links below for other poetry (that was mistakenly posted in the wrong categories).Heβs not responding @Joe-Also and have a βfeelingβ the poems are AI generated.
J.
Neither, just stating a fact. βDMβ-ed.
J.
So, I heard @Bestill has a poem or two to share with us. I look forward to your contribution sister.
Thank you! How nice. This poem is when I became a Christian and started going to church. I share it as a reminder to me and all of us, of how difficult it is for new people who show up on a Sunday morning.
Front Porch
Laura stood within the doorway of the church sheβd come to know
And wondered who would see her there and stop to say hello
Though the smiles would always welcome and her hand theyβd always shake
Laura took in their demeanor and she judged the gesture fake.
No one really took an interest, no one cared if she was there
Tβwas the Christianβs call of duty to display a sense of care
She had thought it might be different if she came to a new place
But no, the hope so dimly felt sank deep from lack of grace.
People gathered in their comfort zones and talked in twoβs and threeβs
Laura took her seat far from them and absorbed herself to read
And she feigned to have an interest in the bulletin she took
Though her heart welled up within her and her fingers faintly shook.
Fighting tears that seemed to settle in the space behind her eyes
Laura quickly feigned indifference with the mask she had devised
Problem was she understood them and she really didnβt blame
Chances are in their position she would likely do the same.
They had their friends and family. Theyβre busy all the time
With all their work and ministry and ladders to be climbed
They had no space for her to share. Their hands were really tied
And certainly theyβre glad Iβm here, but please dear move aside.
Oh it werenβt for lack of trying. She had tried the best she knew
Having joined the churchβs programs, though the options had been few
But it seemed that no one wanted and her gifting was ignored
So she thought to find her purpose far outside the churchβs door.
Service over Laura hurried to the door and world outside
People grouped among their friendships and the tears welled up inside
Left alone and lonely bearing; her mission still to seek
No one noticed she was leaving. She would try again next week.
3 Likes
It is amazing how much poetry (and song lyrics) can paint such a vivid picture of the mind and emotions of the writer, preserved for all time, just in that exact moment of its conception, to be shared years later, and have the emotions just as sharp as they were then.
This is why so many people find healing in writing them and reading (or listening to) them. Such power in words.
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Thank you @Joe-Also. This is the last for today and its not a poem per say, but included in with my poems.
Who goes there?
βLike a gold ring in a pigβs snout is a beautiful woman who shows no discretionβ Prov 11:22
The luster of the ring is short lived. Oh yes! It glistens in the sun and blinds the eye with its brightness. It draws you like a moth to a flame. You canβt help but notice. Its dazzle and shimmer delights the soul and sets the heart to follow.
But after a while; if you look deep enough, youβll start to see the corrosion underneath. Itβs there and peaking out from the underside in a greenish tinge of decay. Scrutinize, and youβll see bits of gold flaking going on. To your surprise, the gold isnβt solid through and through. In reality, itβs just a piece of worthless metal painted over with glitter paint.
As the ring begins to lose its hold on you, your eye is drawn to the bearer of the ring. Until now you expected to see a graceful deer or a gentle dove. Perhaps even an obedient ox draped in a cloak of humility. Something, anything worthy of all that shiny hue. But no. It isnβt that at all! Itβs quite astounding really! Itβs a pig!
