On another note:
Rocks worn small form other stone,
Melted or crushed or aggregated
Into rock, again;

Trees from ash piles rise,
Requiring heat...
Seedlings released from cones,
Redeem the land in time.

Lakes do evaporate,
Their empty cups await
Rain or swelling springs
To come again.

"Hope is the thing with feathers,"
Our lonely Emily said,
And I hold fast her words,
When all seems dead.

Peace and Encouragement to You!

Doesn't need us,
Wasn't lonely,
Knew the future,
Saw the way,
Past Death,
Chose to act,
From perspective
Of Perfection....

We
Need Him,
Are lonely,
Uncertain of tomorrow,
Face imminent immolation,
Are powerless,
In desperate need
Of perfection....

Needing Grace,
Needing Mercy,
Demanding Justice,
Heaping Dooms
Upon our heads...
Unaware, we see
Only our current needs,
Ignoring our helpless state,
Created beings,
Deny the Creator,
Deny the Savior
Who decided before Creation,
To take our place
When Death arrived.

Or

We acknowledge
We are created beings,
Desperately in need,
No other way past
The Curse into which
We are born,
And throw
All hopes,
All trust,
Entire,
Upon the God
Who made us.

i am not a politically correct person
sometimes i call gay people "****" or  "*****"
not to hurt anyone's feelings
but
because that's how i was raised

history has turned into a blame game

one page forward, two pages back
you say one thing, then change the fact
once a victim, now on the attack
now i don't even know how to act

to be honest
i feel uncomfortable around large groups of black people
not because i misunderstand them
but
because they misunderstand me

history has turned into a blame game

one page forward, two pages back
you say one thing, then change the fact
once a victim, now on the attack
now i don't even know how to act

A hundred souls have now been called,
Finalists for the one way trip to Mars;
They wait again for numbers to be culled
So they can take a place among the stars.

Knowing they can not return,
Still they choose to feel the thrusters burn,
The first to leave their mother, Earth
Prodigal children, these, their birth to spurn.

And so they wait while science catches up
To give them air and food and liquid sup,
Suspended on their way so they can stand
In thinner air and orange rock and arid sand.

The universe, expanding as it goes, for Earth
Waits patiently as we climb the ladder to the sky
To test the science and find an astral birth,
The outer limit of our human quest for why.

And when we stand some day on rocky Mars
Dissatisfied, we'll look out past old Sol
Peering out for paths to other stars,
The restless quest still burning in our souls.

To all of us:

Those for peace and those who war,
The healthy and the ill,
The satisfied and those who beg for more,
The pauper and the millionaire,
The valley folk and hill,
The ****** and the *******,
The husband and the John,
The mother and the father,
The daughter and the son,
The rake and lonely celibate,
The lion and the lamb,
The quiet and the loud...
Some day will reach the quest...
Rest will come to all of us
Somewhere between the cradle
And the shroud.

I'd suffer four long years
Before I set a letter on the page...
I'd sob a hundred times,
Waking from repeated dreams of you,
The daughter I have lost,
Running into my arms, and
Our tears mingling
Over the wasted years,
Only to realize that dreams
Are only dreams
To remind me of my longing,
Not yours.

If I were to write you a poem,
I'd tell you that sorrow cuts me still,
Even though my heart is turning stone,
That parts of me are fading out to gray...
That family isn't whole while one of us is still
Away.

If I were to write you a poem,
I'd say the old stool you loved
Stands waiting,
Your handwriting still claiming it
As yours,
Though you have left it here
These years.

But how shall I write a poem
When the leaves of spring are glittering,
And when meadowlarks are singing,
And work calls me out to take the agony away?

Perhaps in fall,
When leaves begin their grim descents,
And winds drive chilling clouds of gray,
As mournful sounds of geese in southern vees
Cast gloom upon the dwindling days,
Perhaps in fall I'll take my pen,
And try to write a poem for you
Again.