POETRY

 

 

 

"THE MOST BEAUTIFUL FLOWER"

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.

Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.

And if that weren't enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play

He stood right before me with his head tilted down
And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"

In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With its petals all worn - not enough rain, or too little light.

Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted away.

But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed the flower to his nose
And declared with overacted surprise,

It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too.
That's why I picked it; here, it's for you."

The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors: orange, yellow or red.

But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need."

But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it mid-air without reason or plan.

It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.

I heard my voice quiver; tears shone in the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.

You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.

I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.

How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.

Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.

And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life,
And appreciate every second that's mine.

And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose

And smiled as I watched that young boy, Another weed in his hand,
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.

 

 

EARLY ONE MORNING

I got up early one morning
And rushed right into the day;
I had so much to accomplish
That I didn't take time to pray.

Problems just tumbled about me
And heavier became each task.
"Why doesn't GOD help me?" I wondered
He answered, "You didn't ask."

I wanted to see joy and beauty
But the day toiled on, gray and bleak
I wondered why GOD didn't show me,
He said, "But you didn't even seek."

I tried to come into GOD's presence;
I used all my keys on the lock.
GOD gently and lovingly chided,
"My child, you didn't knock."

I woke up early this morning,
And paused before entering the day.
I had so much to accomplish,
That I had to take time to pray.

 

 

PASS THE COVER

The beauty of a woman,
isn't in the clothes she wears,
The figure that she carries,
or the way she combs her hair.

The beauty of a woman,
must be seen from in her eyes,
Because that's the doorway to her heart,
the place where love resides.

The beauty of a woman,
isn't in a facial mole,
but true beauty in a woman,
is reflected by her soul.

It's the caring that she cares to give,
the passion that she shows,
And the beauty of a woman,
with passing years, only grows.

by Ralph Fenger

 

 

THE COLD WITHIN

Six humans trapped by happenstance,
in dark and bitter cold.
Each possessed a stick of wood,
or so the stories told.

Their dying fire in need of logs,
but the first one held hers back.
For of the faces around the fire,
she noticed one was black.

The next man looking cross the way,
saw one not of his church.
And could not bring himself to give,
the fire his stick of birch.

The third one sat in tattered clothes,
he gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use,
To warm the idle rich?

The rich man just sat back and thought,
of the wealth he had in store,
And keeping all that he had earned,
from the lazy, shiftless poor.

The black mans face bespoke revenge,
as the fire passed from his sight.
For he saw in his stick of wood,
a chance to spite the white.

And the last man of this forlorn group,
did naught except for gain.
Giving just to those who gave,
was how he played the game.

Their sticks held tight in deaths stilled hands,
was proof enough of sin.
They did not die from cold without,
they died from cold within.

--Author Unknown

 

 

EACH DAY

Today outside my window a new day I see,
And only I can determine what kind of day it will be.

It can be busy and sunny, laughing and gay,
Or boring and cold, unhappy and gray.

My own state of mind is the determining key,
For I am only the person I let myself be.

I can be thoughtful and do all I can to help,
Or be selfish and think just of myself.

I can enjoy what I do and make it seem fun,
Or gripe and complain and make it hard on everyone.

I can be patient with those who may not understand,
Or belittle and hurt them as much as I can.

But I have faith in myself, and believe what I say,
And I personally intend to make the best of each day.

 

JUST CHECKIN IN

A minister passing through his church,
in the middle of the day.
Decided to pause by the altar,
and see who had come to pray.

Just then the back door opened,
a man came down the aisle,
The minister frowned as he saw
the man hadn't shaved in awhile.

His shirt was kinda' shabby,
and his coat was worn and frayed.
The man knelt, he bowed his head,
then rose and walked away.

In the days that followed,
each noon time came this chap,
Each time he knelt just for a moment,
a lunch pail in his lap.

Well, the minister's suspicions grew,
with robbery a main fear,
He decided to stop the man and ask him,
"Watcha' doin' here?"

The old man, he worked down the road,
lunch was half an hour.
Lunchtime was his prayer time,
for finding strength and power.

