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.
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?