Poems
Showing all 98
A Better Day
Surrounded by people,
though I feel so alone.
I join in a conversation,
yet I stand on my own.
Why does this happen?
Why do I feel this way?
Seems no matter what.
I just can't break away.
A smile on my face,
my sadness to hide.
I laugh out loud,
yet I'm crying inside.
I'm trying so hard,
to make it all go away,
but the feeling of loneliness,
just wants to stay.
Here's hoping tomorrow will be a much better day.
© Jeanette Walters, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
A Prayer
Lord, let me hear Your voice,
in the birdsong, in the flowing river,
in the silence of night in the countryside,
in the laughter of children.
Lord, let me see Your guiding light,
in a winter sunrise, in the written Word,
in the love of a friend that is true,
in every opportunity for change.
Lord, let me feel Your power,
in a thunderstorm at sea, in the autumn leaves,
in the growing old of my father,
in the birth of a kitten.
Lord, let me know Your will for me,
in every quiet moment, in every new face encountered,
in tenderness following pain,
in the memory of how You have shaped me.
Lord, let me live Your love for all,
in a song that makes me cry, in gentle death,
in every way You make my life beautiful,
in helping someone to see You as You are.
_________________
© Michael Cain 2006. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Autumn's glory
(haiku)
Summer flares out
to autumn glory.
May my death
be as beautiful.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Beauty through brokenness
Bits of beauty through brokenness.
Oh, but how much more could there have been!
© John McNeil 2014. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Birth
One had to lose a lot to start this journey.
(The moment unannounced
pounced,
and before "Who me?" was spelled
propelled.)
A ticket unbought,
an unclear day to start -
some fear, the hardest part,
not start the worst.
The driver's face turned,
and that passing strange
played rearrange with thoughts,
retorts were stilled,
killed,
heart-milled,
then caught, returned.
A voice speaks, giving vision for a moment,
a time to last through many times to come.
Time seconds, comprehends that brief shown intent,
but never finds the words to put to tongue.
The question dies unasked,
The heart there stands unmasked,
pulsing gently,
one and two,
one and two,
and driving
surely
you.
© John McNeil 1998. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Broken and whole
We who were once whole
became broken,
born in Adam.
He who was whole
also became broken
that we who were broken
could become whole
once again.
Yet
we only remain whole
by remaining broken,
reflecting the One
who is eternally
both whole
and broken.
© John McNeil 1998. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Bubbles
I used to enjoy blowing bubbles.
I could sit for hours at a time
scanning rainbow-crystal-ball worlds
awhirl in a tear-thin soap brine.
Now spinning a dream, now a chance–
my creations would drift on a laugh,
Or catch on a breath of a cause,
Or sighing sink through their birth-path.
But I somehow forgot to count bubbles,
And the mixture ran out yesterday.
Sunset glittered gold on the last,
And winked, and then flickered away.
© John McNeil 1998. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Calling (haiku)
Sea, sucking, sips
at my feet,
calls me outward.
But I only wanted
to dabble.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Calvary Remembered
[Attribution needs checking: the poem's own copyright notice says "Heather Blackwell", the index page says "Susan Y Nikitenko". Using the copyright notice. See docs/owner-queries.md B4.]
Oh it was hard to see His Majesty so vulnerable
To hear the mob yell "Crucify" was more than we could bear
And yet He had to bear much more than we.
His was the pain, the pitting of sword points upon raw flesh
His feet trod cobbles unprotected, bruised and bloodied
In the humid heat of that dark day.
His was the loneliness.
His was the thud of nails, the anguished cry
Ours was the watching and the guiltiness,
Ours was the fear.
Ours was the outrage and the questionings
That lashed the mind.
Who was He now? Who had He thought He was?
Who were we now?
The losers once again?
Deceived and the deceivers?
Back to square one?
Oh it was hard to see this Man so vulnerable,
And yet He had to bear much more than we.
Stench of horse flesh, close hustling of harness,
Quick snapping and snarling, the pack at His heels.
Wailing of women, cursing of men,
Palm branches thrusting, in mockery now.
The crushing of bone, bone against wood.
Straining of muscle, ripping of flesh.
His was the brokenness.
Ours was the wonder that ever such horror
Should come upon Him.
Forgiveness personified.
Love ever lasting,
Submissive in suffering,
Weak in His power.
Humanity broken and deity glorified,
With thorns, blood and nails,
And a rough wooden cross.
His was no worthless sacrifice and He no common man.
If we were losers we had lost before,
But not this Man.
He always kept His word and met our needs.
He knew our thoughts before we had uttered them.
No loser He.
But hanging there upon the cross,
He looked as if the sum of all our losses
Held Him there.
Oh it was hard to see His Majesty so vulnerable,
And yet we understood that Sabbath day,
Seeing the empty tomb and later on
Our resurrected Lord,
We knew it had to be and we were glad for our sakes,
That it was this way.
............................
Copyright Heather Blackwell, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge for non-profit activities, but may not be published for payment without permission of the author. She may be contacted at
Can my black heart yet praise You?
How can my black heart praise You?
-reflected against Your glory
It turns to powder-ash...
Consumed by pure refining fire.
Only your Spirit in me can cry out
-to you the Living God.
Your purity expresses life
Through death.
All I have within me is pure dust;
Ashed by your infinite Glory.
© Anne Bloem 2009. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Canticle for Palm Sunday
(Jesus was born to die for the sins of human beings. There is no judgment that God has pronounced that Christ does not take on himself through the Cross. This poem takes as its starting point the Magnificat of Mary (Luke 1.46-55), paraphrasing verse 52 in the first stanza. Christ’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem is represented as an unexpected fulfilment of this prophecy. Probably only a fan of G.K. Chesterton would accept this as a legitimate handling of the passage.)
Mary sang to the unborn Christ,
“The Lord on high be praised,
Who has brought down the mighty from their thrones,
and the humble to honour raised!”
And if she had heard the laughter of God,
Still she would not have seen the joke,
When her son rode into Jerusalem,
Riding his borrowed moke,
As all through the shouting jostling crowd,
And over their cloaks he trod—
The highest of all on a poor man’s beast,
And a donkey the throne of God!
© Neil Copeland
Email: neilcope at ihug co nz (Replace "at" with @ sign, other spaces with dots)
Cathedral Square
life does
a slow-motion dance
on summer
heat-daze.
footpaths have
their own beat
that lifts in waves
of shimmer-simmer.
traffic pounds
the green-wave,
circles in curious motion
this citadel,
slant-eyes this cool fortress
amidst the quick ocean
of to-and-fro.
dead square
of wilted geraniums
and sun-burnt craniums,
cathedral-cradled,
cobble-crammed
clamour --
a sterile glamour
of surface show.
protesting summer heat,
old -lady church
lifts her skirts
just a beat --
displays a cool brow
and plays to the crowd
their Tuesday night treat.
those within
don't pay much attention --
just kneel to their prayers
and beg intervention.
if God hears
what is it to those
who pass by?
who knows
what was saved?
but who cares?
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Choosing
Confrontation
They sit in the booth,
she still and defensive,
he pushy and controlling.
“I want my kids”,
he shakes his head.
“I am not leaving them, it’s you,”
he shakes his head.
“I’ll take you to court,”
“You won’t win, you’re crazy.”
“They need me,”
he shakes his head.
She shakes with anger,
screams as she leaves,
“I want my kids,”
heads turn.
Her Choices
He won’t let me have them.
I can’t take him to court,
Think of what it will do to the kids.
I don’t have a job,
I have been sick.
I will lose them,
They hate me already.
I have to get away,
I will die if I stay,
it has been close already.
I can’t stand even to look at him,
I cringe if he touches me.
How can I leave my kids with this man,
I must.
Visits
She leaves.
Alone, no children, no friends, no life.
Sisters with their families
makes it harder,
reminder of what she has lost.
She goes back,
to visit.
Under his control, time, place,
nothing is right.
The kids hate.
The visits interrupt life,
she is a problem to them.
She visits anyway,
they must see her.
They need to know.
It is him, not them.
Phone Calls
“Hi, it’s Mom.”
Dead voices.
“Oh, hi Mom.”
“How’ve you been.”
“Ok.”
“What ya been doing?”
“Nothing.”
Non-conversation continues.
They get off quickly.
She struggles through all three.
They must hear her.
They need to know.
It is him, not them.
Pain
She must call,
no, it hurts too much,
they don’t want to talk.
She must.
I’ll just skip this time,
no, they need to know.
I am here, not there, but here for you.
It is him, not them.
Weekend Visits
He travels half way, she meets them.
They are angry,
not wanting to come.
They are hurt and angry,
she left them.
They don’t want to be with her.
At night they sleep,
Closed in and overwhelmed,
air full of anger even in sleep,
outside she breathes deep.
It is so painful,
they must know,
I am here for you,
It was him, not them.
Date?
Needy for love she dates.
They hate him.
He is stupid,
“Mom, what are you thinking?”
She needs love,
he is loving and kind.
Yes, they are right, not cool.
Will this confrontation never end.
Can’t I give up,
no, they need me,
they need to know.
It was him, not them.
Far or Close
One begs move closer.
Another begs, no.
The little one just cries.
I need you to sew for me.
I can’t talk to dad.
I want you to see my play.
I want you to see my ballgame.
You can’t come back,
no more fights,
tension again.
We’re ok,
it would be too hard,
don’t come.
Crying,
“When are you coming home?”
How can I do it,
he controls,
uses me.
Never get well,
just now improving.
What should I do?
They need me.
They need to know.
It was him, not them.
Copyright Valerie H. Klaus, all rights reserved.
12549 W. Union Rd.
Spencerville, Ohio 45887-9642
Church Lockdown -- A Prayer
In this prayer/poem, the author uses Old Testament imagery to convey the message for Christians to call upon God in this difficult time.
Clearer now
Clearer now,
and nearer as I write
to knowing what it means...
As I write,
my loving heart
betrays my cold emotion.
I can no more put you aside
than cast away my latter eye.
Yours are the eyes through which I see,
your soul is the very depth of me,
the seat of my devotion.
There are those we love because we need,
like those whose need becomes our own.
We passed a season thus and thus,
chose with care the ways we trod
and smelled the flower's scent, breeze-blown.
