"wardle" poems
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 ----
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC