Category: Poetry


This is one of the poems I found while reading through my old notebooks. It is one of the poems I wrote for my daughter, Jennifer, when she was little. The picture is of her daughter, Kelley. But the wide-eyed innocence is the same.

That cute little wide-eyed innocence

in your eyes,

as you open them wider

to see more of what

is common to me,

but a wonder to you.

 

You lay on my stomach

and smile at me,

hitting me on the chest

ever so lightly.

Trying to tell me something

about the pen in my pocket

you are exploring

with that cute little wide-eyed innocence.

 

The things which are a wonder to you

will be larger with time.

But each time you are filled with wonder,

it will reappear –

that cute little wide-eyed innocence.

Combine the first few weeks of school – with football and fall baseball, and a new daily schedule of drop-offs and pick-ups – and things can get weird. Throw in the “change of the weather” colds, and my muse heads for a quiet spot in the closet. First, there is the false start to Fall weather that tricks my sinuses every time. The few days of cooler weather before the heat returns with an air of condescendence as nature lets us know that it is not  Fall weather until she says it is Fall weather. Then about a week of hot weather that seems worse than the dog days of August since we were teased with cooler weather. This year much needed rain added humidity to the mix.

When the heat returns, my sinuses kick into overtime – not long before shutting down completely. This year Cyndy went on the journey with me. Cold-like symptoms persist for a week or longer, depending on the weather. We needed the rain, but our sinuses did not need the humidity. One day we will feel like we are getting better. Then the next day we seem to have regressed. My aunt Juanita passing away did not help my frame of mind and my sinuses took a hit with the cold to hot temperatures of the funeral and the gathering at her house afterwards.

My muse would leave the closet, reluctantly, when deadlines approached. Then he would retreat to the closet. I tried to coax him out the other evening when a song I heard on the radio led me to think of a song I wrote years ago. I remembered the tune of the first line of the chorus, but I could not think of the words. I pulled out some old notebooks of songs, poems, prose, ideas, and notes.

I failed to find the song I was looking for, but I found original versions of songs that turned out completely different. Parts of poem and songs that were not bad, but had led nowhere. Songs and poems that were good but forgotten. Upcoming posts will contain some of the gems I found. Reading through my old notebooks reminded me of past writing and inspired me to get back to productive writing.

What do you do to fight writer’s block? Read old writing and notes? Take a walk? What brings your muse out in the open and into action?

Peace be with you.

When I am troubled,

and in that contradictory, ironic place,

thinking that no one knows how I feel,

The Lord hears my prayers.

 

Yet the Lord very rarely

answers my prayers directly,

Sometimes I only see the answer

During reflection on the day’s events.

 

Regardless of the result,

The Lord hears my prayers,

He may not answer the way I would prefer,

But the Lord hears my prayers.

 

I may not be listening,

or I may be stubbornly wanting more,

I may not hear what he’s trying to tell me,

But the Lord hears my prayers.

 

The Lord hears my prayers,

However and whenever I pray,

Even if I refuse to hear the answer,

The Lord hears my prayers.

 

I lay head on pillow lightly,

Letting the Lord take my troubles,

I can rest easy in sleep knowing

That the Lord hears my prayers.

A Dream Returning – Poem

A dream is returning

keeping embers burning,

Blowing coals still laced with fire.

 

Sinking ships

Hit barrier reefs

Not sinking, but stuck in the mire.

 

Heavenly voice

Comes to me in sleep,

Half of a two-part choir.

 

A dream is returning

keeping embers burning,

Blowing coals still laced with fire.

It sits on the wall

A painting in black and white

Of a huge stopwatch,

Staring down on the lounge.

 

Its two wooden hands

Always say one o’clock,

It seems to be waiting…waiting

For its one moment.

 

Every twelve hours,

Only for a moment,

It really does tell the time,

but only for a minute.

 

Yet it does not regret

the shortness of its glory.

In twelve hours it will feel glory again,

But only for a minute.

 

The one o’clock clock.

Short Poems

                  Respect

Respect is to a friendship

as water to a tree.

I must have yours,

you must have mine.

for, without respect,

our friendship cannot take root.

—————————————————

I love you,

You love me.

That is a beginning,

but it is not enough.

We must work together

to prevent an end.

—————————————————

First of all, I wasn’t expecting it.

But then nobody ever does.

That’s what everyone tells me

when I tell them I didn’t expect something.

“Nobody ever does.”

But sometimes I do.

So there.

—————————————————

A fleeting glimpse

Perhaps –

But not fleeting enough

that I could not realize

that I love you.

