Tuesday, October 18, 2016


A long time ago I knew you,
We were different then, yes.
Divergent lives gave a different view.
We, our differences address.

Though I just met you yesterday,
Seems like forty years.
I can tell when we talk this way,
We'll share hopes, tears.

Like moss on an ancient oak tree,
has our friendship grown.
Intermingled lives, you and me,
Though years by us have flown.

Friendships come in many colors;
new or old, deep and true.
No single one is like another,
But I'm glad I'm friends with you.

Photo credit: pdpics.com

Monday, August 22, 2016


It starts off shallow;
Sports, clothes, weather.

So oft stays there, like
We don't know better.


It has such power,
It can go deeper.

Raise the dead, call out
The fool; arise, Sleeper! 


What things be deeper?
Truth, politics, love.

Religion, the
God of  heav'n above.


We can approach life
Hiding from friction,

Or we can embrace
it, avoid fiction.


Differences, real
Stories, hurt, hardship.

Exploring these with
Words, call it friendship.


Too oft we waste it,
Banality trod.

This gift we're giv'n
From a speaking God.

Clip Art of Stick Children with Chat Bubbles by BNP Design Studio

Monday, August 15, 2016

The Scourge

They had marched and fought for
Months, with little food to eat.
And several weeks had passed
Since they last had tasted meat.

They marched o'er fallen logs,
And through the powd'ry fresh snow.
Praying the morn to see, along

With sun and its warm glow.

The howling wolf and freezing
Fog, had beckoned in the night;
A time that ev'n hardened men

Must wrestle fits of fright.

That great and mighty men should
Fear, is unbelievable you say.
Yet through fear they pushed on

Through conflict night and day.

Courage, it is said, means not
The lack, but rather, facing fears.
This these men had done, holding

Fast through blood and tears.

"War is a Scourge," we hear is
What the wise men have all said.
They'll be shown right when, in

The morn', our heroes are all dead.

Monday, August 8, 2016

Trash-Can Tomb

Unborn life, inside the womb,
Headed for a trash-can tomb.

She moves, feels, hears, and dreams;
Oh! that we would hear her screams.

Precious life, how can't we care?
This blood guilt we all shall bear.

When you and I leave earth's strife,
God shall ask, "did you save life?"

Monday, August 1, 2016

Solitary Man

Lone scrub oak, among the stones,
No trees for miles, but here you grow;

Among the rolling, broken hills,
Land untamed, devoid of frills.

There's grass around, and flowers, too;
Deep green and gold against the blue.

Rocks hewn, not by a mortal man
But by Creator's omnipotent hand.

Grey clouds conceal the ev'ning sun;
Its daily course, the light has run .

As hours flee you're left to stand,
Lone oak, the solitary man.

This isn't the tree I was thinking of, but close enough.

Monday, July 25, 2016

Faith Like Grandma

A faith just like my grandma
Is what I long to gain;
Her trust it never wavers,
Regardless of life's pain.

She is strong and sure,
Her God does never fail.
When storms of do life darken,
She trusts Him to prevail.

I have studied many hours,
Learning deep theology;
But my truest times of learning
Were at my "Grammies" knee.

Without the fancy wording
Of a deep and heavy book,
She taught me simple trust,
"He is Sovereign" says her look.

So when I face my own trails,
I will know that from His hand
Flows a sweet and bitter providence,
And His plan is beyond grand.

This sort of faith is what God asks,
And indeed, what He requires.
Therefore, I thank my Grandma,
For this faith which she inspires.

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Little Boy

Little boy, running in the sun,
Hands to the side, eyes to the breeze,
Buzzing happy, like the bees.

Little boy, running in the sun,
Take the sidewalk extra fast,
Turn left, then fall, into the grass.

Little boy, running in the sun,
Pause--pick up a basketball.
Shoot, miss, it hits the wall.

Little boy, running in the sun,
Your life is simple, yet so grand,
Makes adult life seem rather bland.

Little boy, running in the sun,
Come in now, the day is done.


Welcome to the new home for my stabs at poetry. They generally aren't much more than stabs, but I hope you enjoy them.