The Poem Inside
I'm sorry that I cannot tell you
the poem I have inside.
I swear that I have tried before:
I wrote it. The writing lied.
Sometimes with undocile heart
I clouded it with pride.
Sometimes I blew the spark to glow
but still the fire died.
Sometimes I reached out steady hand
but the words all ran to hide.
I'm sorry that I cannot give you
the poem I have inside.
Psalm 117
Praise God, all nations,
exult, all tribes,
for great with patience
His truth abides.
Your Words Are Washing on My Shore
Your words are washing on my shore;
the time is cold;
the slightly salty sea breeze is tending to the bold;
and I, on dampened sands, can no longer ignore
the touch of gold in distant sky,
the shift from night to morning chill,
and I begin to think, with vibrant thrill,
that the world is changing, though I cannot fathom why.
What is this oceanic feeling that I find?
The dawning sun steps through the door;
your words are washing on my shore,
and I rejoice in mind.
Poor Counsel
"What's the matter?"
said the black cat
running 'round
the hat rack.
"Stop being
such a sad sack;
here, friend, enjoy
a fat rat."
But now I'm sadder,
and that's that.
