Why are many great poets tortured and tormented?
I'm only distorted by the pain many poets feel.
I'll never be a great poet, thank God!
But, poets, I love your words.
I love you.
Please find a way to love yoursevles!
I weep for the pain you feel.
If I could make you smile,
I would be a happy, average at best, poet.

Even the best mothers muddle
Some are just more subtle
Than the others who stew up
Emotional storms with every cup
Of tea they poor and sip
Not a loving word drips from the lip
How dare they conceive
There are those who believe
There should be a test
To have the job that's the best
My mother McNaughton
Has never forgotten
What it means
To love all fourteen
Of her tumultuous brood
For she is shrewd
And knows what it takes to be
For she is keen to see
A muddling mother
Must be an advocate lover
No matter what
A kiss or a kick in the ****
To let her children know
Which way they should go
The is no need for insurrection
Or for the pursuit of perfection
Just love and cuddle
It is okay mother to muddle

Twist the neutral white wires together
Integrate the hot black wires into the power slot
Try not to get zapped
Ground the electricity by tangling the green and bare wires
Flip the switch to see if the magic happens

I sought Him in temples where anthems swell
Stained glass windows and polished sermons suave;
Yet here I knew He did not dwell,
While poor child of dust creeps to his grave.

I sought Him in churches rustic and plain
Eager to drown my heartfelt sorrow,
These mockery so futile and vain
As I searched for a brighter morrow.

In meadow alone, a breeze touched my face
Whispering of days bygone, yet still dear
When life flowed at a leisurely pace
And I felt His presence - O! so near!

Bittersweet weeping of the mourning dove
Awakens me to sad pleading eyes
Shattering my heart with vials of love.
Forsaken man and beast hold God's disguise.

I see Him in each rippling blade of grass
When dew of morn glistens with His tears.
In moaning of wind I hear Him pass
Through aromatic pines and lose all fears.

God does not dwell in temples made with hand,
But speaks to us through each soughing pine.
Proud wealthiest mansions o'er all the land
Mocked by His majestic Hand divine.





**~Hilda~