A diamond in the rough,
is a diamond sure enough:
And before it ever sparkles,
it is made of diamond stuff;

But someone has to find it,
or it never will be found:
And someone has to grind it,
or it never will be ground;

In the hands of the master,
it is cut and burnished bright:
Then that diamond's everlasting,
shinning out its purest light;

Oh people out there yearning,
to hear this sage advice:
This diamond in the rough,
is you mother, or your wife;

She's the one that sits beside you,
or the one that takes your hand:
She's the mother of your children,
and the mother of this land;

She is polished by her Knowledge,
and her Wisdom, and her Love:
She was sent to guide us to the world,
by he who sits above;

Now you who listen to my voice,
these words I speak of my own choice:
On God I surely place the blame,
as Mother and Diamond, must mean the same.

---- ©1972 Bradley Ray Wardle ----

Because you are a dear, dear friend,
as dear as you can be;
A person sweet, a joyous treat
to work here next to me.

Of greatest wealth your superb health,
until a cold you catch;
The bills, the phone, you can't stay home,
and so a plan you hatch.

To work I'll go, I must not show,
that really I feel lousy;
No pills I'll take for goodness sake,
that could cause me to be drowsy.

Your nose will run, you'll say "Oh ***,
a tissue may I borrow?
Please do not lock your tissue box,
I'll pay you back tomorrow!"

So,
Because you are a dear, dear friend,
and I would not want to miss you;
This HOLIDAY SEASON my special gift,
YOUR VERY OWN BOX OF TISSUE!

In a clearing two eyes meet and Spring is born,
sparks of joy rise to flame and settle on rosen lips.

Unspoken words adjoin deep into hearts,
whose daylight bring everlasting hope.

Clouds part, rain gives way to sun, night to day,
Spring to Summer.

Laughter now sings from sunny appellations,
whose tiny voices sooth and console.

Hearts grow, spirits sing,
laughter and running feet tarry, then pass by.

Flowers that were once crisp and sharp,
now dry and crumble in the days heat left.

Night pulls its shade,
blinded eyes stumble and fall, looking for that which sleeps.

Unable to behold the quiescent voice within,
upheaval of the bulwark surely comes.

Altruism's nourishment grows scarce,
as Summers door closes.

The Fall winds blow.

Times were better when, the sun was easterly high,
eyes beheld precious states, and life’s melody was sweet.

Time, now the thief paints with a different brush.

The air grows cold now.

Trees that once stood
majestically green now change to cloaks of amber gold.

Soft whispers dull the once loud chimes of time,
bringing the stillness of age.

The cloaks of amber gold fall and wither,
beginning the journey’s end.

Laughter no longer echoes in the clearing, as
the cold winds of winter proclaim their arrival.

The footprints of joyful days lie frozen in time,
to be seen, but touched never again.

The cold snows of winter descend,
to cover the melodies of adoration past.

The satin cloth of passions sweet,
etched deep in stone now crack.

A cabin stands on a hill.

A shell, A keeper of time, and visions past.

The smoke of a fire no longer flies
from its pipe tall and black.

Starvation ceased the flame, remorseless as one blowing out a candle.