Poems ~ by first lines

A’ course I never seen it but I believe it’s so!

A faded yellowed envelope under a nightstand drawer i found

A small yellow butterfly surprised was I to see, one late winter morning as it lightly danced by me.

A young man holds a single rose behind his back and stands

Against the sky the trees in winter stand

Against whom here do we struggle?

All Dems are Godless sinners! Repubs are fascists, all!

An autumn day near summer’s end; the morning crisp and cool

An early tinge of red has risen on the dogwood leaves

An itchin’ on my buttocks wuz startin’ to botherin’ me

Another thin I sure-nuff can tell ye what’s wrong with this here world today

As we grow, hidden strings stretch taunt across the hollow place inside our souls.

Backwards down you come; below your happy eyes the deep green grass of summer rushing fast along the ground

Behind the leaves of the tree line that guard the deep water’s trail

Blessed is the man who considers the weak and the poor

Breathless, after climbing the mountain’s rugged face

Clear water murmurs soft and easy; flowing exquisitely over old rounded rocks

Dark, churning clouds rush desperately towards dull-rumbling thunder

Down I walk to the Deep Cedar Creek along the less-traveled trail

Fer two days it had been freezin’; we wuz scoutin’ up West Cache Creek;

Freshly cut spring grass, after the season’s first mowing

God has shor led me thru sum mighty big ol’ storms

He spoke to the folks who were watching via live stream or on their TV

He taught me more about integrity by living true to his beliefs every single day of his life.

How many nights have you risen to watch the sun dawn?

How quickly the skies have darkened!

Is Your Church a Place of Business?

Last night a wild and raging wind ripped a towering walnut tree apart

Late afternoon one Sunday we stood at the factory window and watched a storm move in

Leaves are scattered cross the fields and limbs across the lane.

Listen O children, what shall you hear?

Love is something I got to be able to see

Memory, increasingly, is something that abandons me.

Montaigne, Pascal and La Rochefoucauld inquired in a dream of mine, “What do you know?”

Moonbeams float down from the darkness

Moving forward, spinning backward, the ball abandons the out-stretched arms

My father loved the sense of words; my mother was a teacher

My grandmother in her garden raked and hoed and tilled

Not Peter, James or John; Not Moses or Abraham.

Now I ain’t by no means a poet myself

Onc’t I was out walkin’ the mountains, mindin’ my own, don’t cha know

One quiet autumn morning, just before the dawn

Over these ancient mountains and over the winding way

Rare as white buffalos were windows on the factory floor.

She planted dill for swallow-tails and milkweed where monarchs would lay

Simon was a zealot, Saul was zealous too!

Some days I wish I were a butterfly, floating o’er the meadows; dancing with the breeze.

Spring-blue the early sky and the meadows and fields awash in a gentle green ocean

Sure, Jesus is on OUR team! He proudly wears OUR hat.

The cool drops fall gently away; loosed from the cloud-covered sky

The ‘greater good’ is always evil; Thus has it ever been.

The mark of a Christian: observable love.

The passage, remarkable not only for great obstacles overcome

The summer wind slipped through the trees to sheltered streams below

There are days I feel I am far too familiar with simply existing

There is an angel who has power over the waters

There is electricity in the air. You can smell it (like something sweet is burning)

There is the sound of soft waves lapping against a small boat

There once was a church that kept meeting

These old and ancient mountains still stand, but not so tall

Through the dull hospital window he saw them: a young father and his young son

Time moves as the wind moves, and we move with the wind.

Today the clouds danced close against fields too young to reap.

Up the cutoff trail we wuz ridin’ on ‘at cold November day

We sat next to her on the airplane, my wife and I

We were next-door neighbors; the same age; firstborn children and best friends

Wharever yer headed and whar you done been

What lives inside: the soul, endures…

While he waits for new brakes to be installed on his old Datsun 210

What paltry gain: to win by injustice only an earthly advantage!

When he spies that I am watching, (an audience of one)

White smoke drifts slowly among the autumn pines

Who here has not marveled at the mysteries of love and life?