I think that there shall never be
a poem written again by me.
Or if there is it won’t be good
or deep or thoughtful as it should.
It isn’t that I do not want
to write some prose in lovely font
Meaningful words in clever ways
arranged all in breathtaking lays
or rhyming, funny, laughing verse
even pointed lessons terse.
These things I want to flow from me
But alas, I fear ’twill never be.
© 2011 P. Johnson
In walks around the country
my heart reaches out in faith
and stands alone corrected
a conscientious wraith
I plant the heavy flowers
and the vegetables that weigh
deep in my thoughts and feelings
I till the soil halfway
I go to church all somber
all on a sunny day
in my penitential colors
I kneel down low to pray
Next season will be better
I tell myself in fear
Perhaps I’ll be removed
from this orbiting sphere
The green has turned to blue
summer’s light will carry well
holding justice in a balance
I’ll sip tea and sit a spell
©June 2014. P. Johnson
Our sons and daughters I hold up to Thee.
“Cause them to live for You”, my constant plea.
I can’t say “take his heart, it is thine own”
even when there’re chances that they’ve blown
But if it is allowed, my constant prayer:
that hearts of all my loved ones would be there;
Fixed on Jesus, author of our faith
and finisher of the same, the scripture saith.
We want His will, until it’s not our own
but for our life His body did atone.
What say I that helps them return His love
to the Savior of our hearts, from up above?
This job that has required more than my skill,
description defies attempts to distill…
…it into something easy, nor will it
a simple quatrain, definition fit.
My heart is some days broken, some days not.
no matter – it takes more than I have got.
I turn to God, in faith I cannot see
knowing that it’s only just a start.
without which, impossible, God to please.
I must not grow too weary and lose heart.
My offering to you O Lord
God of the Universe
Seems not to rival even that of Cain
‘tis nothing perfect, even good
and yet it seems to me
that giving them to you is my constrain
My disappointments, empty loss,
In helplessness I trust
In sad confession, hand you my disdain
This spoiled offering please forgive
My weaknesses and failings
I lift them up O help me not refrain
A new offering I’ve now to give
Still in fainthearted weakness
Thanksgiving in exchange for latter rain
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“What shall I render unto the Lord for all his benefits toward me?I will offer to Him the sacrifice of thanksgiving.” Psalm 116:12,17
“In the light of the king’s countenance is life;and his favor is as a cloud of the latter rain.” Proverbs 16:15