"I stay only moments, see,
'cause the factory is so far away;
As I kneel here talking' to the Lord,
this is kinda' what I say:

"I JUST CAME AGAIN TO TELL YOU, LORD,
HOW HAPPY I'VE BEEN,
SINCE WE FOUND EACH OTHER'S FRIENDSHIP
AND YOU TOOK AWAY MY SIN.

I DON'T KNOW MUCH OF HOW TO PRAY,
BUT I THINK ABOUT YOU EVERYDAY.
SO, JESUS, THIS IS JIM CHECKIN' IN."

The minister feeling foolish,
told Jim, that was fine.
He told the man he was welcome,
to come and pray just anytime.

Time to go, Jim smiled, said "Thanks."
He hurried to the door.
The minister knelt at the alter,
he'd never done it before.

His cold heart melted, warmed with love,
met with Jesus there.
As the tears flowed, in his heart,
he repeated old Jim's prayer:

"I JUST CAME AGAIN TO TELL YOU, LORD,
HOW HAPPY I'VE BEEN,
SINCE WE FOUND EACH OTHER'S FRIENDSHIP
AND YOU TOOK AWAY MY SIN.

I DON'T KNOW MUCH OF HOW TO PRAY,
BUT I THINK ABOUT YOU EVERYDAY.
SO, JESUS, THIS IS JIM CHECKIN' IN."

Past noon one day,
the minister noticed that old Jim hadn't come.
As more days passed with out Jim,
he began to worry some.

At the factory, he asked about him,
learning he was ill.
The hospital staff was worried,
but he'd given them a thrill.

The week that Jim was with them,
brought changes in the ward.
His smiles, a joy contagious,
changed people, his reward.

The head nurse couldn't understand why,
Jim was so glad.
When no flowers, calls or cards came,
not a visitor he had.

The minister stayed by his bed,
he voiced the nurse's concern.
No friends came to show they cared,
he had nowhere to turn.

Looking surprised, old Jim spoke up,
and with a winsome smile,
"The nurse is wrong,
she couldn't know, that all the while.

Everyday at noon He's here,
a dear friend of mine, you see,
He sits right down, takes my hand,
leans over and says to me:

"I JUST CAME AGAIN TO TELL YOU, JIM,
HOW HAPPY I HAVE BEEN,
SINCE WE FOUND THIS FRIENDSHIP,
AND I TOOK AWAY YOUR SIN.

I ALWAYS LOVE TO HEAR YOU PRAY,
I THINK ABOUT YOU EACH DAY,
AND SO JIM, THIS IS JESUS CHECKIN' IN."

 

 

A LITTLE MIXED UP

Just a line to say I'm living,
That I'm not among the dead,
Though I'm getting more forgetful
and mixed up in my head.

I've got used to my arthritis,
to my dentures I'm resigned.
I can manage my bifocals,
But, Oh God, I miss my mind.

For sometimes I can't remember
when I stand at the foot of the stairs
If I must go up for something
Or I've just come down from there.

And before the refridge, so often
My poor mind is filled with doubt
Have I just put food away, or
have I come to take some out?

And there's times when it is dark
With my nightcap on my head
I don't know if I'm retiring, or
just getting out of bed.

So, if it's my turn to write you
There's no need you getting sore,
I may think that I have written
and don't want to be a bore.

So remember, I do love you,
And wish that you were near
But it's nearly mail time,
So must say, "Goodbye Dear"

Love, Me

P.S. Here I stand beside the mailbox
With face so very red,
Instead of mailing you my letter,
I've opened it instead ! !

(aurhor unknown)

 

 

MY OATH TO YOU

When you are sad,
I will dry your tears.
When you are scared,
I will comfort your fears.

When you are worried,
I will give you hope.
When you are confused,
I will help you cope.

And when you are lost,
And can't see the light.
I shall be your beacon
Shining ever so bright

This is my oath.
I pledge till the end.
Why you may ask?
Because you're my friend.

(aurhor unknown)

 

 

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