Empty evenings..how many I have to face
After you’ve gone abruptly, my sweetheart
Clocks ticking away the time of this place
It can’t be, but it's happened, we are apart
It wasn’t going to be the best way in this life
But I’m happy that anyway I’ve known you
Next time we meet I’ll ask you to be my wife
Time is eternal, sometimes we come through
But sometimes we don’t, you know it depends
On the winds that keep blowing my faithful soul
Back to you, and I hope we’ll be given a chance
To meet again in the evening, before it grows old.
The Farmhouse
One evening before the sun was set
A memory came and stayed a while
Of a chalk white, sun bright path,
Untrod, passing by where I gazed
By a hawthorn hedge and a wooden style.
And I saw nearby a farmhouse stood,
Empty now and weather worn.
An old post box by an open gate,
In the sky the remnants of a passing storm
Above fields once gold with ripened corn.
It seemed now that a distant memory stirred
Where two children play and horses graze,
As if another had received the thought
And remembered that old abandoned place,
A farmhouse arisen from far past days
A letter lay in the collecting box,
The unknowing sender waiting some reply,
But no word came from that forsaken place
From that far farmhouse weather worn,
Only a distant memory passing by.
Barry Stebbings
March 2024
MY SWEET LORD
When I was a little girl, we used to pray and say our grace
at our altar every day at six in the evening before dinner
and to say a little prayer at bed time in my bed space.
So early in life, I came about my faith and it got clearer
that Jesus is the Holy One, when I went to a Catholic class.
I learned to love one another and to try not to be a sinner.
The first time I ever saw your face, my Jesus was not in a mass.
It was when I was given a fifty-fifty chance to live, the day my
first child was born and I was pleading, “Lord spare me”, I asked.
I awoke surrounded by loved ones looking at me, drying their eyes.
My aunt told me I almost did not make it and I felt the oxygen mask
on my face, when joy came upon me realizing I was spared and I cried.
My Jesus, thank you for being with me, assuring me it is You I can rely.
My Sweet Lord, you always give me hope and it is only You I abide by.
6/19/21 Jesus Poetry
Regina McIntosh
Used: RhymeZone
PS Grammar Checker
Morning blew in
on breezy pale light of sun
with blue powder on the run
and a cloudless sky was hurriedly tussled away
when the wind blew its breath at play;
by evening before the twilight fell
clouds dripped orange marmalade spells
burning a deeper shade of peachy cream;
but the breeze had faded by end of the dream
and wild restless winds brushed the trees and leaves
where eerie shadows filled the few standing canopies;
in the distance stood the mighty oak
whipped about in battered smoke
and the sky at the horizon blazed
in orange and red fires stoked.
L-onely night has turned
I-nto a morning sunlight;
N-ew dawn has broken,
G-ray is nowhere in sight.
K-iss the haze goodbye, as the sky starts to be bright;
Y-our birthday in February is on the seventh day of delight.
P-erfect celebration
U-shers you to pure happiness;
R-eal joy has continued
U-ntil evening before rest.
G-ood greetings are sent,
G-reat and warm wishes too;
A-fter the moon is gone,
N-umbers of regards arrive at you.
A-s you enjoy the special moment, uphold the spiritual fervor;
N-o matter what happens, blessings will knock on your door.
LOVE
My love
My sweet LOVE
I owe you love
And give you my love.
If I wrote a poem today the title be your name.
If it was a book the first chapter would open with LOVE
And the last stanza would close with promise FOREVER.
If I wrote a song today the title be YOUR LOVE
And in soft crescendo;baritone it will be sung.
If I wrote a play I would ensure both of us major actors
And be the theme feeling of romanchronic emotions
If I had a voice I would sing for you
Every evening before you go to bed.
