I have two paper dollars—
Just look right here and see;
And while they’re both a dollar
They appear quite differently.
For one is bright and crisp and new,
Not crinkled, creased, or worn;
Where the other bill is tattered
With an edge that’s partly torn.
There is an old tale of the Wind and Sun,
Both wishing to see the other outdone;
And seeing lone wanderer, each decided to try
To remove the coat from the traveling guy.
You’re in a third-grade classroom;
And as you may have guessed,
The kids are in the middle of
A trying spelling test.
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—
When in morning you arise,
Or at the close of day,
Do you merely say a prayer,
Or do you really pray?
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 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Was six days out of date!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 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.
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.
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.
Once Upon A Rhyme 