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Poem
The writer’s prose like fluid flowed
Across half-a-thousand gilded pages,
With flowered images and profound lines
The was last throughout the ages.
But the follow-up, it got two stars
And critics dog-piled the hate.
Sometimes we shine with sheen of gold,
Other times we’re naught by clay.

The little boy bounded down the hall
And found his father working there,
Struggling with a broken socket,
But the boy was quite unaware.
When he spoke his father snapped,
In tears the child ran away,
No perfect parents, despite hearts of gold
Sometimes we’re naught but clay.

The husband’s wife was his whole world,
His hope, his passion, his fire,
But overtime blunted his mind to the fact
That their anniversary had transpired.
His angel faced him, her beauty marred
By an angry mask of spousal rage,
He’d put on her fingers endless gold,
But that night he was naught but clay.

The politician rode high on the hog,
When he crushed a tough election.
People cried that it changed everything,
We were off in a new direction.
But as always gravity settled on in,
And legislatures are hard to sway,
Some days his words turned all to gold,
But on others they were naught but clay.

The perfect game the pitcher threw,
Was a masterpiece that all would know.
No matter who stepped to the plate,
They were a step behind his throw.
But the very next game he gave up runs,
Eight runs two innings into the game,
Last weeks his pitches had been solid gold,
This week they were naught but clay.

For two years the clerk nailed the data,
Breaking standards with practiced ease,
He’d earned a promotion and more cash,
It was one of his proudest feats.
But then he lost two clients quick,
And soon had no source of pay,
Sometimes we shine with the sheen of gold,
Other times we’re naught but clay.

…But even clay is made beautiful,
in the hands of a Master.
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