Best Methodist Poems
Way up there in the Colorado mountains at around 9000 feet,
There once was a thrivin' village that served as the county seat.
It was a boom and bust town that now lies in desolate shambles,
Its one-time stately buildin's now overgrown with creepin' brambles.
'Tis said that a vein of gold was discovered when a feller dug deep,
To bury a friend who was gored to death by an irate mountain sheep!
His discovery was known as Dead Man's claim and the rush was on,
And to the place hordes of miners, gamblers and rabble was drawn.
There were three or four rowdy saloons on each and every block,
Servin' booze and featurin' high-kickin' women around the clock.
A Methodist church and a school brought a tad of culture to the place.
Folks of finer tastes thought 'soiled doves' paradin' about a disgrace!
An untended graveyard gives witness to the wickedness of the town,
As headstone etchin's reveal the doom of many who were gunned down!
Yet is heard the phantom sounds from saloons from rabble goin' bananers,
Fightin', gamblin' and dancin' to the tinklin' of out-of-tune peeaners!
Northerly winds prod tumble weeds up and down dusty thoroughfares,
Streets once teemin' with humanity goin' about their nefarious affairs.
Now is only heard the ghostly creakin' of rusty hinges on saggin' doors,
When frigid winter winds bear down upon those dreary windswept moors!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Each person who makes the confession
That Jesus is Lord and God raised Him from the dead
And they are truly sincere and they seek God to live holy
Are all members of God’s family
All members of God’s family who are truly dedicated to God
All members of God’s family who are serious about being ambassadors for Christ have callings on their lives and one or more gifts they can use for the great commission
People make a big deal about the wrong things in churches outside of their own or even think their home church or churches within their denomination are the only good churches when the reality is anyone living by the Bible and have experienced new birth and at least have a strong desire to fulfill their duties to God are righteous
It’s not the churches that make the Christians; it’s the Christians that make the churches and leadership should always stay in tune with the Lord because they have double accountability.
Some of are Baptist, some Methodist, some Apostolic, some Presbyterian, some Church of Christ, some Church of God in Christ and many people in today’s time worship in non-denominational churches. And that’s just a few.
But, those of us who obey and have a true relationship with the Lord are part of God’s family and as far as the anointing only being in certain churches, that’s only true when we as Christians fail to bring the anointing to the table every time we go to church; it is our duty to help set the atmosphere and take our gifts outside of church walls.
Some of all preachers, some teachers, some speakers, some creative writers, some singers, some musicians, and some of us can do nothing more than cook or do hair and nails. All of this can used to build God’s kingdom and makes all believers fit into the family of God.
Remember, the family of God consists of the entire body of Christ and instead of all this division, we should screaming out to those outside of the family of God “There’s room at the cross; get saved today!”
THIS IS HOW LIFE FEELS WHEN YOU GET TO BE MY AGE
I have a general philosophical precept
Life is in general a bowl of cherries except
When someone stabs me in the back who didn’t oughta
From a completely unexpected quarter
I mean it’s ok if some dude whom I don’t like or trust
Has a go at me and feels he must
But if my wife tells me I continually bug her with my fidgets
And then she runs off with a team of one-legged circus midgets
Or my kids sell their hand-bound volumes of my poems
To buy a ton of horse manure to mix with the garden loams
And even the cat turns down my offer of warm milk
To go next door and sleep on sheets of silk
Or if a poetry contest excludes me simply because my name
Is unacceptable, maybe because I am black, or lacking in fame,
Or because I’m Methodist, and gay, and Republican, and from East Lansing,
Then I say to myself, well here’s the thing:
If, along with my poem entry, I’ve slipped in fifty bucks,
Well then how can I be excluded? I mean shucks -
Rules is rules but when I’ve already paid to be in the winners’ list
I feel I have the right, and I just gotta insist,
Cos midgets and fidgets don’t amount to squat
And sheets of silk or loads of horse manure is a lot
But my name’s my pride and joy and I am proud to add it
(But I fear to do it again in this contest or I’ve had it),
So in this contest I will remain anonymous
Though I guess the details writ here are just about synonymous
With a name I do not dare speak - at risk of exclusion
But I’m pretty sure this extra fifty bucks will lessen the confusion.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written - with great affection - for
Nancy Jones's Contest "This is how life feels when you get to be my age..."
There's a little white Methodist church in town,
That acts like a beacon to all those around.
They do weekly community dinners,
That are for the saints as well as sinners.
Some of the ladies operate a little thrift store,
Helping others like I have never seen before.