Then springtime passed, and with it brought
a newer kiss, of comfort this,
spring's urgence gone, summer's warmth drawing on,
till we woke one day and found we loved
because we loved, the need for need now gone.
Letters counted out in drops of desperation
can't be counted on to solve a situation.
Thinking back to former days
and the struggle to prove the worth
of one's own existence -
even then
I promised myself
that whatever would make you happy
that much would I give you.
I did not realise then
the gift was beyond man's price
or ability to pay.
I could not buy you things,
so I gave love instead -
a poor substitute.
Later - still lacking money -
I gave myself.
It was the last gift I had.
Then, a spoilt child once-chided in life's birthday party,
I asked for my gift back,
not knowing it was without value
without that you used it.
It was new when I first gave it you.
But please accept it back,
tarnished a trifle though it seems to me.
Perhaps if you polish it,
it may yet shine again.
© John McNeil 1998. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Coming Back
By Rachel Rosenthal
Struggling, Breaking Down
I cry out, without making a sound
I need you now more than ever
Reign down on me Lord, now or never,
These tears stream down from my eyes
While I wait for answers from my desperate cries…
I want to run back into your arms,
I need you to protect me from harm,
As this world tears me apart,
I give you my heart,
Please renew my weak soul,
And once again make me whole…
When you refill my cup,
I hope you'll lift me up,
I want to stay with you all my life,
Being carefree from trouble and strife,
So as I put you first,
You'll quench this deep thirst…
So I get down on my knees,
And ask you to comfort me,
I come up to your heavenly seat,
And rest my burdens at your feet,
Without saying a single word,
I'm coming back to you, My Lord
© Rachel Rosenthal, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Common Sense Ain’t Common
Don’t never say it’s common sense,
Cause common sense ain’t common.
Nope, common sense don’t work no more,
Things aren’t the way they were before,
Cause common sense ain’t common.
Yep, common sense ain’t common, anymore.
I try to tell them they should be
A little tiny more like me.
They don’t do things like me you see,
Cause common sense ain’t common.
The more I live the more I see,
That seeing eye to eye can’t be,
Cause if you’s you and I is me,
Then common sense ain’t common.
When I was young my mom would say,
Its common sense to be that way.
So I worked hard until the day
My common sense weren’t common.
Now I do the things I want
My life’s a bit more nonchalant,
What I do they call a stunt,
Cause common sense ain’t common
Don’t never say it’s common sense,
Cause common sense ain’t common.
Nope common sense don’t work no more,
Things aren’t the way they were before,
Cause common sense ain’t common.
Yep, common sense ain’t common, anymore.
Copyright Valerie H. Klaus, all rights reserved
12549 W. Union Rd.
Spencerville, Ohio 45887-9642
Cover Me, Lord
Cover Me Lord
when I cannot find my way
with trouble on every side
in my place of safety
behind my feelings I hide
my flesh aching, help me Lord,
feeling as though the bottom has fallen out from under me
yet, a voice heard loud and clear from my spirit says
I am with you always.
I speak out in answer, cover me Lord
keep my foot assured
let not my heart be troubled
to you Lord I trust my soul, cover me Lord
help me to faint not, continue to hear my cry
cover me Lord, do not pass me by
for in my time of trouble
even though I felt I could go no more
my spirit let me know you are there Lord, always.
This too shall pass, this season I am in, you have allowed for a time.
In you shall I rest, your word I will confess
I will press never the less
cover me Lord
....................................................................................
© Rene Harris, all rights reserved. The poem may not be reproduced, translated or copied in any medium, including books, CDs and on the Internet, without written permission of the author.
This poem may be performed free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged. In exchange for free performance, the author would appreciate being notified of when and for what purpose the play is performed. She may be contacted at:
Dear God
It’s a hard life here on earth. Could a perfect God really understand what life here is like?
Dear God I’m writing to you ‘cos I’m feeling sort of down,
The cat’s been sick, the kids are crook, the car broke down in town,
I’m late for work, the toast is cold, there’s someone in the loo,
I’m in the red, the milks gone green, I’m understand’bly blue,
I’m not one to complain that much, just thought I’d let you know,
If this goes on much longer, I think my top will blow
I’m going broke, I’m going bald, I think I’m going mad,
The T.V. bust, the footy’s on, and my wife is actually glad!
My socks are odd, I’ve no clean shirts, the iron’s on the blink,
My back is sore, toys on the floor and dog food in the sink,
It’s just not fair, I can’t go on, I don’t know where to turn,
I’d rather you just told me if there’s something here to learn
I’m overworked, I’m overweight, I think I’m underfed,
I’m paid too low, the train’s too slow, I need to go to bed,
The pressures on on every front, the bills aren’t getting paid,
My team can’t win, my kids can’t spell, my coffee isn’t made,
I don’t know why you let me get so far up this damn creek,
You’ve certainly succeeded if you want me feeling weak
There’s HIV and GST and PMT as well,
There’s suicide and homicide and other sorts of hell,
Storms and quakes and famines, cyclones, fire, floods and more,
Drinking drivers, gambling, drugs and crime and hate and war,
I just don’t understand the reason you let things get this way,
Perhaps you just don’t understand the pain of life today!
Sometimes I wish that you could walk a mile or two with me,
Put yourself in my shoes and I think that you would see,
That things here aren’t so lovely, that things often don’t go well,
That life here’s less like heaven, this life is more like hell,
I guess if you could be here, if you lived a while as man,
You could feel the things I feel, and maybe understand
Oh God, how blind and stupid I have been, forgive me please,
My memory’s short, Gethsemene, your son down on his knees,
If you could take this from me, take this cup of blood and tears,
Take the judgement and the whipping, take the ridicule and jeers,
Take the thirty coins of silver, take the rooster crowing too,
Take the crown of thorns and nails, Oh God what must I do,
Take the taunts and grief and darkness, take the dice and sponge of wine,
But Father now as always, let Your will be done, not mine
...............................................................
Dean Herring. ©2001
Copyright Dean Herring, all rights reserved. This poem may be performed publicly without royalty provided no entrance fee is charged. In return, the author would appreciate being notified of any performance. He may be contacted at
Death's Illusion
Sometimes I'm hot
and others cold
Though I'm young
I can yet feel old
Sometimes I'm up
and others down
Treading water as I drown
I can't swim forever,
that I know
The hungry grave
will always grow
Closer, nearer,
dragging me in
Yet still,
I will not simply
let it win
Every sorrow will
in time fade
Just as every joy will
feel the blade
Yesterday's memories
can not sing
Of what new songs
doth tommorow bring
And so I laugh,
I cry
I live,
and shall die
Among each transient
ever-changin' day
But this,
Better this,
than static constant
within
Death's cloak grey
(C) Copyright Adam 'Cyrik' Salken 2003, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Don’t Waste This Sorrow Lord
Don’t waste this sorrow Lord,
may it honor you,
Declare you name through this pain,
let Your purpose show through.
Don’t waste this sorrow Lord,
use this grief I give,
Declare your name through this pain,
in your power I live.
Don’t waste this sorrow Lord,
mold and shape me now.
Declare your name through this pain,
to Your will I bow.
Copyright Valerie H. Klaus, all rights reserved.
12549 W. Union Rd.
Spencerville, Ohio 45887-9642
Drum
Do you feel a pulse throughout the world?
A beat, that surges through your ears and blood?
That wraps you in its effervescent mood,
and leaves you tingling with a dream unfurled?
(The breezes whisper in a hidden rhythm,
Compound a listener fastly to their cause,
Then leave him without question or a pause,
Half-laughing, half-acry at fickle whims.)
Don't cry - the beat is yours, you are the beat.
(God-manifest, hold to the 'pointed task.)
And listen to the words it claims within,
Now loud, now soft, now cool, now haste in heat.
The why is yours; the when (beyond your grasp)
Is still responding to this touch of Him.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Ecclesiastes
One may often wonder why,
why do people live and die?
In eternity, our lives don't scratch the surface
tell me Lord, what is the purpose?
Is all our toiling done in vain
things built strong will never last
Think of all the people past
there must be some reward for pain
But here today and then dismissed
work and pleasure, man's desires
all of it will burn in fire
everything is meaningless
whatever we acquire
For the same fate awaits us all
none too big, we're all too small
everyone will one day fall
on their knees
before the Lord at judgment
It matters not what you have done
We all leave empty handed
from this world beneath the sun
consider what the Lord has done
without the Son, we're stranded
Eternity is in the hearts of men
yet we cannot fathom what God has done
from the beginning until the very end
Whatever is, has already been
and what will be, will be again.
So enjoy your youth and remember the Creator
whose mysteries we cannot understand
Enjoy your own work, toil, and labor
for the conclusion of the matter
Is to fear the Lord and heed His commands
that when your spirit returns to God who gave it
you will not be a stranger
for God's Glory
© Sam Jackson. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Elysian Dream
Jewelled pair to mine eyes do stare
Surrounded by silken complexion fair
Lashes long and lips lush
Locks graceful waves tamed not by brush
A smile to upstage a setting sun
Before which be even moons grace undone
Such beauty almost unreal it seems
For so perfect things are the stones of dreams
(C) Copyright Adam 'Cyrik' Salken 2003, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
ephemera
When you think you have it,
you have just lost it;
when you think you have arrived,
you have not even started;
when you think you have won,
you have failed.
For the having is in knowing it
was never yours to keep;
the arriving is in continuing to travel;
and the winning in never ceasing to strive.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Esau
I gaze at the stars,
separated from them
by five minutes
of pleasure.
Easau,
I know how you felt.
But despise me not.
You and I are kin
inside this skin.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Even when low
Even when low can I sing, even I
what He's done,
taken,
rent,
hated,
cleaned,
bent, and
given -
a lie: that was life,
with no living
and the days slipping by
like the wind.
A put-it-off day
was my life, was my way,
and support non-existent.
We are the men, the hollow men
who cry through our dust
"take my trust,
and my help,
and my word,
and my hand,
and my and,
and . . . ."
my God!
The buck stops here,
little-sung, little-honoured
in a dead-end street where deadheads meet
and the mountain has come to mahommed.
And in vain do we rise,
unless it's goodbyes
to the old,
and like dogs flee our vomit.