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The Gleaning Jar
βWhen you reap the harvest of your land, do not reap to the very edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest. Leave them for the poor and the stranger. I am the LORD your God.β Leviticus 23:22
On a hilltop north of Derby. In a shack of good repair
Lived the widow, Agnes Murphy. Quite alone and happy there
Every Sunday she would venture to the church in Derby square
Always sitting front row center, to endure the peopleβs stare
For her features were not handsome, and her words sheβd fairly shout
For alone upon the hilltop Agnesβ hearing had gave out
So she heard the Word each Sunday. though she rarely took it in
For the preacher was long winded, and the message rather thin
Then one Sunday Pastor Cleary told the story of Boaz
How he did not glean his harvest. He would leave the farther edge
And the message struck poor Agnes like a blade to pierce her heart
And she wept in lone conviction for she had not done her part
Twasnβt grain that Cleary spoke of. Nor the wheat be what it seemed
Agnes figured that her pension was the harvest to be gleaned
All that night she lay a frettinβ, and her thoughts tossed to and fro
For her pension was but little and she loved her pleasures so
Come the morn it was decided and she said a thankful prayer
She would glean her copper pennies in a jar placed by the stair
For the stranger and the poor ones, she would save as best she could
Who they were, she had no answer, but she figured Jesus would
Day by day the jar was filling yet no stranger came to call
βWhereβs the poor?β prayed widowed Agnes, βI ainβt seen no poor at all!β
Then one day as she was walking to the store to buy some tea
Sat some boys along the roadside. In a circle knee to knee
Passed among them was a cupcake. Take one bite and pass it on
And the pleasure on their faces lasted till the treat was gone
βAre ye poor?β ole Agnes hollered and the boys gave quite a start
βCome with me. Iβll feed ye proper.β and with that she did depart
Faces glum the boys did follow widowed Agnes up the hill
Since they must obey their elders, for it was their parents will
βIβm so scared!β said one wee Laddie as the tears began to leak
βShut your mouth. Donβt be a baby! Canβt you see sheβs old and weak?β
In reluctance they did enter. Round her table, took a seat
Agnes reached within her cupboards. Spread before them every treat
There was butter, bread and honey. Biscuits fine and maple ham
Boiled eggs and round red apples. Creamy milk, a pot of jam
βCome back nowβ screamed widow Agnes, βAnd Iβll feed ye all agin.
Look at ye, yer fairly starving. Why your all just bones and skin.β
So the days passed for the widow. Every week the boys were fed
Gleaning coppers from her pension to supply their weekly bread
Now the gleaning jar stood empty. βDo Ye want me nickels too?β
Cried the widow to her Maker though the answer she well knew
Soon the boys were boys no longer. They grew tall with strength and might
While poor Agnes seemed to shrivel. Eyesight dim and head of white
Then one day her boys came callinβ on a cold December noon
Tβwas no Agnes at the door frame. All lay quiet in the gloom
So the lads, they tiptoed inward. Anxious thoughts filled every head
As they crept into her chamber. Saw the widow on her bed
Though her ears had long forsake her, she could hear them softly cry
βThere now boys, no need to worry. Donβtcha know we all must die?β
βLean in closer. Thereβs me Laddieβs. For Iβve something I must say
God is good. Thereβs no denying and Iβm glad He had His way.β
βI have given precious little, yet His mercy has bestowed
Ye good lads whoβve been me comfort. I have reaped more than I sowed.β
On a hilltop north of Derby. By a shack in good repair
Lies the widow Agnes Murphy. Safe at rest in Godβs own care
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So sad, yet so beautiful. 
Can you open a thread on allegories @Joe-Also ?
J.
Well, I donβt write much poetry, but Iβll give it a shotβ¦ sorry if it comes off as Poe(ish), but he was always my favorite.
- Alley Of Sin -
Alleys are dark, like a letter not signed,
Its mysteries are twisted, like stairs that wind.
In the darkest part, it makes you feel so blind,
To have a little light, that would be so kind.
Yet huddled down low, so as not to be seen,
I write on the wall something dirty, obscene.
A quick passage here, an inked message there,
No one is watching, so what do you care?
I do dastardly deeds, causing regretful things,
Sorrow's my friend, and I can't clean its stains.
Such is my life, yet you wallow in sin,
But I broke the law, now I rot in the pen.
I've just quoted God, but what do they care.
For crimes of graffiti, they would give you the chair.
- Joe-Also
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Prison Cell
God may let them rest in a feeling of security, but his eyes are on their ways. For a little while they are exalted, and then they are gone. They are brought low and gathered up like all others. They are cut off like heads of grain. Job 24:23-24
βThe prison door is open, child. The captives are set free.
Yet here you sit in gloomy dusk and make no move to flee.
What holds you here in these four walls? What comfort in this place?
