To every laborer in God’s own field
Who comes with their sickle, ready to wield,
Eager to work with all of their might
To bring in the harvest that’s golden and white—
The Laborer
Author: THB
The Grand Bookends
When in morning you arise,
Or at the close of day,
Do you merely say a prayer,
Or do you really pray?
Across A Divided Sky
Ominous clouds of utter blackness,
Billowing in their ranks,
March across the low horizon
Like artillery, soldiers, tanks.
They move in angry opposition
With malice thru and thru
Against the sky’s content condition
Of golden, gilded blue.
And those who watch the signals
See signs from up on high,
Painted in prophetic vision
Across a divided sky.
Thanksgiving Thanks
Thanksgiving morning found me,
Before the crack of dawn,
Fixing a simple breakfast
Before the day wore on.
I sprinkled in my Cheerios,
Then poured the milk, but wait—
The stamp upon the jug, I saw,
Was six days out of date!
The Rose
The funny thing with roses, they start as just a bud;
Some take so long to open, they seem like just a dud.
But no amount of wishing will make them open up,
Like no amount of wanting removed the bitter cup.
The Battlefront
Boom! Boom! The cannons echo; around you lays the gore,
Carnage left by countless battles in this eternal war.
All who have ever lived, have been enlisted in this fight—
The fight of good and evil, the fight of wrong and right.
Both sides call you to join their ranks, but choose most carefully,
For what you choose will chart your course for all eternity.
Grandpa, the Mulberry, and Me
Author note: I posted this on the one-month anniversary of my Grandpa’s passing. Enjoy.
Once there was a mulberry tree—
Planted when the kids were young;
And like the growing family,
It also upward sprung.
Remember Him
I do always remember Him—
At work and play, home and gym
I do always remember Him—
Deliberate, consistent, not on a whim
I do always remember Him—
Now and still when eyes grow dim
I do always remember Him—
My heart, all pride, I strive to trim
I do always remember Him!
The Game
Sticks and Bricks
We all know the story of the three little pigs—
Two built houses of straw and twigs;
Not wanting to work in the heat and the sun,
They chose instead to play and have fun.
And they mocked the third pig for his planning and care
When he laid out a structure that was sturdy and square.
For he didn’t fall for the quick, flimsy fix,
But carefully built a house made of bricks.
Once Upon A Rhyme 