SING!
What He's done is give life;
what He took, sin and strife;
what He rent was His body;
what He hated:
our gods, and our folly -
and He cleansed me from sin;
bent me His way again,
and gave the great gift of His love -
Love's peace,
Love's joy . . .
Love's love.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Faith.
What value can one put on a thought
taken to new heights
by the sound of waves crashing on a shingle beach,
by the absolute clarity of the stars on a moonless night,
by a gentle breeze stealthily making it's way through the darkness,
lifted through faith in a loving and awesome God,
to the very throne room of Heaven?
The vastness of the open sea is dwarfed into insignificance
by the immensity of space.
Distances mortal man can only dream of reaching,
never to really know,
never to touch.
Yet within the smallest drop of water
God is guiding each molecule in its predetermined destiny.
He sees a sparrow fall from the sky,
He is touched when we cry,
He holds each planet in its place and has a purpose for each star in space.
He knows us better than we do ourselves and yet
some of the lives He created don't give Him a second thought.
Without His pure and absolute love for you,
you won't even wake up in the morning.
Can you even begin to imagine how much power it takes
for just one star
to send it's light far enough for us to see it?
If it takes so long for the light from the stars to reach us
how do we know that the rest of the universe even exists still?
It all could have just gone out 500 years ago
and we haven't heard the news yet!
Except by faith…………..
_________________
© Michael Cain 2006. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Father
I long to run to You
To throw my arms around You
- and squeeze.
To hold You so tight,
That the letting go would take eternity
I want to bury my head
Deep in Your chest
- and inhale.
To catch your scent,
Be overwhelmed by Your Being
I try to hide this fallenness
To cover myself
- in Your reflection.
But immersed in my selfishness
I play dress-ups with Your righteousness
Alas, I am but a fractured image
Caught in Your Kingdom of yet
- and yet not.
A lifetime becomes too short a breath,
To complete Your restoration.
Names of power beget fear
Yet words of grace arrest my flight
- hope bestirs
Held in Your heartbeat I remain,
till I know You in full, just as I am fully known.
Copyright © Christina Wilson, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
For Carryn:
By Anne Bloem(picture of you)
The Master-Painter,
paused -
Distracted
thoughtful...
(mind full of you)
The colour palette's
paints,
slid slowly-
Mingling oils:
grace
mercy
loving kindness
patience
promises...
onto
discarded canvas.
Your heart
Arrayed with Love's
Masterstrokes...
Ingenious.
_________________
© Anne Bloem 2009. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Fragment
f r a g m e n t
I got your letter today -
should I tell you that I cried
when I came to the bit
where you said
you loved me?
That the words
swept away
this cobweb world of shadows
where I dwelled for so long,
a world
where my face
was beginning to fade
when I looked in the mirror,
where I could hear talk
but no people around me;
where I would walk
but my feet slip
through the ground.
Golden autumn
would fall from the trees
but all those leaves
just melted through
my outstretched hands.
And yes,
I had sensed slip those sands
© John McNeil 1998. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
From day to day I work
From day to day I work,
as one works
who doesn't want to think too hard -
I wash the clothes
and sweep the yard
and busy myself in a mob
of motley
mundane
things.
But it doesn't stop the itch at nights
as I toss on my bed,
or the wanderlust that runs a-riot
all round my head.
Night here
is not a time for mundane things -
night here is a soft warm scent
on murmured wings,
and how can walls so carefully built
withstand such scent.
I can stop my mind in daylight's air,
but no bed's a fortress against ideas.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Haiku Calling
Haiku - calling
Sea, sucking, sips
at my feet,
calls me outward.
But I only wanted
to dabble.
.......................
Copyright John McNeil, 2001
Email:
Hurting
Hurting
They’re hurting all around us,
Like a million broken dreams.
The young and old, the poor and wealthy,
Though sometimes it seems.
That others have the world complete,
And only do we wonder,
Those others often aren’t so sure,
And hear the threatening thunder.
They’re hurting all around us,
They’re hurting everyday.
Let’s find a way to ease their pain,
And help along the way.
They’re hurting all around us,
For life can cause such pain.
Though giving time and all their strength,
They never seem to gain.
So few succeed that most go on,
To live a life of shame.
Questioning each day they live
If life is worth the game.
They’re hurting all around us,
They’re hurting everyday.
Let’s find a way to ease their pain,
And help along the way.
They’re hurting all around us,
Oh, don’t ignore their grief.
Our time on earth’s so very quick,
We need to give relief.
God gave to us, so let us share,
About our Lord’s great love.
Giving to the ones in pain,
The answer from above.
© Valerie H. Klaus, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at: 12549 W. Union Rd, Spencerville, Ohio 45887-9642, email
In a foreknowledge of my years...
In a foreknowledge of my years I might have sighed:
Has it all come to this?
A walking out of doors, another goodbye?
Symbols of a pattern dance before my gaze
And I am unseeing.
Is the end prize emptiness in this tangled maze?
It seems to me now almost a style of life.
It mocking-mirror laughs
And throws down my failures - not woman, not wife.
They lay, gauntlet-challenge, offcast glove -
An old-fashioned style.
And I kick at this loathsome shell, once my love.
The dusk draws on in as the doors shut behind,
And the question unsolved.
So I take leave again, step on into the wind.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Isn T There Hate Enough
Isn’t there hate enough?
I hear your words that hurt,
You hold no care.
I see your actions to pain,
You act with no care.
Isn’t there hate enough?
Isn’t life painful enough?
Do you add to it?
Do you care?
You, start caring,
Put off your words of hate.
Put off your actions to pain.
You start first, stop the hate.
© Valerie H. Klaus, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at: 12549 W. Union Rd, Spencerville, Ohio 45887-9642, email
Its No Use
It's no use (sonnet)
It's no use; no matter how I try
to use that difference between us two
to force a break, to make a clean goodbye,
again I come back to the thought of you
and turn, and know in turning reasons why
I turn, the reasons why I cannot go.
The golden thread that links us both in love
serves double duty, keeping us apart;
the very fact of so much love has proved
a bridge between and wall around our hearts.
We run, how hard we run, yet only move
to find each other back there at the start.
It's thoughts like these run while at night we lie.
And then you stir beside me, and they fly.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Jesus Was Forsaken
The Valentine of Hope
Jesus asked why on His darkest day;
He suffered alone our sins to pay.
He was forsaken on Calvary;
So you and I could be ever free.
He was forsaken for you and me;
That murderous day on Calvary.
His children will not be forsaken;
Since His blood was shed for men's sin.
A love gesture written in His blood;
Jesus forsaken, because of love.
The greatest act of love ever sown;
The greatest act of mercy ever shown.
In letters of love it's been written;
He died so we could be forgiven.
For God so loved the world that He gave;
The only answer for men to be saved.
Jesus, a merciful valentine;
True love, none so precious, none so kind.
Was given freely to pay our sin;
See His heart, see His love, see Him?
Jesus, a perfect white rose of grace;
Defeated the power of the grave.
The valentine of hope for the world;
Our victorious risen Lord.
Jesus asked why on His darkest day;
He suffered alone our sins to pay.
He was forsaken on Calvary;
Twas true love given for you and me.
Jesus was forsaken -
So we would never be forsaken.
Deuteronomy 31:6: Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the LORD thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.
© Susan Y Nikitenko 2012. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Just as I am
Happy
Sad
Honest
Liar
Kind
Selfish
Encouraging
Jealous
Forgiving
Heartless
Friendly
Moody
My list could go on
But I know you accept me
Just as I am.
© Jeanette Walters, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Lord, let me look into hearts ...
Lord, let me look into hearts, not faces;
First let me act, then ask for graces;
Let me count more dear a loving smile
Than honour bought with time and guile.
And above all, Lord, let me count it true
Not for myself, but for love of you.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Lost in a world
Lost in a world where I did everything wrong.
All on my own, I felt I didn’t belong.
I needed something or maybe someone.
To bring me back to life, before all my happiness was gone.
But there was no one left, I’d scared everyone away.
With tears rolling down my cheeks, I just started to pray.
Lord please forgive me for all I’ve done wrong.
Show me the right way so in your world I belong.
© Jeanette Walters, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Loving Me
I gave my love
With no question of it being returned
How foolish was I?
I gave no little thought to the quality of my life
If I did, I might have considered death superior
The abuse of my love overtime consumed me
The more I gave, the more they took
Then
They discarded it
Like something worthless
Well
Where does that leave you?
I felt like Job
But these people were not just!
They believed what they were told
Not what their eyes could see
Where do you go when those you have loved
Turn and hurt you
Betray you at every turn?
Yet you love
Because you don't know anything else
You believe
"Just love them enough, they'll soon see"
See what?
See how much you love them ofcourse
Surely you shouldn't have to prove it by now?
Yes
You do
Because?
You will never be good enough because
They have rejected you
But then I stop and muse a while
Who am I to say they're right?
My life is one they cannot own
I live it fresh from day to dawn
In my own distinctly loving way
I know I am okay
.......................................
Copyright Anna Grace Cannon 2005 , all rights reserved.
This poem may be performed publicly without royalty provided no entrance fee is charged. In return, the author would appreciate being notified of any performance. She may be contacted at
Making Way For Christmas
By Dorothy Suhling Kraljev
I'll be right there
I'm coming...really...
Just give me a minute
I've got this one last batch of cookies...
Hey, I'm sorry
But I've got to run
The sale ends today
So if I hurry...
Do I what?
Of course I know what time of year it is.
Am I ready?
Well, if I'm not...I'll die trying...
How am I getting ready?
Well...
There's the cards, shopping, baking...
Parties, having people in
...I hope I can make it through the holidays.
(I'll sure be glad when they're over...)
As I take it from storage
The manger scene unfolds
Piece by piece...
The cows, the sheep...their shepherds...
Child, do you love me?
Lord, of course I love you!
Then feed My sheep...
My child, do you really love me?
Lord you know I love you!
Then feed My sheep...
Or are you too busy producing the wrappings of Christmas
Rather than drawing in My loving Spirit
That it might gently flow from you
...To others...
Wise men now stand adoringly about the crib.
Do you seek me out?
Search the Word--My gift to you
That My wisdom shall become yours?
