A soul that’s never born,
A little one conceived-
A brokenhearted woman
Has lost the one she needs.
Where goes this unborn baby,
This child that never grows?
Someone’s hopes and dreams
They never get to know.
Is it gone and lost forever
Or returned from whence it came?
Surely, God recovers
These tiny ones, unnamed.
They’re every bit as precious
As healthy babies born-
They’re every bit as loved
And every one, we mourn.
They’re important little beings,
Though just a while they came-
I KNOW that God recovers
These tiny ones, unnamed.
For women everywhere
“Hills of Healing”
Stretching out before her
The quiet mountains stood.
Strong, yet never moving
As only mountains could.
She parked her car and locked the doors
And settled down to watch
The dusk that soon would settle
Upon this silent, hilly notch.
Troubled when she first arrived
They’ve calmed and soothed her soul-
These old and rugged mountains
Can make a spirit whole.
Their message never changes,
They always seem to say
Come hither unto us and pause
We’ll ease your cares away.
As if patiently awaiting
And knowing she would come
They quickly work their magic
And in little time, they’re done.
She breathes a sigh and whispers thanks
And starts her car to leave-
The mountains know she’ll come again
To seek their strength and peace.
“The Rose and the Weed”
Fidelity, a rose or weed
Nursed, neglected, like flower seeds,
Each is planted. Somone’s toil-
One seeks the soul, the other soil.
For some, a solemn pledge pursued,
A promise made to not abuse
A holy vow. And like the rose,
With nurturing, it blooms and grows.
But what of dreams so slyly stilled,
A promise made but not fulfilled?
Neglected like forgotten weeds-
Uncaring of another’s needs.
And thus, we choose which road to walk-
Both ways of life await our knock.
But lo, beside the blooming rose
There thrives the weed. So close, it grows.
“Lone Beggar Man”
Forceful wind rips through the night.
Small, freezing raindrops fill the air.
It’s late; It’s dark-the only light
Is from a lamppost over there.
There’s a darkened alley..this part of town:
Vacant. Dirty. Lonely.
Decent folks don’t come around-
For dropouts, beggars only.
The jagged street with broken glass
Is hard on shoeless feet.
The puddles, filled with mud- alas!-
Accommodate the falling sleet.
Scampering mice do not await
The cat, well known, with sharp clawed feet
And slanted eyes. They won’t be bait
For him that prowls along the street.
A ragged, poor man on the corner
Sits beneath the lamppost light.
He’s happy. He’s the owner
Of this alley-late at night.
A worn-out coat with holes and threads-
A rotting stick-his cane;
The jagged street-his nighttime bed
Despite the wind, the freezing rain.
This beggar man-it’s only guest,
The alley, vacant stays.
No one nears the poor man’s nest;
No one cares to know his ways.
Each night-whatever it be:
Rain. Sleet. Snow.
The old man sits, stares, and sees
The darkened street, again, alone.
Sunrise, he rises. Goes.
Rotting cane, and feebled feet.
To where? But no one knows.
At night, he’s back again on alley street.
The architect was brilliant;
His design a masterpiece-
Complete with stained glass windows,
Considered quite a feat.
Its pillars made of marble,
And rooms adorned with gold,
Exquisite, modern hallways
Invited young and old.
Towering high among the trees,
Silhouetted o’re the town,
A landmark for its people
And viewed for miles around.
Many hours far from here
Beyond this concrete maze,
Another busy architect
Constructs with little praise.
His buildings are the mountains
Rising tall and just as strong.
They too are silhouetted
On the clouds that journey on.
The rooms, replaced by meadows,
No hallways, only trails.
The roof, an endless skyline
Allowing wind the space to sail.
Void of stained glass windows,
This builder chose to use
The brilliance of a sunset
Ablaze with vivid hues.
Two architects among us,
Each has given of himself.
We hold our own opinions
Which art holds greater wealth.
The tragedy I offer,
The wrong we should not trod,
Occurs when handiworks of man
Invade the art of God.