Phillip McKenzie

Phillip McKenzie Nov 2014

He was the Gentle Giant,
His voice was like soft thunder.
His Hands, strong enough to lift up the fallen,
Yet gentle enough to hold the smallest child.

He was the Gentle Giant,
His children were yours and mine.
He towered over them with great height,
And cast a shadow of deep love.

He was the Gentle Giant,
His face chiseled from stone,
His outward appearance intimidating,
But his heart was molded from pure gold.

He was the Gentle Giant,
And sometimes giants fall,
But in his wake he left
Waves of love to last for generations.

Phillip McKenzie Nov 2014

GOING HOME

I looked into the sky today
And saw an angel taking flight,
And in his arms, he held a child,
Around them brilliant light.

“Where are you taking him,” I asked,
As he stretched his mighty wings.
“I’m taking him to be with God
And where my brothers sing.

“Bring him back,” I plead to him,
“Please don’t take away this boy.
His mom and dad won’t understand.
He is their pride and joy.”

“I must deliver him,” he said.
“He will never be alone.
I must take my flight with him,
This child is going home.”

“But what about his family,
Who want to see him grow,
Why can’t you leave him behind,
With loved ones here below?”

The angel softly said to me,
“I don’t think you understand,
This one is a special child
Not meant to live with man.”

“God sent me here to rescue him
From misery and pain,
So, please sir, I beckon you,
Please do not restrain.”

And as the angel flew toward home
I saw the baby smile,
I knew that we would meet again
In just a little while.

Phillip McKenzie Nov 2014

THE VETERAN

The old man stood there feebly
Beside the crowded street
As the Color Guard came marching proudly by.
Old Glory, she was waving
As he graciously saluted,
And tear drops started falling from his eyes.

His granddad fought in Italy,
His dad against the Germans,
And he was in Viet Nam as a boy,
Everywhere that they had battled
In fox hole or in valley,
They sacrificed their lives
For that Old Glory.

The old man stood there thinking
About how they fought for freedom,
Not only ours, but folks in other lands,
And how the legacy of valor
Flowed through the blood of family
And he prayed for his son in desert sands.

The parade had finally ended
And the Color Guard had passed him,
And he sat upon the grass in solemn thought.
The old man looked around him
At the people with their laughter,
And he was proud for all the battles
He had fought.

Phillip McKenzie Nov 2014

EMILY

I heard a fly buzz by my head
While I was fishing at the creek
And Emily’s poems were in my car
In a book checked out a week.
I sat still as water passed
I was alive before the storm,
I thought of her in cold, cold ground
And the stillness of her form.
The rain drops splashed on thinning hair
As I climbed slowly, not too far
Lightning flashed and thunder rolled
And I read her poetry in my car.

Phillip McKenzie Nov 2014

YELLOW

I love yellow.

The yellow blanket that accompanied him home from the hospital,
Wrapping up all the pride and joy in one bundle.
The yellow post-it notes that announced,
“I love you dad”
and stuck mysteriously in easily discovered locations.
A yellow highlighter that marked significant passages
in favorite books and important Bible verses
he liked to remember.
Yellow legal pads that recorded my poems
and stories that were inspired by him.
Yellow sneakers that ran the bases, stomped the puddles,
loped through high green grass as he befriended a yellow butterfly.
Yellow sneakers that ran after the yellow ball,
out into the busy, hateful street;
brought to a fatal halt by a drunk driver.
Yellow roses, sprayed across the tiny casket,
a shadow of their former cheerfulness.
Yellow dandelions, hanging their heads in the cold,
depressing rain;
missing those little yellow sneakers
that once danced around them.
A yellow oak leaf drifting down
on Autumn’s early chill,
floating to rest upon a small,
lonely grave.

I hate yellow.

Phillip McKenzie Nov 2014

MIDNIGHT FOG

Somewhere in the midnight fog
I see her walking slowly by,
Her ghostly figure walks away,
Silky white and cotton gray.

Underneath a thumbnail moon,
Through the misty midnight hour,
She leaves no footprints in the sand,
She has no ring upon her hand.

Past the willows hanging low,
Over through the sodden grass,
She turns and looks with glowing eyes,
She speaks, but only lonely sighs.

High up on the cliff she stands,
Waves are crashing down below.
She leaps and takes her final flight,
She disappears into the night.

I run to where that I soon find
She’s lying lifeless on the shore,
She somehow seems to beckon me,
To follow her into the sea.

I sit upon a fallen pine,
And once again, she passes by.
Her ghostly figure walks away,
Silky white and cotton gray.

— The End —