And Joseph takes his place
Ever faithful, supportive, loyal.
Mary kneels by the simple cradle
Surely this mother had visions
Of another place of birth for her Child.
No bows or wrappings here
No Flashing lights
Just love...peace...and joy!
A few pieces of straw
Not much to offer this new born Babe
But then, Sweet Jesus You ask for little
Just My love...
Just ME...
This shelter I present to You is untidy
A crude beginning for a King...
And yet You come Baby Jesus
Making Your home in my heart...
...Again...anew...
I put Your figure in the manger now...
A place of simple honor
I welcome You sweet Child...
Dear Savior ...
Happy Birthday...My Jesus...
Welcome home.....Into my Christmas
...I love you...Amen
..........................................
© Copyright Dorothy Suhling Kraljev 2000, all rights reserved. This script may be performed free of charge, on condition that no charge is made for admission. In return, the author would appreciate being notified of any performance. She may be contacted at
Meaning (haiku)
Meaning
is as much found
in a leaf falling
as in a
bud springing.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Mercy Remembers
Mercy remembers
...we are dust
Flourish like a flower
MAGNIFICENT
...the wind blows
G
O
N
E .
Not remembered
By the place in which it bloomed.
“mercy”
Remember :
...eternal LOVE
UNENDING
P
O
U
R
S
OUT
L-I-F-E...
Those who drink
Willingly
Flourish: a
C
E
D
A
R
Planted in the
Courts of the KING
ESTABLISHED!
Sowing precedes reaping...
“I give you everything.”
YET , my fingers grip the notes
I think will meet my needs...
Forgetting :
YOU have given all.
YOU seem to have to prise everything
From my selfish, childlike finger's grip;
A reluctant child with too much candy:
Sick and needy;
Unable to let go
To Recognise
YOU.
YOUR warm , firm, loving grip-
WISDOM- that speaks reason to a soul
-Resolute on selfish control of nothing-
Does not rip it from me;
Gently you coax it
From my sad hand
With promise of
Better-more-REAL
I wrestle senselessly
With all that I am
then
surrender
To all that YOU are and have.
© Anne Bloem 2008. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Metamorphosis
I suppose there must be words
to describe that meeting,
but I for one do not know them.
Certainly
there are the words of all the experiences
occasioned by man
gathered and carefully nurtured
down through the countless years
he had to make those feelings last,
but how can the same sum total
of even all these
approach what really happened
that day?
Instead let me talk
of all the things that happened in the world
while for a brief moment in time
ours stood still.
I will talk
of the slow mellowing of a summer
not yet seen
and the golden promise
hidden within its lips,
better for the long wait
had in coming.
A warm coming it was
and doubly welcome,
the earth tempered
by the deep bite
of the rain,
and the longing even deeper
of which a rain
could scarce touch the meaning,
except to show beginnings of a satisfaction.
And I will tell you of the sight that day
when Spring unloosed her bonds,
the thongs of a winter long spent.
And the sweetness revealed
made man kneel
in wonder at the song she could sing.
If a cloud passed that day
it was not a cloud such as men know
in their moments of reason -
more a moment of softness
filtering into full flame:
a wave of colour,
whirl-colour corona
that flashed to the core of the world
in a stab of such sweetness
that reason had no reference
nor wakening.
And a song I will sing
of the surge of a wave,
and the depth of its pull
and the strength of its need,
for the hold of that wave
on such day as I knew
never called such a depth,
nor described such a view.
But it warmed and it lulled,
and its energy freed
all the bonds of an age
bound in linkage indeed -
though links, too, it forged
as the sheer salty taste
gave a new kind of bond,
born in fathoms embraced.
And on down through the depths,
filled with sheer, surging swell,
plunged the current of life,
learning lesson too well,
to a bottom so broad
that all knowledge could scarce
take realisation
there's yet end to the race.
And I'll tell you, my love,
of the bird which fled free
from those waves -
in spirals he rose
like a song to the skies,
sheer-song-silkened wings
of fabulous prize -
and he rose.
The sun drew him upwards
in circling song,
as if all earthy cares
and the worries of years
had been holding him back
for too long, far too long.
Ever up he still climbed
as he sought the white heat
of the glaring, bright sun
in his seat of the skies.
Great daggers of flame
flung from far out in time,
in ecstasy's grasp
caught at the divine
bird-like form
and it burst -
no form can bear so long sweet pain
and stay the same.
Down he tumbled many miles,
in long-swinging sweeps
and far-falling spirals
to the sea whence he came.
And his face hung with joy,
head flung back at the sky,
rolled,
and surged,
and sighing sank
with the lull and the suck of the sea on the shore,
and was still.
They say the world turned on its way
just the same that day
as it always did.
That all these things were no more than that:
just its usual wont to sing
or reason to chat,
and the sum of all this day's happenings
are life, in its way;
no more nor no less than that.
But I for one don't believe what they say.
For among these events
we met that day.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Or at: 36B Stourbridge St, Christchurch 8024, New Zealand.
Mind Waltzing
For half a heart into my eyes
I walked along the coast of skies and
shattered stained glass window panes;
The water drains and writes your name
In angel fire script
-Into this plain I stumbled, tripped
And never knew, whence come nor gone
Or why the stained glass sand marked on
The patterns of your eyes
I trolled the depths of both our souls
And tasted all the fire of our lies
It came, then, as no big surprise
No change can come to true good hearts
completely thought
of stone
If you are the one left
numb
alone
And know that it's not you who has
been
lost
The frost has frozen all the sand
And fused the water into glassy panes
Into which my heart
was thrown
And I, the one here all alone
I, drown-ed off the coasts that shone,
Am sure it still remains.
............................................................................
© Copyright Jordan C Anderson
All rights reserved. This poem may be performed publicly without royalty provided no entrance fee is charged. In return, the author would appreciate being notified of any performance. He may be contacted at
Miss you
I miss you so much I can’t let go.
I relied on you so much it’s starting to show.
I loved you so much I hoped you’d know.
But it seems I was wrong as you walked away.
Packed your bags and left my life with nothing to say.
Not giving a reason or explanation as to why.
Just left me standing there alone to break down and cry.
© Jeanette Walters, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
My heart
My heart was
Broken,
Longing,
Aching,
But not any more.
Now my heart is
Beating,
Belonging,
Racing,
Because I’ve found you.
© Jeanette Walters, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
My Little Girl
A pain in my chest makes me want to cry.
I just want to scream why oh why?
I can’t stop you growing up or the stress that that brings.
But I can remember the days when you made my heart sing.
It was easier then, no worry or strife.
Which made for me a much simpler life.
But my love for you will never end.
Because you’re my little girl and my very best friend.
© Jeanette Walters, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
My Lord
[Author unknown - no copyright notice in the source file and no attribution in the index pages. See docs/owner-queries.md B5.]
My Lord is walking in the garden, looking for me
but I am sleeping under yonder tree.
My Lord is walking in the garden, calling for me
I am still asleep under yonder tree.
My Lord is kneeling in the garden, praying for me
Where am I but sleeping under yonder tree.
My Lord is kneeling in the garden, weeping for me
He knows I will deny him one, two, three.
My Lord is hanging, dying there on yonder tree
He breathes his last and dies for you and for me.
My Lord has risen from the grave,
He came to set men free, and now
he is walking in the garden looking for thee.
...............................
Copyright Grace Kerry
Night-rise
Somewhere a door closed.
A cat, ejected, sqawling, wailing
spat,
ran hailing to her mate.
Streets, glistening black with former rain,
reflected lights above, mingled them with the stars.
From a lighted, shaded window
came a woman's tinkling laugh,
telling of the party
gathered round the 4-1/2.
Mist drifts, wafted, from the river,
dances round the neon signs,
joins in frolic with the steaming
from the nearby railway lines.
Railway tower reached to the moon
like an omnipotent eye,
watches, exalted from the sky
till expunged by dawn.
Out in the park
where shades of dark
grow deeper than the blacks of night
a rustling leaf reminds in whisper
it is merely taking rest.
It sleeps on,
drawing in its fellows,
waiting for the morn.
A bird, startled,
flutters and is gone, wonders what is wrong,
then returns.
In distant bush a morepork calls,
his plaintive cry
is answered by a grurking frog
which runs a ripple in the pond.
Disappears.
A silken sigh
ruffles through the stalky rye
and merges with the dark.
Stream chuckles its way to the sea,
myriads the stars.
Along the shore the night is clear,
gold moon a crown
that caps this queen of all nature's trysting spots.
Wavelets lap their way to shore,
gleeful in eternal game,
bobbing at the fishing trawl,
bubbling at the dinghy's name.
A rabbit scurries on the sand,
scuffing clouds behind his feet,
toitoi grass in jaunty stand
sways before the singing breeze.
All is quiet save the wind,
talking to the sand and sea.
Then a car starts,
swings its lights.
Peace returns.
Tranquillity.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Noisy Night
By Matthew Thiele
(This poem is a parody of 'Silent Night' but it is definitely not meant to be sung.
The setting we used it in was in a darkened church with a lone voice reading in a forlorn way.
Emphasise the harsh repeat of the last line.)
Noisy night, busy night,
no room to sit, nowhere to lie,
Mary screams, her birth pains increase,
A tough start in life for the world's Prince of Peace,
Christ the Saviour is born,
Christ the Saviour is born.
Noisy night, busy night,
Donkeys bray, animals fight.
The city is full of noise and of smoke,
They try to sleep but they just stay awake,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Noisy night, dirty night,
This old shed smells, it just isn't right.
Son of God is lying on straw,
Maybe he's cold - he cries more and more,
Jesus, Lord at thy birth,
Jesus, Lord at thy birth.
Noisy night, busy night,
God comes to earth, to share in our plight.
Shares in our humanness, lives in our pain,
A refugee born, in darkness and shame,
Jesus, Shares in our pain,
Jesus, Shares in our pain.
..............................................
Copyright Matthew Thiele, Christmas 1998.
38 Townsend St, Townsville, QLD, 4814.
Nonexistent
Did you ever wonder
What it would be like to be
Gone?
To
Disappear
From all vision and all sense
To
Vanish
Into thin air?
To feel your hands dissolve
As clouds
And your vision grow opaque
To collapse in mid air as a
Vapor
Mist
And your eyes fuse into the sky
And
Stars?