 

I just need

to ask you

one thing –

Where did you leave

the bananas?

—————————————————

Peace be with you.

Untitled – Poem

“Who knows what evil lurks

in the hearts and minds of man?”

said the sign

posted at the crossroads.

 

The young one scoffed

and walked away

laughing

down the road…of lonliness,

to the distant calling

of manhood…

 

A place from which

no one has been known

to return –

unscathed:

by slings and arrows

and that misfortune stuff…

 

That men are made of,

and women, too,

for that matter.

Though everyone took their time

admitting it to themselves

or friends

or ties that bind.

 

Yet still

the young one

walks alone.

As The Rain Came – Poem

A rhythmic, steady

beating on the roof,

an ancient tribal ritual

he’d heard before,

drumming into his soul

calming the restless spirit

for the moment,

a peacefulness

of the moment,

that was new (or long forgotten)

As the rain came.

 

The drumming continued

pulsating endlessly,

barely containing the restless spirit –

The world lay still,

as memories drifted by

insignificant,

to the beauty he knew,

insignificant,

to that place in time,

that was new (not soon forgotten)

As the rain came.

 

A rhythmic, steady

beating on the roof,

an ancient tribal ritual

he’d heard before,

Rhythm and beauty sharing

the soul of the restless spirit,

returning the joy,

a peacefulness,

returning the joy,

that was new (not soon forgotten)

As the rain came.

Circuit Rider – Poem

Pioneer minister

dressed in Sunday go-to-meeting clothes,

on the back of a strong steed,

traverses the country side.

Residents of the woods

perk up, looking towards the commotion,

disturbing their solitude,

on a country Sunday morning.

Lazy autumn leaves

in silent mid-motion while falling,

feel the Lord’s reigning presence,

in the minister’s passing.

Rifle across saddle

a problematic duality

quiet pen with screaming sword

peace and violent protection.

Sermon in drifting thoughts,

or at least significant scriptures,

interminable miles pass

under knowing, pounding hooves.

Church waits – anticipates

in a grove of tall hickory trees.

salvation starved pioneers

waiting for the word of the Lord.

Business on Saturday,

baptism at water’s edge by candle light

services Sunday morning

minister heads toward his next church.

Pioneer minister

dressed in Sunday go-to-meeting clothes,

on the back of a strong steed,

traverses the country side.

I was fortunate to be included in an authors and illustrators signing at the local library, Manske Library, on Saturday. About 20 local authors and illustrators were present from 3 to 5 p.m. to sell and sign books and meet with the public. Belinda Jacks, Library Director, was very hospitable.

I was there to promote my book, The Minutes of Salem Baptist Church, the story of a pioneer church north of Chattanooga, Tennessee in the 1800s and early 1900s. I was also promoting my upcoming poetry book, Timepieces, Contrasts, and Memories, and other upcoming projects. It is comforting to converse with other members of a profession that is largely a lonely one.

An author signing is an interesting event. Readers have a chance to meet authors and illustrators who have a chance to tell their stories. Illustrators such as Pat Kochan, a professional artist at the Artisan’s Studio-Gallery in Farmers Branch, with her book of watercolor paintings that capture the history of downtown Dallas. The book is titled Once Upon a Time in Dallas.

Authors like Tracey Richardson, originally from New Orleans, with her book, Florestine, telling the story of her ancestor about whom little is known. Taking the known facts and stories, Richardson used fiction to fill in Florestine’s back story. Or Lynette Norris Wilkinson, who grew up in the Ninth Ward in New Orleans. Living in Dallas by the time of Hurricane Katrina, she found herself with 16 family members and friends on her doorstep who had lost everything – except what was in their cars – during the hurricane. Which led her to write the book, UNTOLD: The New Orleans 9th Ward You Never Knew, and create the corresponding website with stories of the survivors. Proceeds from the book benefit New Orleans charities.

Martha Trevino Castilleja talked about her children’s book, The Courage of Little Alex, a story of doing wonders with faith and courage. Castilleja’s other book, Something to Remember, is a story about families surviving the devastating flood of 1954 in Acuna, Mexico, and the bordering town of Del Rio, Texas. In Dr. Grace Allman Burke’s book, The Stranger’s Son, the reader sees what it might have been like to witness the events from the Bible’s book of Exodus through twelve year old Gershom’s eyes. After reading the book, they will have a “whole new appreciation for what it meant to be Moses child.

Stay tuned – as they say – for more authors’ stories.

Peace be with you.