They visit the sick and make sure they have what they need,
Living for Christ and doing good deeds.
The Soul-train was leaving the station,
Believers were gathered on board.
Their hands were all reaching for heaven,
And happily praising the lord.
But someone was left on the platform,
A ticket-stub fell from his hands.
He waved as the train was departing,
As Jesus said strike up the band.
The train rolled from station to station,
A star-man looked down from above.
Some Hindus were busy complaining,
That one God is never enough.
The clairvoyant spoke in a whisper,
This supper it may be my last.
A methodist minister kissed her,
And said you're a pain in the ****.
The passengers drunk with excitement,
Were having a whale of a time.
Cajoling and laughing and singing,
While guzzling down gallons of wine.
The Muslims were barracking bishops,
The party was hitting its stride.
A Cardinal minced with the choir,
Who just came along for the ride.
While paupers were wedged in the gangways,
With other unfortunate souls.
Their betters had cosy appartments,
All furnished in leather and gold.
The train climbed the stairway to heaven,
Agnostics all cheered from below.
St Peter was holding a sermon,
And God was the star of the show.
The clamour rose to a crescendo,
With rumours that God would appear.
The Pope stuck his head out the window,
And said I believe that he's here.
The saints held the hands of the sinners,
While Gabriel was singing above.
The train lurched across the horizon,
Then crashed in the tunnel of love.
The pearly gates took such a beating,
Reporters descended in droves.
The wreckage was charred and disfigured,
As heaven began to explode.
Old newspapers scattered in Eden,
Said one day somebody will pay.
While British rail made an announcement,
To say that the train's been delayed.
There was something spectacular
about a winter, long and hard,
on the Miles River.
Some days will never be the same.
Greying skies, heavy hung
with crystal burdens
of the wind, and air. Twenty above,
after sunset, zero.
And the snow was the problem
of every man of driving age
with responsibility. His children
were busy getting ready.
And getting ready! The flurry
of wool, and the long john-ed cotton.
A long and hearty walk ahead, river bound,
passing ponds along the way...
A pair of skates, tied together,
a knitted cap and a smile
crossed the frosted fields, the puddled
slush and slurry, hurried
to gather like the feathered geese
who gathered
on the ice inside a frozen cove,
a forgotten day one January.
And the town of Saint Michaels:
a sidewalk of salt and shovels
digging out the shops...
the smell of warmth, of oak,
drifting thick from brick and mortar,
soups and running noses tucked away
inside the bars and churches,
snowfall on stones in cemeteries
of the Methodist, St. Luke's,
and of the Catholic.
There's birds at the feeder
of a residential tucked nearby.
A sigh, a whisper of air
between the shops
from the docks, chilly regards
from river and bay.
And a waterman, on his way
to the mouth: leather skin, covered
and coated in khaki and denim,
with permanent painted on flannel.
The oysters busheled up are icing over
in a harbor of seafood trucks
and white liars, old men who carry business
no longer, young boys with no blood to offer.
Forsaken a tradition, over a dollar.
And so the middle aged...age. With bad knees,
busted knuckles, and a thermos of lukewarm
coffee, black and heavy.
Cigarette smoke and rubber boots,
bibs and denim jeans drying inside
beside a stove of wood, the cord
stacked long outside.
And babies buried deep in coats
and blankets, mothers careful
in the parking lots of
Grauls and Acme.
Stews for dinner, Oyster based
and beef, warm tomato
with Saltines for crumbling
and butter for spreading.
Just the way of things.
On Spencer Creek, someone took down
a Christmas tree: a tomato cage
on a dock. Distant echoes of a motor
lapped the shoreline.
Some men dreamed of spring time,
when the cold would stop biting
and the creeks would clear
away the winter with the rain.
Some days will never be the same.
Three Irishmen by a window in stare
At a building just over there
From their heads their eyes pop
Their mouths all agog
So close they all are to swear
"Would you look at that!" the first Irishman says
"I've never seen this in all my days"
The Methodist Pastor so near
Into the building disappears
"I don't think this is the place where he prays"
No sooner are the words from his lips
When a Rabbi appears from the slips
With a quick look around
He disappears without sound
From his cassock, they see is a whip
Lost for words so agape they now see
Their Catholic Priest in front of them three
With a knock on the door
Like he's done this before
Appears not a total mystery
"Ah, now dat's sad." says the third Irishman
"As usual they've allowed him to go in
"One of da girls must have died"
It's why they let him inside
Be Jesus, it's a brothel, he's never to sin
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/humour-7.php
This was written by me with the help of the second grade Sunday School class at Maumee United Methodist Church in Maumee, Ohio.