To be omitted in the halls
Your name never heard again
Recognized only as
Space
Void
Marblesque breath of time
Synergy of nothing
I know what it is
To
Exist as such
A snapshot in the drawer of someone's mind
Just as you know...
For I have disappeared to
No one... except
Yourself.
You, who have
Deciphered how to go about
Forgetting me into a
Mirror pane of someone who is
Gone.
............................................................................
© Copyright Jordan C Anderson
All rights reserved. This poem may be performed publicly without royalty provided no entrance fee is charged. In return, the author would appreciate being notified of any performance. He may be contacted at
Out on the Streets
Out on the streets, cause I’ve nowhere to go.
Can I sleep in your doorway, would you have a spare box?
The answer’s the same, go away, get lost.
Out on the streets, lost and alone,
I've found me a doorway, and look there's a box.
I'll settle down inside before I'm told to get lost.
Out on the streets, it’s every man for himself,
food is a problem as there’s not much around
but the garbage can is full, so lets see what I've found.
Out on the streets, you will hear me cry,
I can't cope with this life out here on my own.
I just want to be loved; I just want to go home.
© Jeanette Walters, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Picture of You
For Carryn
The Master-
Painter,
paused -
Distracted
thoughtful...
(mind full of you)
The colour palette's
paints,
slid slowly-
Mingling oils:
grace
mercy
loving kindness
patience
promises...
onto
discarded canvas.
Your heart
Arrayed with Love's
Masterstrokes...
Ingenious.
© Anne Bloem 2009. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Poems
Submissions are welcome for this section. Please send to:
Prodigal Daughter
I felt the hope slipping away,
Overwhelmed I wept this day
Crying out to you my friend,
For me this had to be the end
I turned from you, I didn’t understand,
How you could have let this happen
Even though I knew of Your love,
I couldn’t feel it any more
I tried to go my own way,
I only got further lost in my pain
It took me a long long time,
And I tried everything
Then I turned back to you,
You’d been there all along
You took me back no questions asked,
And gave me a new start
Now here I am on the road to heaven,
Laughing, loving, joyful and healing
Thank you Lord for lifting me up,
Helping me forgive and rise above
I think I decided at some point,
to leave your love anointed
Then return like the Prodigal Son,
Thank you Lord for your stories of love
© Linda Liddicoat, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Prodigals
We who are down
among the pigs,
who have squandered
our inheritance
to wallow
in the excrement of
our own progress --
Prodigal Son,
we salute you!
And should you pass a thought
for your former days,
remember us who did not turn.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Psalm (Heartcry)
Where are You God
why can't You hear me?
I did not forsake You
I upheld Your name day by day
Morning by morning I praised You
I honoured Your name by night.
I walked in Your paths
a man of integrity.
I put my life in Your hands
to cleanse my way.
Don't You know that I am crushed
destroyed by enemies I cannot see
The world as I knew it has gone
I am lost in a whirlpool of pain and despair.
I am cut off from all I have known
even from myself
My anger spills like lava
it erupts like a volcano destroying all in its path
Loved ones quake, uncertain, unsure.
There is no safety in life
Will I find it in death?
Where are You God
why can't You hear me?
I am paralysed
bound by the grave clothes of despair
I am frightened to love
but long to be held
Someone, please find me
ignore my resistance and wake me with a kiss
Will I ever find peace
will I ever know Your presence again?
I drown the pain with ceaseless noise
When will silence be safe? I cannot look to the future
so I will look to the past
When I knew Your love
when I felt Your presence
All I can do is hope that this will come again
because I knew You then as Faithful and True.
Though the darkness hides You from me
I am not hidden from You
I will hope in You, my Saviour, my God
for You will come and keep me safe.
....................................................................................
© Helen McNeil, all rights reserved. This poem may not be reproduced, translated or copied in any medium, including books, CDs and on the Internet, without written permission of the author.
This script may be performed free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged. In exchange for free performance, the author would appreciate being notified of when and for what purpose the poem is used. She may be contacted at:
Psalm 8 v 4
Can my black heart yet praise you?
How can my black heart praise You?
-reflected against Your glory
It turns to powder-ash...
Consumed by pure refining fire.
Only your Spirit in me can cry out
- to you the Living God.
Your purity expresses life
Through death.
All I have within me is pure dust.
Ashed by your infinite Glory.
_________________
© Anne Bloem 2009. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Reality
[Author unknown - no copyright notice in the source file and no attribution in the index pages. See docs/owner-queries.md B5.]
I keep on circling the wrong way through this unthankful world
Smashing my head through the mortal pavement that has now blocked my path
They teach us lies on the invention of fools, thinking of the points on demon scales
I reach for the answer that has only been heard by the few called by angel screams
I touch the hand that has felt pain in the fullest, holes to prove His love
I hate the world who is responsible for death, but not for the life in which it keeps
The Lord keeps us in the palm of His hand, and tears fall for those who were deceived
I mourn fully for those who were taught by my misconceptions of life before I knew
They now suffer for what has already been done out of the Pleasurer of pain
I once prayed for The Lost One, not for servitude, but for saving
I ate the words of grace as I recalled the brutal betrayal of the prayee
I weep bitterly in the cold sinful reality in which I dwell in against my will, but not His
A cloud of guilt suffocates me as he laughs his sinister, snaky, snickers
But I find strength in the Lord Almighty, in His spirit is where all strength dwells
I praise Him knowing the war is won, battles continue, but the war is won
Rejecting spirits make me long for You, You are comforting
The flaming tear falls revealing the outcome of the present, I rejoice
for the unknown
Our God reigns, our God reigns, our God reigns indeed.
AMEN, LORD,
AMEN!!!
Sean O'Dell
Red # 3
A hall long as life, red doors on each wall.
They walk me so slowly, to a door red and tall.
A black number 3 looks down at me.
They say, “here's your door,” it's Red # 3.
I don't fit, can't you see, you've put me in a box.
I'm blue not a red, and a four not a three.
Don't keep me here, please let me go free,
Help get me out of red # 3
I don't belong, it's not me can't you see.
It's not who I am, it's not what I want to be.
I have to move on, there s more to me than you see
Won't you help me get out of red # 3
Why am I here? Are the reasons you know?
Do we all have to fit in a box just so?
Can't you all just see, we just want to be we.
Please let us out of red # 3.
Copyright Valerie H. Klaus, all rights reserved.
12549 W. Union Rd.
Spencerville, Ohio 45887-9642
Reflections
[Author unknown - no copyright notice in the source file and no attribution in the index pages. See docs/owner-queries.md B5.]
My mind
a mirror
Deflecting your lies
into my truths
Intelligence, intuition trapped
in denial
of reality
Collusion with the untruths
Has made a fiction
Of my life
.......................................
Copyright Linda, all rights reserved. This poem may be performed publicly without royalty provided no entrance fee is charged. In return, the author would appreciate being notified of any performance. She may be contacted at
Sacrifice.
I stood beneath the cross and cried,
As my Saviour hung and died.
I looked upon that tear stained face,
And marvelled at amazing grace.
I stood and thought about my wife,
Wondered if I could give my life,
For one I loved so much, so dear,
For when He died we weren't so near.
My children weep about the cross,
Not quite understanding loss.
He came, He lived, He died for me,
An odd way of gaining victory.
When I see the sacrifice,
And look at my own sinful life,
I know I should feel saved and free,
Why do I feel so unworthy?
My God, my God, please help me see,
That all you ask is I believe,
That when in glory You return,
Your sacrifice I did not spurn.
O help me please to understand,
The love You have for sinful man,
And when it's time for me to prove,
My love for You, to help me choose.
To stand up tall, and proud, and straight,
And enter by the narrow gate,
To cling on to that painful loss,
And give my all beneath the cross.
O loving Father hear my prayer,
And free me with Your grace so dear.
Your servant now, and when You call,
I offer You my life, my all.
_________________
© Michael Cain 2006. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Santa has no children (and his children have no father)
The old man sits upon his throne, and wipes away a tear,
For once again the sadness grips him like it did last year.
The holly and the bells don't help, nor lights around the den.
You see, he's got the trappings, but Santa has no children.
From dawn to dusk the merry man will cuddle girls and boys.
They clamber up into his lap and order hordes of toys.
They whisper little secrets, too, into his willing ear,
And they pull his whispers, rubbing sticky fingers in his hair.
They call him Father Christmas, but that only gives him pain,
For he's never met them up till now, and doubtless won't again.
The ho-ho-ho's a hollow shell that hides a lonely heart.
He cannot give a child real love, he simply plays a part.
A cuddle's not relationship. If a child's life is stained,
All his ho-ho-ho-ing doesn't take away the pain.
If he says it doesn't matter, still a child's not forgiven,
For Father Christmas doesn't hold the keys to life and heaven.
The kids who climb upon his knee, or peep into his sack,
Don't know how much they're missing, or what it is they lack.
They love him only for his gifts - they do not want the man.
And he can't tell them of the gift that God the Father planned.
For a sack is not a manger, and God's Son's not found within.
A fairy can't announce Good News unto a world of sin.
There's no salvation in a sleigh for those who seek a star there.
And Santa has no children - and his children have no father.
© John McNeil 1998
All rights reserved
This poem may be performed free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged.
In exchange for free performance, the author would appreciate being notified of when and for what purpose the poem is used.
He may be contacted at:
Or at: 36B Stourbridge St, Christchurch 8024, New Zealand.
The poem may not be reproduced, translated or copied in any medium, including books, CDs and on the Internet, without written permission of the author.
Shadow world
Shall I say what moves me?
Where the mirror tells its tale
A thousand, flitting expressions
Are briefly shadow impaled.
But the written word must speak for
My hard-to-comprehend mind,
And the warm hand of a friendship
Midst letters bend to find.
A hundred conversations
From a dozen words must show,
Withal warm confirmation
That strengthens, says: "'tis so".
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Shadows only come out in the sunshine
When I was a child
I dwelt in halo-ringed days,
till at child's-end we parted ways
with the wakening that
a halo is the rim-remains
of brightness
blotted out.
My days
got in the way
of seeing full the true sun.
(And here was me thinking
those days shone from brightness within.)
