My Attempt At Poetry

My Mother

I remember my mother's face,
Her gentle blue eyes,
Her kind smile,
And tears well to my eyes.

She has passed away,
Passed from my sight,
Passed from my world,
And gone is my light.


Rain is falling,
Memories are calling
From long, long ago,
And back to youth I go,

To play again along the creek.
My lost youth I seek
Back in the mind's eye
Once more before I die.

The Night

This gentle, blessed night
Fair angels doth adorn,
Unseen, take their flight
Before the birth of morn.

No mortal could abide
On this night so very fair,
Without joy inside
For the grace of being there.

A Star

There is beauty in a star
Twinkling kindly from afar,
Sending rays of light
In the midst of darkest night.

Whether bright or whether dim,
It discourages all the grim.
What a blessed state to me
When a star I can see.

I Wish I Were

I wish I were her fork or spoon,
That I might touch her lips.
I wish I were her comb,
Then I might caress her hair.
I envy all her fingers touch.

I wish I were her clock on the wall,
Then she might glance at me sometimes.
The wind is more blessed than I,
It can kiss her cheek.
I wish I were her lamp,
So that I could watch over her.

It would be too much to ask,
I suppose, to be her pillow.
Just to be her mirror
Would be a joy to me,
More than I could ever hope for.

I wish I were a nightingale,
Then every night I would sing
Just outside her window.
I wish I were the sunlight,
That I might sparkle in her eyes.

Thank Thee God

Thank thee dear God
For giving unto me
Thy wondrous blessings,
Unworthy though I be.

Praises I do raise
With joy unto the sky
For all the wonderful gifts
From the Lord on high.


Follow, ever follow on,
Cast not your dreams away,
For when your dreams are gone
hope can no longer stay.

Believe, and they will come true.
Create them ever fair,
For your dreams, they are you.
Without dreams nought is there.

Follow them bravely with your heart.
They will not lead you wrong.
Beauty cannot depart
If you to dreams belong.

In that land there comes no woe,
But all around is joy.
Where dreams forever grow
There can nothing destroy.


"it is all futile," I say,
And then comes a brighter day,
The birds sing a new song,
and I feel maybe I really do belong.

The sky seems a deeper blue,
And the sun shines brighter too,
and all my dark thoughts leave
As I begin again to believe.


The eternal promise I do give.
I do make the world live.
Hope I plant upon the breast,
And joy I plant within.
The weary one may in me rest,
And ever rest again.

Though of time I may be a part,
I know of no time in the heart.
All the days and the years
Are but a moment gone by.
Through all the the hopes and fears
True love can never die.

God in heaven above
Is the giver of love.
All the angels know of me,
And have me for their own,
For I shall ever be,
And never be alone.

I have power within my hand
To give peace unto every land.
There is no limit to my power.
It is a bottomless well
From which if drawn entire
Can unlock the gates of Hell.

I was born before all.
Before time I did call.
Life nor death cannot stop me,
Nor is there distance too great,
For I of all restraints am free.
I live in a harmonious state.

I hold the keys to peace and joy,
But never the keys to destroy.
I am the one gift that can be sent,
And return a hundredfold.
I can forever be spent,
And still never be sold.

My substance is honesty,
And truth is all of me.
I cannot live within a lie,
Nor without the proper light.
For shallowness I am too high,
And too bright for the night.

I ever speak of things divine.
Everything with me is fine.
I give hope to hopeless things,
And light unto the dark.
I am the inspiration that brings
Unto life a glowing spark.

I am what is beyond ever.
I am lowly never.
I am the spring that ever flows.
The unending stream.
I am the wind that ever blows.
The ever perfect dream.

I am beyond compare.
The one thing for which all care.
The right and not the wrong,
The tune in which to play.
I in everything belong.
I will never pass away.


The eternal curse is mine.
I destroy what is fine,
And peace I take away,
And joy and all the good.
No good thing can with me stay,
None can be understood.

In many forms I appear,
Envy, jealousy, disdain, and fear.
In one form or another
I have often turned
Brother against brother.
Cities I have burned.

I upon violence do feed.
Am at the root of every evil deed.
Without me all wars would die,
For I ferment every war.
I make loud the war cry.
It is I that peace does mar.

I bring anger to bear.
I the cords of love tear.
I have entered every scene,
Done my damage every place.
It is I who have made men mean,
Pitted brutal anger in their face.

In the shadows I do sulk and live.
From there my power I do give.
I am every secret sneer.
I am every selfish thought.
I am every hidden fear.
In you I may be sought.


Ah, the power of inspiration
In he who seeks its cooperation.
Wondrous things it may impart.
Masterpieces flow from the inspired heart.

He who has hold of this golden key
May unlock the doors to all eternity,
May eat of manna from above,
Be engulfed by the awe of divine love.

And journey beyond his abode here
Unto a new and more heavenly sphere.
Inspiration cannot be bought.
It can only by a miracle be wrought.

What I Believe

I believe God is the reason for every raindrop,
And reveals His love in each one.
Every leaf that falls I believe is known,
And there is a purpose for its life and death.

Each grain of sand I trust is numbered,
And relegated to a specific spot.
I cannot believe the beauty of a flower is lost
Merely because its petals fall to earth.

No one will ever persuade me that breath is wasted
Even by the humblest and most abject of creatures.
And I believe the brightest light is not in the sky,
But in our heart when we do the right thing.


There is a way I feel.
My belief, my faith is real.
Though bad may come my way,
There will be a better day.

Some day the sun will shine,
And peace and joy will be mine.
Tomorrow will be bright,
And everything be all right.

In the midst of ill
I keep on believing still.
Despair I cast from me,
And look for victory.

The Poet

The poet sees and tells
From the spring which within wells.
The poet is unbound.
Beneath the poet is holy ground.

The poet speaks gentle words
Spoken only by singing birds,
Or words to the wise
Gathered where the eagle flies.

The poet is a prophet
Who has with unseen angels met.
The poet has the voice
To make one cry or rejoice.

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Background For My Page From Carol's Corner.