Thank you for the sun so bright,
Thank you for the stars at night.
Thank you for the food we eat,
Especially the turkey meat.
Thank you for my family,
Thank you for my friends with me.
Thank you for cranberries sauced,
Especially when they get lost.
Thank you for my house and home,
Thank you for my brush and comb.
Thank you for when things get smashed,
Especially for potatoes mashed.
Thank you for my TV shows,
Thank you for my runny nose.
Thank you for bivalve clams,
Especially thanks for candied yams.
Thank you God for all you give,
Thank you for my life to live.
Thank you for the food to try,
Especially the apple pie.
Listen to the song I sing,
Thank you Lord for everything!
Day lilies assorted and bright
With flox flowers purple and white
Crisscrossed expanses of soft green lawn
Thus was my first April day born
Palm branches the worshippers brought
Lining staircases and streets
As they ought;
Red Cardinals, Florida grass, hydrangeas, lavender
Scenting the air, aurelia and ferns; violas and shrubs
Daisies yellow and deep purple hues
Flowers abounding through maiden grass white
Doves and holy wells, seekers of light.
Steeples and places,
Seats of gold –
Vestries in ancient wood
Respected of old
Stained glass windows
Altars and naves –
Bright with daffodils
Poppies and haze
From fine water sprinklers
Fronting white towered cathedrals
Or plain wooden benches and Methodist places
Scurrying Baptists, hiding the faces
With cloths and white linens
Of embroidered laces
Peonies pink,
And look there fellow –
Lenten roses in mixes,
White, green and yellow.
Tennis courts and fancy fountains
Ornamental grasses
And pampas white
These colors, and flowers and other signs say:
“It’s the beginning of Holy Week
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord
It’s Him whom we seek.”`
Today is my Birthday, and you are here with me
I do believe you were there the year and day i was born
for my breath and heart is beating for you are with me
Today is my Birthday and yes you are.. inside of me
I would like us to dance taka chance chance chance chance
Today and everyday is my Birthday everyday you have been in my life
I believe it was this day in Peoria, Illinois at Methodist Hospital at 11;04 am
The day I was born, the day I fell in love, the day I took my 1st breath
the day i cried a tear the day I've always been in love
Today is my Birthday and you have been here my whole life
you are here now , i feel complete , I've loved you all my life , I loved
you since this day....
~ Today is Our Birthday ~
A dish issue is whether the verb forms a series of events containing two or three ingredients. Ingredients are often officially interesting when placed. And material such as Velcro is very very useful when balancing on a widespread bed of crockery. Well cook then. Worldy worldwide without waste. And a hare is never a problem when hopping through an abyss. Calibres of officialdom. Wow. No problem at a beach house and home and away for the weekend is fine but the other side of the United Methodist Church is the name of the first place of worship. Oh dare one meet a jackdaw in a cardboard car. Or a ministerial monkey. Holidaying hopping hippies have havens. And bend not over a crevasse as dangers stem from rock. And blades spawn from spacial secrets. Secretary then. A portly lady humming. Hahahaha and now a salty dew. Hahahaha and an additional android arguing. Hahahaha dare to swim with the dog. *** multiplication z
A restless night, another hum-drum day,
Resolve to take a pleasurable walk;
I make my way towards St Mary’s church.
Across the street, a sixteenth century home –
Maltravers Manor, testament to time.
I’m heading for the ancient Hollow Way
Where towering beeches shade the wagon route.
“The Hatchet” standing at the crossroads, empty !
Bereft ! No pints are pulled here any more.
Along the High Street, past the Corner Cottage
Perambulating slowly now I pass
Refurbished “Childrey Stores” and Chapel House,
The Primitive Methodists’ former home.
And next, the Childrey pond comes into view --
It’s guarded by a dozen angry geese
And to the right the Old Post Office stands –
No stamps or letters, now a family home.
Beside the bus-stop here’s the “village” hall
In red brick builded by Victorian hands :
The Working Mens Club And Reading Room
Where farming labourers were wont to meet.
Next a modern non-conformist chapel
On the site of earlier Methodist Hall.
Then looking West a high brick wall contains
A cedar, vintage, sixteen forty six,
As high above a noisy rookery sways.
We now fork right by Rampanes Manor House.
Set in the wall, a dedication plaque
Records the founding of the Old Schoolroom,
Of seventeen thirty two, for local boys,
Established by the knight George Fettiplace.
