ...
My needs to be met ...

“If Only”

Dedicated to the loving memory of my mother;
Amelia Louise Doyle;
2/22/1913 — 8/29/1992

If only I could have you here
Taking back words
Spoken in anger so long ago.
When I was just an
Immature kid;

If only I could have one more
Chance; if only God
Would grant this grown up
Daughter’s wish
Returning to long ago days
Of childhood;

If only, ‘mother,’ I had the
Chance to see you
One more time, having on
Last chance to say;
“Thank you mom, for raising
Me the way you did,’

“Thank you mom, for loving
This selfish kid,
Thank you mom, for doing
Without.
To give to me;

If only one more chance I
Could have, to
Wrap my arms around your
Neck;

If God would only grant your
Selfish little girl
One last wish, one last chance,
To say:
“I love you mom.”

“Rainbows”

Red, yellow, orange and greens,
Purple pink hues, lighter
And darker shades of blues.

A glorious mixture of different
Tints and tones; separate
From its neighbor each one
Stands alone.

Yet, when combined together
The blending of its color,
Each lending part
Of its life in support of
The other;

Creates within its self an awe
Some inspiring
Sight of heavenly delight;

The rainbows of colors working
Together as a team,
A glorious sight to be seen;
From the very
Moment of its birth nature’s
Gift of beauty
Imparting its wisdom of
God’s design
Of colors upon His earth;

As nature’s rainbow of colors
Take in stride the
Differences between one
Another allowing
Each it’s moment to shine;

Promoting peace and harmony
Within the skies;
Providing valuable lessons
For man-kind;

Like the tranquility of a rainbow
After passing of
Summer storms, ought the races
Of man to be
In relationships toward one
Another; Allowing
Each member a time to shine;
Understanding the
Differences between you and I

Dedications

The Price HE Paid:

This poem is a gift from the Holy Spirit. The poem is about God’s love, and the price His son, Jesus Christ, paid for the salvation of men and women. This poem is dedicated to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Too Old:

This poem is a political statement on the subject of, Euthanasia. It is dedicated to my life long friend, Bonnie Zuech, of Sun City, Arizona. This poem was intended to remind some political folks that age is wisdom and knowledge. And, that not all of us, because of sickness or pain, chose to end our life.

The poem was intended to remind some of those in political power that, whether sick or old, that life, is a life granted by God, not by man. God is the giver of life, and only God has the right to decide when that life is over.

My life long friend, Bonnie, left this earthly world on her birthday, March 11, 2001; She is now with the Lord. Even though I will miss her, I know she is in a better place. Until we meet again Bonnie.

This Brother of Mine:

This poem is dedicated to my only sibling, Rev. Dallas Doyle of, Butte, Montana. Keep preaching the truth brother, no matter who does not want to hear it.

The Migrant Worker:

This poem is dedicated to the loving memory of a deceased spouse, “Javier Hernandez,” who left this world on, December 11, 1989; Pesticides and the misuse of them, were responsible for his death.

While trying to deal with his death, I wrote this poem as a political statement on the discrimination at that time faced by Hispanic workers in the orchards and the fields across these United States of America.

And, about some, of the employers, who failed to follow the rules of, OSHA, exposing Javier and many others to dangerous pesticides. During that time period, if you were an undocumented Mexican worker, you had no right to speak out against your employers; I felt, it was another form of slavery.

Freedom:

This poem was written during my, ‘teenage rebellious years,’ it is dedicated to my mother, Louise Doyle, who went home to be with the Lord, on August 29, 1992. It is because of mother’s death, that I became a child of God.

Thank you mother, for all those things you tried so hard to teach me while I was growing up. Thank you for the values you instilled in your rebellious daughter; thank you for the love you so freely gave; Thank you for being my mother.


Reflections

Writing is my escape from the pressures of everyday life. It is a vehicle for expressing thoughts and feelings too difficult to express verbally. ‘Freedom,’ was my first attempt at the art of poetry.

I will not reflect on all the poetry, but I feel the need to reflect on the poems dealing with issues of my life and the lives of my children.

My poetry centers on, Jesus Christ, first, and deals with moral issues of this generation. Secondly, some of the poems, deal with tragedy and everyday obstacles my children and I faced during the rough times of our lives; Some of my poetry is whimsical. And some are political statements on issues, which are important to me.