Now that I don't, this I do; my love
I offer you a room in unreal world
To reside there FOREVER.
one morning or should I say the evening before I proceed to clip a rosebud whose bud was questionable to being cut too soon and the rosebud says to me if you cut me too soon I will not bloom but I clipped it any way and I say to the rosebud are you going to grow or wither and to both our dismay I will come and throw you away. the next morning looking for every event of the day to be exciting I rushed to the rosebud under the lighting and this beautiful red rose says to me hello my friend how art thou look at me ,smell me and I did and the beautiful rose continued last night when you lay down to sleep and cut the light out I knew without a doubt in the morning I will blossom for you cause you dipped me in mr. good stuff the orange crush bottle and I mused as we looked at each other the rose and me-I thought the rose is telling me this bud is for you! then said the orange crush bottle, I still am making um holla, then I said well let me get on up from here and try to make a dollar, let me hear you holla for the orange crush bottle!
Father is still up for a brawl
Altercations are ongoing
My mom can not tolerate my sister
My sister hates me, and she says the least
On the playground
Mates continue to be enthusiastic about my kin
They always let me scared and cry
Few know nothing but to fight happily
I always have the generosity of a friend
Cordial and simple to go
I can never fit me at home
My mom is waiting to beat me and my sister is waiting to play
I feel sad and bored at home
I can see the tenderness in the evening before bed
I enjoy sleeping because nobody dares to hurt me
Hug of vanity and kisses turn out my sleepless
Litan Dey
You're a little kid again
A boy of 3 years old
no kisses come in the morning
or in the evening before I sleep
everyday, grows more apparent
I am not the solace that you seek
in the words of a stranger
in the heart of a friend
one has no beginning
the other has no end
Drinking
Remember the evening before the open mic
When we went to that pizza place in the Village
And bought two beers
Wrapped in brown paper bags?
We guzzled as we
Walked city streets
Carrying our precious guitars,
Giggling like misbehaving schoolgirls
And how about that Passover
When I came to visit
And all you had in the house was Manishewitz wine?
The sweetest, most vile concoction!
Still, we drank and laughed
As though it were the finest Bordeaux
You were a Merlot Ho
I was a White Zinfandel aficionado
We enjoyed our bottles
While eating the birthday dinner
You'd made in my honor
Complete with chocolate cake
You read to me from your journal
About your trip to Nepal
Later, we watched Absolutely Fabulous
And I loved hearing you laugh
Whenever drunken Patsy keeled over
Now that you live in Atlanta
I have no more than a couple of beers a year
And a glass of wine is reserved
For special occasions
But whenever you were near
I would drink you in
And you always made me giddy
The kitchen, on the weekend mornings
When company came for a visit,
Habitually simmered like a cauldron of furious activity.
Despite a balmy morning on a September day,
The temperature rising by the moment
My grandmother would stand,
Red faced at her kitchen table
Rubbing flour and butter briskly
Through her fingers into a large mixing bowl
Apples already peeled and sliced would lay
Like pale green petals in the pie plate,
Waiting for the crumbled topping.
She may have fallen asleep the evening before
In her big, fat, over-stuffed chair
Long before her house guests had even
Stifled a lazy yawn
But on this bright, sunny morning
She was as young as a new bride.
Before Sunrise
I shall be off to my doom
One nation’s ruins
My empire consumes
I will march, I will step
Left foot, right foot
In continuous reps
I shall slaughter or be slaughtered
These morbid thoughts
Allow me not to falter
The evening before my departure
Flashbacks of the famine I once brought you
I look upon the face of the infant one
The gods have blessed this father with
I come to hold
The wife I no longer bother to kiss
March I shall
For the empire that has nourished me
From infant to child, child to man
From man, to battlefield god
Your favoritism is what I demand
This morning has come,
This morning has past
In the gods I trust
In this steel, my treasure at hand
To kill, to lust,
No separation of us
No signs of your favor
No shift in my behavior
Grave I may be
The opposition of life often waves at me
As your loyal subject
I write to you
My lord
Your newly speared nomad
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