I'm married, fifty seven years of age with two grown up sons. I work at the local railway station in customer service. I have always enjoyed writing poetry and short stories but for the past twenty years I have not written anything because the stream had stopped flowing and had all dried up. Lately someone had admired my recent work and opened up the log jam that had been there all that time and let the stream flow again. It is a great feeling and release.
In my mind’s eye, I see the humiliation of you. How you endured all that hatred of the world. As we sinned in glorious splender, with much to do You silently suffered and hurled Us towards salvation, as each hammer
And so in darkness shines the light That pierces through those fears. And fights The beat of doubting pangs that plagues This passionate heart. Our souls are quenched when you are here In warmth, in love In Eucharistic prayer. So
And so, with trembling heart I dare to embrace your clean white sheet And mark it with my scribblings. To make a sentence, where to start? And where to feel complete? Does it matter if my style don’t rhyme? I’m
He stands so tall, and shining bright We marvel at the sight Of one who teaches, sound and true. Who longs for love for me and you From God. Who else could give this gift? This feeling that will surely
Hands that float across Ivory Tinkle in such ecstasy To stir my soul, to soar on high; And my heart doth reach the sky And fly on every note that plays. My emotion frays And breaks with sound, Till tears
For in all that foraging, through the minds eye To kindle the peace; to wounds You might try to placate With words, in that private high. To some, you would care With their souls laid bare And their supplicants made
I cannot bare to see it now! It’s symbol so forlorn. The Passion we so fondly show To place your crown of thorn! And yet, it harbours life, in droves; For all things come from you! This delicate, sense filled,