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Dave Stinnett Poem
A tribute to a wonderful friend who was taken from us by cancer.
She Had Wings
11-24-07
Dave Stinnett
SHE HAD WINGS, SHE COULD LIFT US UP
WHEN OUR WORLD SEEMED TOO HEAVY
WINGS OF LOVE, ALWAYS OPEN WIDE
TO SOOTHE A WOUNDED SOUL
THOUGH SORROW FILLS OUR HEARTS, REJOICE THAT
GOD HAS FILLED HIS PROMISE
AND ANGELS HAVE A ROOM NEXT TO HIS THRONE
YOU SEE, SHE WAS NEVER OURS TO CALL OUR OWN
SHE HAD WINGS, AND NOW SHE’S FLYING HOME
Copyright © Dave Stinnett | Year Posted 2012
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Dave Stinnett Poem
Overtime Again
by Dave Stinnett
What is it about this temperature you always keep so hot
You always want to “fire me up”, when you’re getting’ all I’ve got,
I spend my whole life cookin’ things I know you’ll never eat,
There’s more than iron that’s melting from this God forsaken heat,
It’s me, your oven, on overtime again.
I hope you’re making money for all the time we spend Makin’
smoke, red coals and hotter fires to help our steel post bend,
I’m always there to heat it up, it’s overtime again.
I’ve built up quite a friendship with a piece of iron today
He guessed you messed up several times from the things he heard you say,
Your banging, swearing, apron wearing times about to end if I
Hear that you are blaming your mistakes on me again.
It’s me, your oven, on overtime again.
I hope you’re making money for all the time we spend makin’
Smoke, red coals and hotter fires to help our steel post bend,
I’m always there to heat it up, it’s overtime again.
Last year I almost called it quits, when you stoked me at the “Farm”
I’ve always had the hottest fire to heat the hardest “arn”
But you really hurt my feelings when my door swung open wide
And I saw a pair of hot dogs on a hanger poked inside
It’s me, your oven, on overtime again.
I hope you’re making money for all the time we spend Makin’
smoke, red coals and hotter fires to help our steel post bend,
I’m always there to heat it up, it’s overtime again.
It’s not the jalapenos I cooked with your burritos
It’s not the jalepenos I feel burning deep within.
Copyright © Dave Stinnett | Year Posted 2012
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Dave Stinnett Poem
Silently
By Dave Stinnett
We are silent people, really, and I often listen close
to what my body, in it's silent way, can say
my skin has never talked to me but speaks of years gone by
and my hair is working quietly to gray
my feet and hands are always there, they never say a word,
their toes and fingers really play a part
In the daily task of living, from early morning 'til late at night,
they're lifelong friends, I've had them from the start.
I've never seen beneath my skin but know there's something there
it has a special language of it's own
It tell me things, through aches and pains, and pleasures, oh too few,
and remembers things I'd forgotten that I'd known
It speaks to me in tingles when it likes what it has seen
and tells me when it thinks it's time to go
I think it's so important to respond to what it says
If we didn't, many smiles would not be so.
And recently, I've heard a voice, though silently, within
that said, 'I think that I have been here long ago'
the message from my silent heart, through beats, once slow now fast,
affirms the feelings brainwaves say I know
Silent voices brought me here, and probably you, too,
a journey that I've loved right from the start
you've become a silent part of me, like my fingers and my toes,
and your essence fills the chambers of my heart.
Copyright © Dave Stinnett | Year Posted 2012
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