When I put away childish things
I reached outstretched for the sun.
A dancing sunbeam passed,
I grasped,
but we parted ways
with the wakening that
a sunbeam is the thin remains
of the sun's
expended rays.
To cure seeing through a glass darkly,
one must step to the other side.
Citizens of a world of darkly-glass
think shadows are the day,
not know them as the go-befores
of being face-to-face.
Everything I ever did
only finds its real meaning now.
Thank you for your real sun
that showed my shadows up for what they were.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Show me the Wind
I can see
The wind bend the grass
The wind push the leaves
I can feel
The wind in my face
Blowing through the trees
But why
Can't I see the wind?
Can't I hold the breeze?
It's not enough to feel no more
It's not enough to trust
A force I can't see,
Nor taste nor touch
It used to be
It was before
Yet no longer,
No more
I don't know why
I'm now this way
But I can't go back
To before today
Please.
I ask just to know
I ask just to see
Please,
I'm shouting from a cliff
I'm screaming to the sky
Show me the wind...
(C) Copyright Adam 'Cyrik' Salken 2003, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Sleeping Beauty (a sufferer of recovered memories)
The Spindle of Truth pierces to where soul and spirit meet.
Thus the rude awakening brings the sleep of living death.
The mocking laughter of those who harmed me
Echoes round the turrets of my guarded heart
What evil did this child do to reap this curse upon my adult years?
The blood from my wounds stains my clothes right through to my soul.
When will my Prince come?
I lie comatose, aware but not responsive.
In catatonic repose I hear but cannot answer.
My grief overwhelms me.
I am buried beneath the grief of those I love.
They sleep, too.
Sleeping the sleep of fearing to do wrong they do nothing
Leaving me alone upon my solitary bier.
Every moment feels like a hundred years.
When will my Prince come?
I dare not trust - I grow thorns around my heart
Long and dagger sharp.
I thought to keep pain at bay but my defenses keep it in.
Is there one who dares to risk, who will wake me with a kiss?
When will my Prince come?
....................................................................................
© Helen McNeil, all rights reserved. This poem may not be reproduced, translated or copied in any medium, including books, CDs and on the Internet, without written permission of the author.
This script may be performed free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged. In exchange for free performance, the author would appreciate being notified of when and for what purpose the poem is used. She may be contacted at:
Soaring
[Attribution needs checking: the poem's own copyright notice says "Valerie H. Klaus", the index page says "Valerie H. Kraus". Using the copyright notice. See docs/owner-queries.md B4.]
To soar above the cares of Earth,
That’s been my deep desire.
To rid myself of human woe,
To cleanse myself with fire.
Not just the pain of hurt and death,
Though those both must be met.
But too the inside numbing ache,
That comes from thought and fret.
The need for love, to be admired,
Is just the very least.
The fear of hurting, causing pain,
These too can be a beast.
Aside from these there’s something more,
More than sticks and stones.
The words of others hurt like fire,
Causing deep felt moans.
Though some say words won’t damage do,
They cause more than we know.
The hearts of many burst with pain,
Just from the simplest blow.
To soar above these words that kill,
And other cares of earth.
I need to break the chains that hold me
To my land of birth.
I need to reach above what’s firm,
To terra not of sight.
A land of faith that gives me wings,
To soar in freedoms flight.
To soar above the cares of Earth,
That’s been my deep desire.
I reach for faith that gives me hope,
and kindles freedom’s fire.
© Valerie H. Klaus, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at: 12549 W. Union Rd, Spencerville, Ohio 45887-9642, email
Song for a Sunday Morning
A reflection on Mary in the garden on Easter morning.
There they lie -
Our dreams in shreds,
battered,
scattered,
heart-shattered -
All the things we thought that mattered
have slipped
in the stripped form,
hand-clawed,
thorn-pierced,
blood-matted form
nailed
to a cross.
It's not just a man who's died,
but our hopes,
lives,
yearnings,
mission,
heart-pourings
of a vision that might have been.
"Dream dreams," they sneered
in snide scorning
as they hammered home the last three taunts
of a devil's smile.
They might as well
have slammed them into my heart.
We've been the extra mile
and back again
and nowhere left to start.
Is the morning too still
to hear a word twice whispered?
Is there dawning possible
from hearts all bitter-twisted?
Who dares disturb my grief
or bring a word?
But there it is again.
No raised voice this, nor distant,
but quiet, insistent,
slowly stripping dawn's resistance
to the joy it brings.
I try to mourn:
"Tell me where they've laid him!"
Warm eyes have none of it.
No graven gaze engulfs my face,
but love -
reborn,
restored,
regiven
from a riven heart
that took the path of love.
Faith flickers,
full-fanned
bursts out aflame -
And Man!
Suddenly the enormity of it all strikes you .........
That death
was just a birth
the world will not contain.
© John McNeil 1998
All rights reserved
This poem may be performed free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged.
In exchange for free performance, the author would appreciate being notified of when and for what purpose the poem is used.
He may be contacted at:
Or at: 36B Stourbridge St, Christchurch 8024, New Zealand.
SUNDAY HAT
By Dean Herring
Who are you really. Which hat do you wear when no one else is watching?
I like to think of myself as a man of many hats,
A hat for each occasion, quite fitting, very apt,
Let me introduce you to my millinery deeds,
Where what I wear above all else, is suited to my needs
On Mondays there’s my working hat, one of the lads, that's me,
The dodgey jokes don’t hurt no one, well no one I can see,
If the job’s not up to scratch, not my fault now, is it!
The other blokes can fix it up, I’ve done my little bit
Tuesday sees me back at school, the innocence of youth
Is hidden in my cap in class! It sort of covers up the truth,
Cos when I wear it round the place I can lie and swear and cheat
Then take it off when I get home, and no one knows, it’s neat!
The middle of the week and Wednesdays hat’s for home
Grizzling and squabbling and arguments, a sulk, a scrap, a moan,
If someone comes to the door tho’, the families got a change,
To love and peace and sweet and light, and home home on the range
A social lid for Thursday, to get on with the crowd,
I heard Mrs Smith and whats-his-name were...quiet now not so loud,
Of course I’m not to gossip, but I heard it very clear,
My sources are impeccable, knew from the start my dear
Friday night is party night, a party hat of course,
I never smoke or drink a thing, well, sometimes if I’m forced,
Because keeping a promise is important, but so is keeping mates,
Besides, I’m always...well I’m mostly...I’m sometimes well behaved on dates
Saturday, my sports hat, I’ll call the ref. what I darn like,
He should have brought his glasses, I shoulda bought a knife!
It’s not that I’m one eyed mate, Go the Reds and go the Blacks,
But I’ll say what I like when I’m on the bank, cos I’m wearing my sporting hat
A different hat for Sunday, when I join the congregation,
A stirring sing from the songbook, some praise from the Songs of the Nation,
I know all the Holy jargon, I charismatically raise my arms,
I even clap on the off-beat, and know there’s 150 Psalms.
You maybe think I’d get confused with all my different hats,
But actually it’s quite easy, and no one smells a rat,
In fact I think it’s catching on, there’s other folk like me,
Who realise now that what you are, is what you want others to see.
................................................
c.Dean Herring 1998’
Copyright Dean Herring, all rights reserved. This poem may be performed publicly without royalty provided no entrance fee is charged. In return, the author would appreciate being notified of any performance. He may be contacted at
Talent Night
By Dorothy Kraljev
(Our church provides what we call "Talent Night" every three months or so, to enable its members and especially new attendants the opportunity to reach out to the body of the church particularly in the area of music. Having been blessed so often by this event, I began questioning my lack of talent, and decided to attempt to put my feelings into words. It later occurred to me that perhaps others might also share my sentiments and fall into self-doubt. Amidst other melodies, I "sang my song" my first Talent Night.
Lord, I wish I did...
But I don't.
If I could just have...
But there's nothing there.
I would love to share You with them in a song...
Yet, when I part my lips
Only silence falls from them.
Or perhaps I could play a melody to make them feel
As though You've touched their hearts...
I have no special talents, Lord
So how can I tell them of You?
"Don't be so sensitive," they've said.
Why not tell me, don't be you?
Please just accept me as I am
It's really the only one I know how to be!
Don't ask me not to feel
Please, just accept me when I do.
The Good Lord passed out gifts one day, and I stood in line
In fact I stood in every line, but was I too late?
I got a touch of each, but nothing to brag about
...A dab of beauty, homemaking, artistic and musical abilities...
But Father, a dab...is so small...
that's not much to work with...
But there it was, all by itself, obscurely hidden
No one really wanted it...
It was the ability to feel...feel for many...
...Be a friend...
It sits there untouched, because to take it comes the
Hurts ... and pain...and tears...
That caring and sharing brings.
Leave it to me, to stumble on it
And guess who won the prize...it was MINE!
Now it's not gaudy, or showy
It might even be overlooked by some,
Amidst the other gifts.
But ya' know, it's not all bad.
It's me...It fits!
Because I care enough to feel, I love
Because I love, I'm loved...
Thank You, Jesus for my precious gift!
But I'm human, Lord...
It's not always an easy road
And the load can get awfully heavy
...I sometimes fail...
There's a lot of us, Father
That sit out there and wait
...Wait to be ministered to
This Talent Night.
We come to Your Water to be refreshed
Hoping to leave whole, and at peace, from that well.
Yep, many of us here are just ordinary folk, Jesus
And sometimes we get to wishin' so hard for a way
to share You with others,
That we seem to miss the point...
The point that this gift of LOVE can be withheld from none of us
It's a gift we all can claim and share.
And there's more excuses...
I know, I've used them all.
As the saying goes,
"All you have to do is look for that excuse
and it will surely present itself to you."
But an excuse not to LOVE
Can we really afford an excuse not to LOVE?
As certainly as we all do not posses the same gifts
Just as surely is there one we can,
And definitely must seek to claim as our own.
For this talent is waiting for us all
...To stumble upon...
But the only way it can grow and develop
Is if we prune that even small amount of LOVE we do have
And give it away...
For even though sharing LOVE means sharing ourselves
And that is often difficult and at first uncomfortable...
...LOVE WHEN SOWN, RESEEDS ITSELF FOR ALL ETERNITY...
