Nervous as a harried hen, Mom was in a dither
Would wedding guests be kept away by the winter weather?
My cheeks so rosy from the sting of howling, bitter winds
White lace and pearls, car door opened and a young girl stepped within
Fresh mums adorned the altar of “Our Lady by the Sea”
Blue bridesmaid angels led the way; John waited lovingly
Vows exchanged as God smiled down, crystal kisses danced in air
The reception band played merrily, all invited were there
Many guests remarked they’d never seen a happier bride
At midnight John took my ring-adorned hand, we ventured outside
Snow drifts piled ‘round the cars, Great Nor’ Easter just ending
My mate high on love (and champagne), wheels on highway spinning
Pulling into a gas station, trying to get a grip
Still in my bridal gown as the dipping temperatures nipped
The station attendant ran out and smiled, he’d seen us reel
But we were laughing and trading places behind the wheel
My tipsy spouse in a tux, truly a sight to behold
When we reached our new home, I carried HIM o’er the threshold'
For John's "Winter" contest
One summer eve in Galilee
I stood before my open door;
To me it seemed just one more night--
Like all the others gone before.
Someone would come and, passing by,
Would hear the tinkling of the bells,
Would see the garish harlot's robe
And painted eyes beneath my veil.
Someone, a man like all the rest--
It did not matter much to me--
A nobleman, Samaritan,
A Roman or a Pharisee,
Someone would pause and with one glance
Strip me again of maiden pride,
And leaving, later, never know
The shame and shattered dreams I hide.
O, he would think me very gay;
He would not see my hollow heart
Nor hear me curse him for his pay.
T was then I saw a band of men
Approaching down the narrow road;
There should be one among that crowd
Who wants the favors I bestow.
Kind eyes met mine, and with one look,
He saw what others could not see;
He saw the hunger of my soul,
My loneliness and misery.
I only know that since that day
I live to walk along with Him.
His look of love has changed my life;
I need not sell my love again.
Tonight He sups at Simon's house__
All day the dusty paths we roamed;
But, still he waits, unwashed, unkissed;
Small courtesies no one has shown.
My love for Him! It rolls and swells
Till from His side I cannot stay;
I'll wash His feet with tears of love
And with my hair wipe them away.
Mother would tuck into each dresser drawer,
a bar of soap, to scent the clothes..
The familiar fragrance of English Lavender would fill the air
The small bedroom, a bit cramped..a bit shabby, but comfortably familiar.
The faded chintz curtains and the cover on the four poster, was a primrose yellow...
and the wallpaper striped in blue and white.
There would be marguerite daisies in a jug on the dressing table..
Next to a framed photo of five, smiling young cousins..
all scrubbed, with shining faces, dressed for church, one Easter morning.
Over on the north wall hung a painting of Willowby Pond...
so pleasant to look at, just before falling to sleep.
Here I stand once again, having things so familiar, so much the same
I take a deep breath, recalling the sense of home, the fragrance of lavender
Like slipping into an old pair of slippers,
after spending the day wearing high heeled shoes
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Pweeze wet me expwain, officer -
I taught it was dat wascally wabbit agin...
buwwowing under my ewectric fence,
eating up my cawwots. wettece, my bwoccoli
and-and...even my woot-a-beggers!
He's a weal pest...constantwee hawassing me,
destwoying, wandom wooting, wuining my cwop...
din waughing at me! (Dere outta be a waw)
Wha...awwest me?...Dis is an outwage!
I am a waw-abiding citizen!...Wead me my wights!
I demand pwoper mis-wepwesentation!
I am going diwectly to your superwior office, pwivate!
Bewieve it my fwiend, you will wive to wegwet this...
Ow! Must you be so fweekin WUFF?...Dat hoits!
I have woomatism you know! Powice bwutality! Po...
Aw scwew it...Wes! Wes! I moidered da widdle bum!
(Wunning awound dwessed wike dat
distwibuting doze siwwie cowoured eggs
Embawassing widdle cweature...