Along Church Row we pass Cantorist House,
Originally the Chantry House for priest,
Three almsmen, to assist in singing mass
For the soul of Sir Edmund of Childrey.
Enter St Mary’s by the southern door,
Then down the aisle, I’m heading for the chancel
Where ancient brass recalls five hundred years
Of folk who lived and died in Cilla’s Rill.
I’ll leave as campanologists arrive
To ring the changes loud across the land.
Through the serried ranks of slate and marble,
I weave a path towards a wooden bench,
And here I’ll rest, below the old Scots pine,
To watch the setting sun across the fields.
She was a wily cigar chompin' gambler with the moniker of Poker Alice,
Renowned throughout the west for her skill in many a gamblin' palace!
Poker Alice had a good head for countin' and with her very cunnin' guile,
(Plus her beauty), she mesmerized her opponents, amassin' quite a pile!
Poker Alice worked in saloons across the west as a faro and poker dealer.
She worked in Creede, Colorado for Bob Ford, that notorious stealer!
Because of her pious rearin' as a girl, she refused to work on Sundays,
But she was back smokin' a two-dollar stogie and dealin' cards on Mondays!
She drifted to Deadwood, South Dakota, where her notoriety was well known,
And married a house painter named Tubbs who was a deft gambler on his own!
Later she established a brothel near Fort Mead Army Post with her ill-gotten gain.
The place was small and she needed funds to fix the 'house' on Pleasure Lane!
To expand and recruit 'soiled doves' from Kansas City she applied for a loan.
The banker scratched his skull sayin', "I dunno! That's a risk into the unknown!"
She convinced him notin' that The Grand Old Army had an encampment near,
And for the soldiers' bent for visitin' hog ranches, he had nothin' at all to fear!
Things didn't go well since she plumb forgot The Methodist Preachers' Convention,
Convened each and every year and she hadn't figured on that intervention!
Poker Alice's fame and notoriety followed her well beyond her wanin' years.
She died after a gall bladder operation with her 'house' payments in arrears!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 4 in Don Johnson's " Your Old Ballad Or Rhyme - Best Of All Time" Contest
July 2011
Amplify God’s compassion and love,
Biblical messages are bound to impart;
Cooperation among brothers and sisters,
Divine reflection in action and in words.
Exudes enthusiasm in charity,
Fortified towers of prayers nights and days;
Gestures of sympathy to the poor and lowly,
Happiness at times of sorrow and disgrace.
Inducement to attend church services,
Just treatment and respect for others;
Kinship affection to friends and strangers,
Law-abiding child of God in all places.
Miracles of Jesus working big or small,
Noble act of kindness to dreary souls;
Open-arm, open-heart with listening ears,
Perseverance that begets passionate cares.
Quick to rescue those who’re helpless,
Repertoire of our God’s mercy is boundless;
Soft replenishing words of wisdom,
Thanksgiving is telling about God’s Kingdom.
Unity and Harmony with one another,
Victorious union to the Son, Holy Spirit, the Father;
Working hard to spread good news with devotion
Xperiences with the Lord in spiritual breakthrough.
Yearning a renewed baptismal vow in consecration,
Zeal on doing goodness, more blessings come to you!
July 19, 2020
12.38pm
WINNER (SEE CONGRATS BELOW)
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Whatever our gifts-a loaf of bread, a tiny coin, a mighty blessing, or an amazing talent-each gift matters. Whatever our gifts, our gifts become miracles when we share them with God and with God's people.
-by Rev. Pastor E. Damilig
United Methodist Church, Baguio City 8/2/20
(A personal poem has also been posted here. It was written on the same date before seeing the sample poem for the contest. The title is "Sharing My Blessings")
The First Methodist Church,
with its bold wooden steeple,
burnt to the ground in 1914,
for preaching prohibition.
The good folks of Sebastopol
weren’t having any of that.
Today the Apple Blossom
Parade marches past
the rebuilt church, past
the Masonic Temple, past
Martha’s Mexican restaurant,
with its soup bowl Margaritas,
past Old Main Street Tavern,
overflowing with biker patrons,
and Jasper O’ Farrell’s,
past The Powerhouse Brewery,
The Greenhouse, and G.T.O’s,
with its bottomless Bloody Marys.
As the entire town, marching bands
and all, spill into Ivy’s Park
for a two day party, pixilated music,
and four dollar beers to support
Analy Union High School.
No wonder Luther Burbank
and Charles Schulz
called Sebastopol their home.
And The First Methodist Church,
now made of stone,
the only quiet place in town.