...COME LET US LOVE ONE ANOTHER, IN HIS NAME
...I love you...
...amen...
............................................
Copyright Dorothy Kraljev 2001, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Teaching
teaching eye
teaching
eye
look
on
ward
in
care
full
learning
here
heart
felt
stir
ring
life
like
tears
this
cast
no
fears
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Tears
Tears
are bubbles of laughter
on their way to being born.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Tears From the Heart
These tears are unlike
the tears that stream down your face
that you wipe away.
When your heart cries,
these are soul piercing
tears from deep hurt,
grief and pain.
Tears that make indentations
and effect your very being.
You keep hoping
they will be stored away
in a remote part of your heart
never to escape.
Until that day comes
and triggers that remote place
and tears escape and
the hurt, pain and grief
come rushing back in.
Only God can heal and repair those deep
indentations caused by tears from the heart.
Copyright ©2007 Michelle Johnson, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
The Circus where no-one laughs
They have lions and tigers and merry-go-rounds,
calliopes hissing with tremulous sound;
and on the trapezes way from the ground,
tumblers weave their path.
But though the great tent is a bedlam of noise
no bright sound will come from the girls and the boys.
They sit in their seats stiff and solemn, because
it's the circus where no-one laughs.
No-one applauds here, and no-one is gay;
disallusionment finally has had its gaunt way.
Magic and wonder are bad words, they say;
there is nothing at which to laugh.
No greasepaint is seen on the face of the clown,
no star-spangled tights catch the light all around.
All magic is stripped, all glamour is down
in the circus where no-one laughs.
© John McNeil 1998. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
The Explosion
[Author unknown - no copyright notice in the source file and no attribution in the index pages. See docs/owner-queries.md B5.]
The bottle of Coke
In the dark recesses
Forgotten, ignored, gathering dust.
Patiently waiting to be noticed
To be tasted.
Outer skin oily and grimy,
Disguising its effervescent potential.
Four decades on, it was discovered.
With a shake
Its soul exploded over everyone
.......................................
Copyright Linda, all rights reserved. This poem may be performed publicly without royalty provided no entrance fee is charged. In return, the author would appreciate being notified of any performance. She may be contacted at
The Hand of God
Dedicated to Terry G.
God orchestrates our lives from beginning
to end. In the midst of wondering "Why"
"Where" or "When" all of a sudden a prayer
is answered.
A man and a woman ordained
by God to be together have walked for
years aimlessly through many storms
praying for answers.
Then one day after 28 years, the hand of
the Master begins to manifest the answer.
One phone call changed their lives and
the beacon of light was seen through the
storm.
God gently placed them where they
belonged and united their hearts and
souls as one.
Through persistent prayer and faith
God reveals his plan.
Copyright © 2007 Michelle Johnson, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
The Nurse's Psalm
[Attribution needs checking: the poem's own copyright notice says "Jeanne Meyer-Chauval", the index page says "Valerie H. Klaus". Using the copyright notice. See docs/owner-queries.md B4.]
The Lord is my patient
I shall try to be gentle;
He shows me the anguish and pain that he bears
He tries to hide the loneliness that surrounds his days
He smiles with love when I take time to share my joy and songs that bubble up and over inside me:
He understands but becomes sad when I show impatience towards Him
When He is slow, demanding or fussy;
Yes, and when He begins His journey through the valley of death
I will not turn His tired body harshly
Nor forget to anoint His body with creams and oils - to keep His body free from broken areas,
Nor forget to whisper caring love into His ear
To tell Him that someone is there and cares about what happens to him.
The Lord is my patient and eats very slowly -
And small amounts of mashed up food,
I shall try not to shovel His food into His mouth
For, He is a personality that could - if I stopped long enough to listen
Tell me many exciting things of long ago:
I know if I persevere He shall flow through me to comfort those I nurse.
The Lord is my patient
And He returns daily every hello,
Every hug
Every smile
Every friendly gesture I give too Him.
I love my patients with a great love; Because in each one I nurse I see Christ's body broken for me
Copyright Jeanne Meyer-Chauval,
39 Chiltern Crescent
Glen Innes
Auckland 1006
New Zealand
This poem was written for those of us who nurse elderly people.
The Poet
he wrote little bits of meaning
on scraps of paper
and the people said
it's very pretty
and very good
(and very witty)
and they hoped he would
write some more
but he laid down his pen
and looked at them
with the eyes
of a great, sad dalmatian
and wrote no more
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
The Sinner's Quandry
He whispers softly in my ears
telling me things
about me.
He knows me
Yet my knowledge of Him is
Limited.
He invites me to come
The invitation is tempting
But there are things too
important to leave behind
Yet He still invites me
and I am tempted
Confusion is with me constantly
and fear follows close behind
His whispers are pleasurable
Promising things that seem impossible
How does He know what I need?
I must think this through
But He said it's alright
He's gonna make it alright
I want to trust Him
But the things I'll lose.
Are they worth Him?
Will He be enough that I won't
need anything else?
Can He really fulfill my every need?
Does He really love me as He says?
Did He really do all that for me?
Is He really worth it?
Is He really worth it?
He says He wrote me letters
Pages and pages of them.
He says that I should read them
And learn more about Him
He says I have a brother and a close friend
Should I trust Him?
He says I should come to Him
Just as I am
He says He'll do the rest
My only job is to come
Can it really be that simple?
Nothing ever is.
Should I accept the invitation
Just to see what He can do
After all I have tried so many things
Why not this too.
...............................................
© Copyright Vanessa Williams. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
The Writer
Summary
A dramatic poem which is an allegory on John 1:1-12. It is particularly suitable - but not exclusively so - for Easter.
"The Writer" was originally presented as a dance-drama, with a Narrator, Dancers, and music compiled for the performance.
Bible Reference
"The Writer" is based on John 1:1-12, which could be read before the performance.
Script
There was a space.
At first it was a nothing space,
or so it seemed.
No walls or barriers limiting it,
no beginning nor end to it.
And yet came the feeling
that beginning and end
both began here.
But nothing is at it seems,
and little by little it could be seen
that the space
pulsated,
and had colour -
not colour such as the eye could distinguish
or try to define.
It was the colour
of not having no colour.
It shifted and changed,
and took slow dances through the space it ranged,
until it could be said
that space had ceased to be space,
but simply was.
As the colour danced
it shifted and changed
to reveal slowly the shadow of a figure.
The figure had not been there before,
nor yet had it arrived.
The light had simply rearranged itself
to reveal the form.
The figure was tranquil,
a still point in the midst of the dance,
no victim of chance,
but as certain of its existence
as in the certainty
that beginning and end
had their being one with each other
here
at this point of eternity.
The figure appeared to be seated -
not on anything,
nor at anything,
yet seated.
His features carried the air
of thoughtful
inward
contemplation.
And JOY.
Solemn Joy,
bubbling within,
till the Joy flowed out
and mixed with the colour,
danced with it,
and gave the colour its life.
The figure was alone.
And he took a fragment of colour,
moulded it,
shaped it,
till it became a pen of light.
And he laid flat another swirl of colour,
smoothed out hidden wrinkles with careful gesture,
and with the pen of light
began to write.
A poem.
The writer poured into his poem
his heart of love,
his heart of joy,
and his longing.
He spoke of the light
and of its joining,
of liquid light
and its pouring.
And how the stream took shape and form,
and how the form found boundary and mooring.
He brought to his poem a new thought -
of dividing,
of space being empty and full.
And he told of a fullness new to the light,
around which it moved,
and to which it gave life &-
a new world taking shape in day's dawning.
As the writer wrote his poem,
under him formed a hillside,
and as he spoke of trees,
they budded around him.
He spoke of fruit and flowers,
of plum and cherry,
of sun and showers,
and ripening berry.
He wrote of wheat,
and fresh-scented heather,
of storm clouds and heat,
and of calm, and of breath.
As his pen moved on the page,
the words took life,
and Joy found shape.
Joy sang,
and in the singing
found its winging to the light.
Flight of bird,
flick of fin,
all shapes, colours,
serious, absurd,
squat and thin.
Living Joy.
Down the hillside and further than eye could see
danced Joy
and filled the world.
And the writer laughed
in Joy found form.
The writer would have stopped his poem,
but he was still alone.
So he bent his pen
and wrote again.
A new song this,
filled of more of himself
than he had ever written before.
He fashioned words with care,
and signed them with his heart.
He wrote words of pageantry
and simple pleasantry,
of fellowship,
of toddling footstep,
of growing and learning,
of knowing and yearning.
And as his pen moved,
again danced the words
and took shape.
Away down the hill to a flautist's gay trill
the cavalcade moved in its dance.
They chatted and sang and passed in a throng
to the plain at the foot of the hill.
The writer smiled as they flowed from his page,
then laughed with quickening delight.
He threw down his pen and jumped to his feet,
and started off down in pursuit.
Those down on the plain had leaped as they came,
with great circles of whirl and of spin.
But they slowed at his laugh, and stopped as he neared,
and over their faces came change.
Scarcely fresh from the page,
yet some smiles became rage,
and strange hush began to descend.
They clenched hands the more tightly,
drew their figures uprightly,
and so they would not let him in.
The writer stopped.
Near ones turned their back.
He held out his arms.
The timid drew back.
"I can show you a new dance," he offered.
They replied, "We'll not be bothered,"
and some found boldness to scorn.
"I can write you a song, filled with life."
But they yawned, "We've our own,
and we'll trouble you not to bring yours."
They danced once again,
but around him this time,
and they mocked as they laughed at his words.
One mustered up boldness to step in and trip him,
and the writer lay sprawled on the ground.
A child cried,
but too few echoed fear,
and a motherly apron soon stifled a tear.
Some dancers showed doubt
as he didn't cry out.
But the rest called them names
as they hid from the shame
of the man lying still on the dirt.
The crowd surged and came forward,
kicked his face,
pulled him sykward,
and rushed with him back up the hill.
As they got to the top
they slowed,
and then stopped,
uncertain about their next action.
Then searching hands
found the pen on the ground,
and the crowd chorused huge satisfaction.
His cloak ripped apart,
the writer hung
as the dart of light
sped to his heart,
and he died.
As he fell,
so the colours started turning to water,
and great smears smudged the sky and the earth.