It's a downwight disgwace I tell you)
As I gaze out the upstairs window, it feels like yesterday
It is early, and a burst of sun gleams through the branches of the Cottonwood tree
It's not there anymore....
that string of washing that used to wave on the clothesline,
looking like colorful flags flapping in the wind....
and I wonder...who does that anymore...hangs their wash?
Doves are still strutting on the cobbled path, cooing their song....
or perhaps complaining about the chill of the October morn...
I look about the room,...
Right there, that's where marguerite daisies sat in a jug on the dressing table
next to a framed photo of five, smiling young cousins...
Scrubbed and shining faces, dressed for church one Easter morning, long ago
The faded chintz curtains, and the cover on the four poster is a pale primrose yellow
And the wallpaper is striped in blue and white....
It all looks a bit more worn, but still rather pretty
The bedroom is small,....a bit cramped, and a bit shabby, but comfortably familiar
Over on the north wall hangs a painting of Willowby Pond...
so pleasant to look at, just before falling to sleep...
Mother would tuck into each dresser drawer, a bar of soap....to scent the clothes
I recognize the fragrance of English Lavender, still lingering in the air...
even though she has been gone these many years...
Here I stand again, having things so familiar, ...so much the same...yet changed..
I take a deep breath, recalling the sense of home, the fragrance of lavender
and the sound of the doves...
Like slipping into an old pair of slippers
after spending the day wearing high heeled shoes....
It's used as an afterthought, fattening festive
arrangements for Mother's Day, Easter,
someone's birthday. An underrated vine,
enhancing center-stage flowers whose star-power
doesn't wear well. It's the "coming attraction"
that's there after the clapping dies down,
replanted by doorstep or gravestone. "Grow,"
I say, "Change my life with your traveling beauty,
your common denominator, your scrawling
signature seldom sought for autographs.
Snaking around graves at our family plot,
it's an ongoing gift, out-giving the giver
with its "overwhelming darkness", reminding us
where there is life, there is also death. Surviving,
thriving in hanging pots the less hardy exit,
it surprises and delights, reaching down from limbs
of trees for soil, unchallenged there in pine straw
until tender tendrils insinuate their way
to daylight through tapestries of needles
When the ivy becomes dense, I will know
you are there: ivy of my heart, ivy of essence,
the graceful way it swings and sways, how
it takes to new habitat in the way you, Julie,
cut a swath through New York City after lifetimes
in the easy South. We are old souls, older
than the hedera, cousin to ginseng, reminder
of the movement of the heavens, the ability
to bring things together. You were shelter,
the poets' headpiece, bringing peace
to my household. Resurrection and rebirth,
Julie, in this Easter of ivy.
Miss Scarlet was driving her car across town.
She had a meeting with Professor Plum at the library .
It was regarding a paper she had written in the study at home.
About the life of Colonel Mustard and the revolver he carried during the war.
Mrs. White was on her way to the school.
She had just left the kitchen,she forgot to put the knife away.
So she slipped it in her purse, she had colored eggs baskets for her students.
It was near Easter and she was driving to the ballroom to set up for the party.
Now, Mrs. Peacock was angry.
She had brought a rope to use to tie up the hole in the hutch.
Her prize bunnies were escaping, her best sales were during Easter time.
She needed to secure the hutch so that no rabbits would escape.
Mrs. Peacock put a wrench in her purse to secure the bolts on the hutch.
Well nobody knows what really happened next, they can only surmise.
All they know is the rabbit was lying in a pool of Easter eggs and baskets.
Three cars were totaled in the accident, all of the women died.
What was peculiar was what else they saw.
A wrench,a rope, and a knife, were found at the scene.
No one had a clue as to where, how, or why?
In the meantime, Professor Plum was in the Library with the revolver.
“I’m the unknown gardener my name is mentioned in the bible, but no one need honor me.
Just a pauper, I was in the garden that day, but my only contribution to grace works was filthy
Hearing a rumbling it seemed from deep inside the ground, I looked toward a tomb which had a
huge stone place over it’s mouth. As I looked I saw a steady lighting flashing, so bright it
dimmed my sight, emitting from the tomb around the rock’s edges.
The lighting stopped as suddenly as it had began, as once more I heard a scrubbing noise and
saw two celestial beings in shining apparel, as they rolled the huge stone away from the mouth
of the sepulcher. I was amazed, made weak in the knees, my countenance was overcome.