Can you not hear the Saviorβs voice? Rise up! Take hold of grace!β
βI donβt know what you talk about, for surely, youβve gone mad.
What more is there that I could need? What luxury to add?
These walls protect and keep me safe. I reign as king in here.
This is no cell that holds me in. Your words are most unclear.β
βI tell you child, that you are blind. Step out and you will see.
The Warden holds you captive here and lets you think youβre free.
The walls are closing all around and time will soon run out.
Wake up and take a leap of faith. Cast off your prisoner doubt!β
βAnd if I did as you have asked, what gain might come my way?
And who is He you claim has called, and bid me come away?
I see no reason I should leave. I have no need of grace.
Iβm happy here. My wants are met. My home is in this place.β
βYour home is but a prison cell. The Savior sets you free.
He says that there is none so blind as those who will not see.
But He can open up your eyes and bring you into light.
Your walls torn down to lead you out and put an end to night.β
βOh, go away. Iβve heard enough. Your words do weary me.
You donβt make sense. Thereβs nothing wrong. My eyes do surely see.
And of this light you speak about, why I can see just fine.
My wealth is piled up to the roof and casts a brilliant shine.β
βI see the door is closing now, and Jesus bids me come.
Is that the Wardenβs steps I hear? In you, his victory won?
I go to where my Savior is, for He does own my heart.
I grieve that you refused His call, but now I must depart.β
βGood riddance, is all I can say. Your preaching does wear thin.
All this talk of prison walls. Youβd think I lived in sin!
Now Iβm free to live my life without your nagging voice.
Thank God; if such a god exists. Heβs given me the choice.β
βBut whatβs that stench that fills the air? What shroud of darkness this?
Those footsteps thudding at my door and that most dreadful hiss?
Oh no! Come back! I change my mind! What horror can this be?
And who are you whoβs locked my door with that infernal key?β
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Hey! I like that. Great!
Itβs about being persecuted for spreading Godβs word.
Whoops, i think i accidentally flagged you trying to cut and paste.
Admins/Mods: Please disreguard!
Some really nice work here. Thanks to all contributors.
I was reading some poetry of George Herbert one day last year, and I wrote a paralel response to one of his short poems.
The fifteenth century christian poet, George Herbert, wrote:
My God, I heard this day
That none doth build a stately habitation
But he that means to dwell therein.
What house more stately hath there been,
Or can be, than is man, to whose creation
All things are in decay?
I think Mr. Herbert would (hopefully) βAmenβ a presumptive elaboration on his theme:
My God, I heard this day
That none doth a stately banquet host
But he that means the starved to sate
What feast more stately, fare more great
Than Godβs own word, manna toast
That quickens manβs decay.
(note: "quicken here means βto give life toβ, not βto hastenβ)
KP
One more I wrote few years back:
Respect for a weather vane.
For eighty years, give or take, that hip roof barn with weathered wood
had seen its share, for heavenβs sake, of wind and rain and yet it stood
on solid rock, both deep and sure; bedrock fixed in earthβs tight vice,
and stained blood red, years to endure, its whole life painted all but thrice.
Its corn crib woke to each sunrise, stalls westward watched sunβs daily death,
large wooden doors, north south endwise, invite in natureβs gentle breath.
Stalwart shelter, hiding place, for mice and kittens, ox and horse
against dark foes, harsh storms and ice, and all of natureβs cruelest force.
On highest point, βtop roof of tin, black rooster on black arrow perched,
warning withal, without, within, of looming storm his keen eye searched.
I mocked that rooster, βjob so vain, tossed to-and-fro by every windβ,
βRespect!β said farmer, βbeloved vane does not deserve reproach. Rescind!β
βFor while we hide and turn our backs from weather cruel in all her forms,
brave rooster stands, as lightning cracks; of love he turns to face the storm.
Warning all, without, within, of looming doom, he testifies
Fear God, not storm; look past the front. This temporal storm occludes fair skies.β
KP
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The user Jason_Ward has been banned. The profile now saysβ¦
This user is suspended.
Reason: repeated poetic violations.
Talk about poetic justiceβ¦