Short Winepress Poems

’Twas Martha, not Mary, quite contrary
When asked just how the vineyard grows.
A sanctuary from the world;
that’s what we really meant, you know.
Methinks latinx* can visit here
To trim the vines so merry.
Our food’s divine, just watch the time,
And catch the evening ferry.


*rhymes with methinks, methinks :-)...

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Fear is a fatal flower that blooms in every breast,
twining its vicious tendrils to choke hope's infant rest.
Fear bears a bitter fruitage, a wine of black despair;
hope, drunken, weaves the linen to shroud her dying heir.
Fear is the devil's vintage of desecrated years;
but Jesus treads the winepress and His love casts our Fear.

Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987...

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