One of the celestial being said, “Fear not I am Michael, the archangel, I came to attend the
Master. This day thou also hath somewhat to offer unto him.” I wondered, amazed within myself
as I pondered in my feeble mind, ‘What on earth could a meager pauper have of worth to
A beautiful being stepped forth from the tomb, such the like I have never before seen or after!
When he spoke his voice was as the sound of many waters, such as a gently rushing water
fall. He said, “Behold I am the first, and the last, I was alive and was dead, and now I am alive
for evermore. It is finished!”…The two angels, I saw no more.
“Thy name is called Ishmael, born after the flesh, I have heard thy afflictions. This day it
behooves thee to be a signet necessity of my Father’s will, representing all of mankind,
for their righteousness of concepts be as fifty rags. Give unto me thy clothes and I will
cleans them for thy are metaphoric of the fleshly unrighteousness of all humankind.”
I gave him my clothes and I understood not, but I felt amazingly clean. He clothed
himself with my clothes and said, “Remember this day, for flesh will prophesy this truth in the
last days. In an inspirational writing that I will give thee utterance to write. You will entitle
it, ‘The Unknown Gardener’ then you will understand the signet!”
With this, He vanished from my presence. This same day has became know as Easter morning, the day of resurrection.
And the fleshly concepts of sin as the casting off of filthy rags! My natural senses returned and I arose from the vision.
I was astonished for seven days. At the end of which I wrote the understanding of the vision. This is what Easter means to me!
For and in Honor of Gwendolen Rix
And Contest: What Easter Means to me!
I had a dream that I walked behind
a man in white cloth - so gentle, so kind;
he told me his name with his fatherly voice
and asked me to follow, though it was my choice
He talked in stories which made me think,
while he told large crowds to take of his drink;
he walked among beggars, cripples, and thieves,
and he only asked us that we all just believe
I watched his miracles bring back the dead,
and I wept as they shoved thorns upon his head;
I watched him be beaten, spit on and cursed,
and on the day he died - the clouds rained with a burst
I cried because I had lost my very dear friend,
although, he told me that it was not the end;
I didn't understand this man, this begotten son
was the way to eternal life - for me and everyone
I walked alone without him there,
and felt so lonely because my soul did care;
this gentle man they did kill for me,
so I could live on and really be free
When I awoke from my dream I had a plan,
to live my life - to be a better man;
for what I learned from this only one
is that He is truly God's only son
I know my friend will always be,
even at times when I can't always see;
for a life is lost - without the One,
a kind and gentle man we call the Son.
For "What Easter Means to Me" contest sponsored by Gwendolen Rix.
The Galilean sun smiled down
Upon the dusty little town
And lingered o'er one humble spot,
A peasant's home and modest shop.
Long shafts of light fell 'cross the door
To lay bright carpets on the floor
Where children played in perfect peace
About the shop. Their joy increased
Each time they caught a glimpse of Him,
The carpenter who worked within.
His face was gentle, eyes were kind;
And as He worked, He did not mind
Their ceaseless chatter, endless play
Nor did He find them in His way.
Their laughter rippled round the room;
They scattered sawdust with a broom.
The woodchips falling at His feet
Became for them a fishing fleet
Or beds and chairs for little dolls,
A manger or a cattle stall.
Surrounded by the commonplace;
And yet, uncommon was the grace
With which He faced each daily task
As if all Heav'n lay in His grasp.
A carpenter He was by trade;
The wood responded, unafraid.
Beneath His hands each piece was formed
Into an object to perform
Some deed of usefulness or skill,
The needs of men to fitly fill.
Precise He was in all His craft
From oxen yoke to shepherd's staff
To couches for a nobleman;
He was a careful artisan.
Each part was polished, sanded, ground;
No painful splinters could be found
To pierce the flesh of those who bought
The items fashioned in His ship.
There wood was sacrificed for man
Beneath its own Creator's hands.
Does it seem strange that He would die,
Suspended between earth and sky,
Upon two rugged beams of wood,
This carpenter whose work was good?