In the found appeared holes,
trees began to dissolve,
and great sobs now replaced the crowd's mirth.
The colours all ran
down the hill to the plain in a flood,
like a great rainbow melted.
And the trees became tears
as the hills disappeared,
and the people searched vainly for shelter.
The flood swirled around
the dead form on the ground,
washing out the world's wasted debris.
In the milling confusion
of doubt,
fear,
disillusion,
death seemed the only reality.
Those who had earlier hung back
from the taunts of the dance
now spent their last moments to find him.
As they scrambled and forced their way to his side,
the flood gathered up the crowd in its grip.
They reached him,
then fell exhausted.
Alongside they lay,
lifeless and grey,
as the last of the colour drained past them.
There was a space.
At first it was a nothing space.
Or so it seemed.
But the nothing space
again pulsated,
shifted and changed,
shifted and changed,
slow-motion waves of shifting and change,
as what's taken
becomes what is given.
And the dark image flees
in the light rearranged
as the shifting reveals
not one form but many.
Those who reached out
in love to the writer
now bear the title
of Son,
and of Daughter.
With light at their head
they form a great company,
dancing and weaving
to the Joy born again.
And
"Death is thrown captive"
is the writer's new song.
"Come join my new dance,
My Daughter,
My Son."
© John McNeil 1979
All rights reserved
This play may be performed free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged.
In exchange for free performance, the author would appreciate being notified of when and for what purpose the play is performed.
He may be contacted at:
They also serve who stand and wait......
You said,
"Come and take a walk round my mind,"
and I did.
What you didn't tell me
was that it would not be as simple as that;
not the simple stroll through a child's picture garden
you led me to believe.
Gaily stepped I,
into not a land
but a life -
(like looking back through
a mirror
at the mirror's image
of the world from which I have just jumped,
and come face to face
with myself coming in,
recoil).
I would call it being reborn,
but that is not an adequate word.
I can't deny all that ever made me,
as to say "reborn" would imply.
What word means
take a life
and reshape through the mind
of another?
I suppose
sort of like a giant cocktail shaker-
The ingredients were all there,
and you were life's waiter.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Thorns
Did God make thorns?
I see them everywhere -
in my life they rise up to choke me,
and in the valley of my heart
they are strewn like a carpet
on the bedrock,
cutting off the good seed
and blotting out the Son.
Tree-like they can grow,
though they say
a two-edged sword can handle any problem.
I wonder sometimes about thorns -
are they Satan's attempts at Creation:
the one who imitates so much of God's good
so badly.
No!
There's too much perfection in a thorn,
too much beatuy in its ugliness.
I think thorns are purposed
to show us how far we've fallen,
and as a standard
to appreciate the beauty
of a new creation born.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Those Here for the Party
The voice of truth is easy to hear.
Those here for the party turn a deaf ear.
Light reveals signs which are easy to find.
Those here for the party, though seeing, are still blind.
Make haste, said the man, while the sun is still shining.
What a waste. I can't be bothered while I am reclining.
Those here for the party stay asleep in their bed.
Only to wake long enough to be fed.
For the stomach guides their steps, not the Spirit of truth.
In a state of denial, they scoff at reproof.
They think they are wise, but only in their own eyes.
Wisdom from above is considered mere lies.
A life full of purpose is theirs for the asking
From the One who longs to bring life everlasting.
His desire is to bless and bring true peace and joy.
But those here for party simply want a new toy.
Some at the party will one day awake
With eyes full of tears will see their mistake.
Only then will they finally see all the signs.
They'll hear voices of warning, and heed God's designs.
But those here for the party, eyes and ears will not open.
An image of god forms in their mind to fit their own notion.
But God's voice speaks quite loud, "Dear child, Light has revealed
All you need for your life, it's forever been sealed."
God's Son paid the price to bring meaning to life.
Hope, faith, and love can replace all that strife.
Why do you refuse to receive your Lord and Savior?
Only continue to look for the next party favor?
God's final message to those here for the party:
Heed His words now or you may find yourself tardy.
For the trumpet will sound and His angels he'll send.
For you see, one day soon the party will end.
...............................
© Copyright Richlon Merrill. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Those Kind Ones
Life often leaves me wondering,
What use is it to try.
It seems sometimes the more we do,
The more our dreams will die.
Yet several times on through my life,
Someone has made it clear.
This life that sometimes seems so gray,
Suddenly becomes quite dear.
These special people stand out bold,
When I review my days.
They’ve caused my doubts to disappear,
With their kind, gentle ways.
Young and old it’s either one,
Age really doesn’t count.
Their born that way, those gentle souls,
They’re like a flowing fount.
They love and give, they truly do,
Small thought for their own care.
They’re real and pure, and never false,
Our sorrows willingly bare.
If only all like these could be,
Our lives might be more kind.
But it’s so hard to make all see,
The peace we all could find.
If each and every one of us,
Could be as kind as those.
This life might be a better place,
With fewer pain and woes.
So next when something happens here,
That makes your hatred flow.
Just think of those kind gentle ones,
Share their secret, kindness show.
© Valerie H. Klaus, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at: 12549 W. Union Rd, Spencerville, Ohio 45887-9642, email
Those Who Look For Him
Those who look for Him ,
Find Him in the whisper of the wind ,
His face reflected in a mountain stream ;
His legacy - a river that makes its own rules ;
His is the journey of discovery - those who
Look for Him , always find Him .
Those who look for Him ,
Find Him in their children's innocence ,
In their own growing wisdom and compassion ;
He is with them in their trials , their tragedies
And their triumphs - those who walk with Him ,
Never walk alone .
Those who look for Him ,
Find Him in their own frightened
But willing hearts ; Their souls merge with His
And they fly - high above the mountain peaks ,
Above the sea ; Those who dare to look for Him ,
End up finding their true selves .
Copyright Elizabeth Lyulkin , djlaml@Earthlink. net
Three Roads Converged
(For Dee Anne Merrill, on their third wedding anniversary.)
Three roads converged.
One road emerged.
From whence they came,
There is no name.
Sojourners on each of two paths traveled.
For each the journey had become unraveled
Reasons which remained unspoken.
Words not found for what had broken.
But trust each would take in the road's design
And in the One whom each soul He would refine.
Each would trust Him to the journey's end
Despite the dips, hills, or unknown bend.
Each one's path was met by other's,
Family, friends, and sometimes lovers.
But never did the roads combine,
Sojourners lives did not align
Until the day two paths united.
Two lives and roads stayed undivided.
A miracle, it seemed, had taken place.
Each traveler had felt God's hand of grace.
Companionship each one now had
With the other partner, both quite glad.
They walked together hand in hand
Never did the roads disband.
How, you ask, did they stay together
Even through life's stormy weather?
How many roads merged to form one path?
Was it two, come now, do the math.
No, in fact, those joined were three.
Then whose road would the third one be?
The reason the two roads remained as one:
The third road belonged to God's precious Son.
Therein lies the profound mystery,
And what creates abundant history.
Three roads converged.
One road emerged.
...............................
© Copyright Richlon Merrill. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Trapped
Trapped in this body,
so weary and old,
praying for freedom.
fighting to be freed,
waiting for the right time,
to be released,
is my soul.
© Jeanette Walters, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Turning point
You are the centre around which I turn.
The lighthouse through whom I shine for others.
© John McNeil 1998. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Two Eagles
On eagle's wings
You lift me-
The thermals
Intervene
Buoy me
Intercept my
D
ow
L) nw
A a
R r
D (pi
S
“Where can I go?”
Your SPIRIT
Even there...
YOUR hand will guide me:
D O
R N
A W
W A
P R
U D
FORWARD.
Into-
More of YOU.
The land now viewed from Eagle's wings.
© Anne Bloem 2008. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Walking the streets
Walking the streets.
I have nowhere to go.
Out here all alone.
There is no one I know.
Walking the streets.
I can’t cope on my own.
I can’t cope any longer.
But I just can’t go home.
Walking the streets.
Please someone help me.
I’m lost and in need.
Why can’t people see?
Walking the streets.
At last a friendly face.
“Please come with me”.
I know of a safe place.
© Jeanette Walters, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
What Were They Thinking
What were they thinking
When You stood there , silent ,
Resigned to Your fate , unwilling
To stop the lies and insults
Hurled at You ?
Didn't they know
Submission to Our Father's will
Is the only way ?
What were they thinking
When You were beaten
Within an inch of Your life ,
When You were forced
To carry Your own cross
On Your torn , bloody back ?
Didn't they realize
The cross is the key
To Our Father's Kingdom ?
What were they thinking
When they nailed You to that tree ,
When a Roman soldier
Pierced Your side with a lance
And water and blood flowed ?
Didn't they know
You were the hope of mankind ,
And Hope can never be
Crucified ?
Copyright Elizabeth Lyulkin , djlaml@Earthlink. net
Where have you gone?
Where have you gone, oh my master my love?
I never have shifted, though always a-move.
Where is your touch, oh my master my dear?
My arms never falter, though lighter than air.
Where is your kiss, oh my master so kind?
It still says I love you, ne'er fails to bind.
When shall we know love, oh my master my own?
Seek only my will, and forever we're one.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at:
Where the love never ends
Of all the things that I could do, I’ve ended up here back with you
I am what I’d call born-again, back in touch with you-who-never-ends
Your guiding light captivates my soul, and yes, Heaven is my ultimate goal
Where everyone has a room, a room with a view they get to choose
The Taming of the Beast for me, was calming my mind’s endless chattering
Double minded, trying to please, everyone but the one-who-gives-ease
But now established as king of my heart, I know who I am and will play my true part
On the stage of life as we know it, I am of the light and will show it
© Linda Liddicoat, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at:
Would I?
Would I have done what I did if I had known?
Would I have said what I said if I had known?
Would I have gone where I went if I had known?
I don’t know would I?
Would things now be different if I had known?
Would each day now be bearable if I had known?
Would life be much happier if I had known?
I don’t know would they?
I’m not sure, is the answer, but it would have been nice to be told.
To be trusted by you and not left out in the cold.
Now the big question is, have we left it too late?
Or is it time to give in and go our separate ways at the gate.
© Jeanette Walters, all rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. She may be contacted at: