Poetry

Then Take It From Me

My God, you've given me great gifts.
These Talents I do not despise.
Yet with it all, you've also given
A body frail as flies.

I cannot crawl upon the wall;
Such things just simply ain't
For likes of me who only want
To paint and paint and paint. 

The Letter

My temper soared, I couldn't sleep. 
My thoughts came raging dark and deep.
I seized the pen - this sword of mine -
Chose words that stung like bitter brine
And fiercely swirling 'round, they crashed
Like giant waves that struck and lashed.

A sleepless time; and then at last
The sail was torn from off the mast.
My ship went reeling down the deep,
Swept on past sullen shores of sleep
Through troubled seas - 'til morning came.
Thus bitterness withstood your name.

I dreamed about the wrong until,
When morning shone upon the sill
And reason saw what vengeance penned,
I knew that I was wrong, my friend.
The anger felt and written down
Was left upon my ship, to drown.

Spring 1940

This year, the Spring was so timid, uncertain,
The green buds so cautious, afraid of the cold.
Each heart, awearied from bent, bitter burden
Searched, longing, for Spring to unfold.

This year, the world was so fretful, uncertain,
Each sad heart aware of war's ugly doom;
All mankind, awearied from bent, bitter burden,
Prayed, longing, for peace to come soon.

Can God love us still? This much is certain:
We wonder while hoping and marvel the while. 
God's patience, awearied from man's bitter burden;
Spring comes, bringing God's tearful smile.

Introvert

I am
In the shadows
Of this small corner;
Alone, and with thoughts
Pressed close about
Indwelling, separate and apart,
For none to see or sense;
Not abandoned, still not moved,
Existing, not enlivened,
Muted, blended, spent,
In earnest quiet
Full of self-revealing
Known only in the shadows
Of this small corner.
I am.

One thing no contriving or wishing will do
Is lengthen one hour 'til it becomes two
When time is in tune with what's happy and gay
Or too many duties are crammed in one day.

No remedy either for time that stands still
When boredom and lethargy dull mind and will;
The second suspended in Father Time's glass,
The hour of limbo when time will not pass.

Old hats and love letters,
News clippings and books,
Old fashioned ice skates
That fasten with hooks,
Baby clothes and toys,
The lamp that doesn't light,
Diaries no one should read...
Too much to lug down from the attic,
Too much to remember and forget.
It's all gone and past,
A good riddance at last,
So begone and goodbye,
I'll take five - and cry.

The world is mine in the morning.
I may not own much after that,
But the morning star
And the gentle breeze,
The cooing dove
And the singing trees,
The waking sky
And that star on high
All belong to me.