Waiting For The Morning

To everything there is purpose and
A reason for everything under the sun
What is will be, what was shall remain
And what is yet to come shall be again

If a man stands in the path of the sun
He may contend that light has made shadow
But in all truth, it is illusion
Shadows come from objects which block the sun

The earth turns away from the light
The sun neither rises nor sets
But darkness comes from the turning away
And truth is likewise, lest we forget

Take a flower from the sunlight and
It will quickly wither and die
We need the light to live and grow
Love is likewise, that we should know

Yet, we turn away, to the shadows for rest
Constant light, our imperfections will not bear
Wait patiently for the morning, children
Light and heaven are still there

We think of death as eternal night
We bury our dead beneath the ground
When a plant flourishes from a dried seed
No husk of the seed can then be found

Plant while you may, sowing wheat and corn;
Even these are nourished by the light
What we are given, passed on and reborn
There is morning, even to the longest night

I Crept and Walked Into the Dawn

I crept and walked into the dawn
Through the dew upon the lawn
I heard the morning rooster crow
The eastern sky was still aglow
Strokes of cotton candy pink
From His eye God gave a wink
And smiled into my waking room
With honeysuckle sweet perfume
In their beds some stretch and yawn
I crept and walked into the dawn
Forest creatures scurried there
Brave field mouse and timid hare
And from every tree I heard
The praise of God from every bird
I know that those who sleep are blessed
As from their week they take their rest
Yet not as blessed as I, alone
I crept and walked into the dawn

The Rocking Chair

The Rocking Chair

Mother spoke lucidly of her grandfather
She wanted to go to his house
She knew he had just passed on
There was a rocking chair bequeathed to her

It's just sitting there in that dusty attic
She wanted someone to get it for her
She spoke lovingly of her father
And talked about when she was a girl

I held her hand and promised I'd ask
About the rocking chair and she smiled
Later, when my sister visited
She told mother the house was no more

Mother was adamant the house was there
If she could only get there
Up those rickety stairs was an heirloom
And she wanted the rocking chair

The house had long been torn down
Land was cleared; a convenient store sat there
Mother would not be satisfied until she could see
Wondering aloud who had taken her chair

I would have done anything to ease her mind
But the mind wanders where we cannot go
Lost in dreams of childhood...she sat in his lap there
In curls and dress; a moment of happiness

Remembered with a promise...
"When I am gone I want you to have
This memory and this moment forever
And yes, this rocking chair"

Handprints

Handprints on the mirror;
the windows and the door
Tiny little fingerprints
Where there were none before

Spaghetti stains on carpet;
crayon marks on walls
Small books and toys and clothing
lie scattered down the hall

We keep the window cleaner
Locked...tight in a cabinet
Which little hands have not discerned
Quite how to open yet

The toys will be picked up;
the laundry, put away
But imprints left upon our lives
Are clearly here to stay

It hurts to wash the windows
And the mirror down the hall;
To see the marks of childhood
Removed from paneled walls

While ammonia and magic eraser
Earnestly do their parts
There is no eraser known to man
To take handprints from our hearts

Into the Dream

Endless horizon
Stretching blue and bright;
Underneath our feet, the clouds
Ethereal and white

Beyond the beyond
Boundless as stars
We walk arm in arm
Down myriad corridors

Each tunnel, a vision
Mixing time and space
Poured into a funnel
As ourselves are erased

Pulled apart and reformed
To begin again
Where we walk arm in arm
And I call you my friend

Paths not chosen
Love unspoken
Are merely fragments
Of past hearts broken

Here they converge
And complete a scheme
Out of the blue
And into the dream

Resurrection Rose

There has been much written
About roses and their thorns;
How their wine color matches
The blood they so often draw

And if one has been smitten
In love by pangs therein borne
It is the gift that catches
And encapsulates the fall

Yet, another trait of the rose;
And one less frequented by poets,
Is that in death they are reborn
Yes, and thus multiplied in buds

Overlooked in poetry and prose
So many might not know it
Prepossessed as they are with thorns
And haunted by the spill of blood

But as the first of roses bloom
The flowers begin to droop and die
Withered and brown they become;
Beauties that once stilled our breath

To live, the flowers must make room
Heads must be plucked, brittle and dry
For the circle of life to resume
In truth, youth resurrected from death

But as long as death is kept at bay
Beauty continues unabated
New buds form and flower again
So the rose continues to thrive

Perhaps the rose has something to say
Something, so far, underrated
When first flowers of youth are slain
The rose shall rise again, alive

Through the Magnolias

In his backyard
There was an old car
A '54 Buick I think
It was faded black
And the guy who owned it
Used to sit in there and drink

It smelled like ancient upholstery;
springs busting through the seats
and a musty melting plastic odor;
the thing grown up in weeds

Under giant magnolia trees
Part sun and partly shaded
I wandered there on July days
To a young boy's secret haven

The sweltering summer sun
Baked the enamel
The tires were rotting away
But it wasn't driven anywhere
It was parked and parked to stay

There were clear pint bottles
In the floorboard;
the headliner hanging down
He used to let me sit in it
and pretend I was driving around

He was a friendly man
But gaunt and old
He never caused any hurt
With bristled whiskers
And sweat stains
Soaking through his shirt

My daddy said, "He's just a drunk."
But, "He doesn't mean any harm."
And I'd sneak out to look in the trunk
near the barn behind his farm

One hot day in August
I climbed in there to play
And was promptly chased out by hornets
I barely got away
The old guy was watching
On the porch out of the sun
"Be careful boy, them bees is mean.
Watch out you don't get stung."


I later learned the old car
Had once belonged to his wife
But she had suddenly passed away
And he never learned to drive
So he'd sit inside and sip whiskey
Remembering her that way
To me it was all a mystery
Just a young boy wanting to play

Years later I reflected
How he had always seemed alone
But took the time to share with me
the grandest thing he owned
I never went back to the old car
Afraid as I was of the bees
But I still remember the summer sun
Through the magnolia trees