Tomorrows Generation:

This poem was written in 1977; I was unemployed at the time, working only seasonal jobs in the fields and orchards of, Romney, West Virginia. I was divorced and trying to raise four children by myself, without the help of their father.

Due to the energy crisis facing the nation during that time, the factory where I had been employed for almost three years, felt the need to lay off workers and I had been among them. Out financial necessity, I moved in with my ex-husband, his new wife and their family.

The household consisted of, Charles, (my ex-husband), his wife, Carol, and her six children, myself, and my four children, and a crazy old border, ranting and raving, on the second floor of the big old farmhouse. Life was idyllic!

It was the middle of summer, the temperature outside had climbed into the low ninety-degree mark, and that was early morning. Because of the lack of fund, the propane tank sat empty on the back porch. The only other stove we could use for cooking was, a nice old-fashion cast-iron woodstove.

The kids had picked Blueberries the day before and all ten of them, were gathered around the kitchen, clamoring for me to fix, ‘flapjacks,’ (pancakes).

Cooking on a cast-iron stove is nice, in the middle of a blizzard; but that was not the case on this day. The temperature inside the house felt like it had passed the 220-degree mark and was steady climbing!

The kids were hungry, running around the kitchen loudly voicing their demands; Beads of sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes; with all of them yelling and fussing, I felt that I was about to lose whatever sanity I left!

In frustration, I yelled something about, ‘kids,’ wishing at the time, that I didn’t know any! I fussed at everyone in sight, and though, I can’t remember, I probably threw in a few threats of bodily harm, if they didn’t settle down.

One of Carol’s daughters, Donna, made a remark that stuck in my mind.

“If there wasn’t any children, there would be no future generations.” That remark stuck in my mind.

Later that night, after the kids had been tucked into their beds and all was peaceful and calm, I wrote. ‘Tomorrows Generations.’

The Migrant Worker:

Before 1977, I had worked in factories, in and around, Winchester, Virginia; but due to the energy crisis of the early seventy’s most of the factories reduced their work force. Work in the hills of West Virginia, was scarce; to provide for my children, I took whatever jobs were available.

I began working in the orchards and fields, everything from picking strawberries in, Moorefield, West Virginia, to thinning peaches in the spring, and harvesting the apple crop in the fall.

The strawberry patch was hard work, hard on your back and your legs, with all the bending and stooping; and you had to hustle to make your money. There is a difference in picking berries to make jams and jellies, and in picking them to make a living.

The orchards were something else all together; thinning peaches was a real trip!

You worked all day in the hot sun, wearing long sleeve flannel shirts to protect your arms from the peach fuzz. And the pay was great too, fifty cents to a dollar a tree, depending on where you worked; some orchards paid better than others.

Later, after moving to, Martinsburg, West Virginia, I became disabled; but while taking Carol to and from the orchards, I became involved with a migrant worker, Javier Hernandez. It was the best and happiest relationship I had experienced; for me it was, ‘love the third time around,’ and the shortest marriage on record.

We were married on, May 2, 1989; Javier died on December 11, 1989. He had been exposed to dangerous levels of pesticides. These pesticides cause an infection to form in his lungs, called, ‘pulmonary fibrosis.’

The fibrosis caused a bacterial infection, which ate up the aorta valve of his heart. After his death, in the process of writing a manuscript of our life together, I wrote, ‘The Migrant Worker.’

The poem was intended to depict the hardness and drudgery of the life of migrant workers; the poor housing conditions in the camps where they lived; the low pay scale; the unsafe working conditions; and, the discrimination and injustice often faced by the migrant worker.

Tears of a Child Named ‘Stevie’:

My son, Shawn, wrote this poem. Its theme is about child abuse, as he experienced it, at the hands of a stepfather.

Monsters in My Closet:

My son, Shawn, also wrote this poem. Its theme is about mental illness and how it disrupts his life. The poem is Shawn’s thoughts and feelings.

On Second Thought

The theme of this poem is about suicide. It’s the feelings of my children as we dealt with this personal tragedy of the death of their father on, November 5, 1984.

The poem also describes my thoughts and feelings as I look back on the event, telling their father in a letter, what he missed out on by taking his life.


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