Beloved Children

Here and now, I wonder how relationships inherent
Could ever be just what I see, even though it seems inerrant
That children, bright, should reverence give, to me; the parent!
Is it really as it seems or is it incoherent?

For when I look beyond the now and venture even bolder,
I am not sure just who is the child and who, in fact, is older.
My children seem so wise to me, so good, and broad of shoulder.
I wonder if the truth will come when the fires of life but smolder?

Perhaps, someday, the time will come when they will wear a crown
And on a throne will sit, august, and graciously look down
At me, the jester in the court; a knave, a fool, a clown.
And I, in awe, will bow my head and reverently kneel down.

I thank the Lord, our Father, for trusting me to teach
Beloved spirits; children, His; and help them all to reach
Their full potential. May I fulfill this contract, and may I never breach.
To this end I humbly pray and of my God beseech.

Sharing the Load

Some till the soil,
Some plant the seed,
Each with his toil
Fulfilling a need.

Some nurture seedlings,
As summer grows hotter,
I’ll pull the weedlings,
You tend the water.

Each has a role.
All do their best
To harvest the goal.
Then we can rest!

Still in Love

  

Charles was a Harvard man,
As straight as straight can be.

Daisy was a red-neck girl
From Backwoods, Tennessee.

One fateful day Chuck lost his way;
Was lost for nigh a week

‘Til Daisy found him lyin’ there
Beside the muddy creek.

Daisy took that Harvard man
And patched his wounds and clothes,

And fed him moonshine for a month
 'Til that couple was betrothed.

He knew that it would never work,
But leavin’ made him ill.

She was just a Backwoods girl
But oh, he loved her still!

Dogs

“Go get it boy!”

That’s all that it takes,

And off at a gallop I go.

I bring back the sticks,

The balls and the toys;

Whatever the boss wants to throw.

What makes me obey,
So eager to go,
So needy to be his friend?
When all that I get
Is just kibbles and bits,
And a well-aimed  boot
In the end!

GRITSTONE

In the deep bowels of Vulcan
With its hot fires engorged,
This man was not born
But by Thor’s hammer forged!

His cold steely eyes
Put the blue in the skies,
And the gale forces blow
When this mighty man sighs.

Olympus falls silent
As he strides towards their door.
Demi-gods cower
As Zeus hits the floor.

The toughest of men
He fills with deep dread.
Why, even the Boogeyman
Checks under his bed!

When the day is the darkest
This man stands alone!
All hail the emergence
Of the mighty Gritstone!

Terror in the Classroom

Miss Pettigrew, our coach in math

Was mad as mad can be!

A rubber band had hit her cheek

And raised a welt, you see.

Young Tommy Jones, a fair haired boy

Was just aiming for some fun,

But was slow to hide the evidence;

A smoking rubber-band gun!

Miss Pettigrew, she swore out loud

To purge this foul corruption,

And confiscated Tommy’s gun;

A weapon of math disruption!

Feed My Sheep

Carnivore Kate and Cannibal Joe
Grew tired of eating pigeon.
So they asked the Padre in for lunch
For a taste of true religion!

To the Great Ogden Nash or "I Can't Believe He Gets Away With It!"

Raise your glass, sing a song, strike the band, come along,
Join the fun while we all throw a bash
For the one we all love, with his gift from above,
For the poet, the great Ogden Nash!

I oft read his verses, his words full of wit,
His collections are hard to put down.
America’s son, the bard of our time,
How did he achieve such renown?

I am sometimes confused, if not fully amused
At how deftly he ties up each line.
Undaunted, when words just won’t come to mind,
Why, he simply makes up a rhyme!

Delicious, fictitious, and so serendipitous,
How does he keep a straight face?
Congruitous, manipulatous, and oh so ingenuitous,
The right word in just the right place.

Now, I’m just a novice and not one to say
That the good Mr. Nash is a cheater.
But have you all noticed how often Ol’ Odgen
Strays just a bit from the meter?

And just when you think that there isn’t a chance
That the point he would make will break through,
He lengthens things out, or cuts it right short
To make sure that its clear and that you get the point of what he is saying so there is no way you could misunderstand where he was taking you.

He’s a master, I tell ya, of spinning a yarn about
things that go “bump” in the night.
He thinks the way I do, and writes the way I would
If only I only could write!

To fully appreciate this poem, you must read some of Ogden Nash's work! He is truly the master of light verse!

The Mud Won't Get Glovey

Throw your white glove in a puddle of mud.
Let it represent all of your toil.
The mud won’t get glovey, for crud is still crud,
But your glove, I’m afraid, will be soiled.

Take particular care in the friends that you keep,
For your friends either lift or drag down.
Choose those who propel toward goals that you seek;
Shun those with the cheek and the frown.

Yes, there is room in the world for a kind word to all,
For the saint and the ruffian alike.
Pray, offer your hand to those who would fall,
But be watchful for serpents will strike.

Say Again?

From nearby close proximity
I looked, beheld, and I saw me
With inclinations of proclivity,
Leaning obliquely toward perdition,
Trapped by altered, changed transition,
Doomed to redundant repetition!