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.
Minutes make an hour, hours make a day; Days make months and then a year as time goes on its way. April has a birthday and blooming spring as well; June is time for marriage with announcements in the mail. A concert in the part, a folksy sort of tune— We get that thing in August, and then we’re back to June.
February’s meant for couples— Roses and romance, And looks that say “I love you,” Exchanged within a glance. But what if I don’t fit that mold? It doesn’t quite seem fair; Are loneliness and heartache then, All that I can share? “Oh, no,” cries the wing-tipped cherub, “Please don’t think so small. Love’s not just for lovers; Love is meant for all!”
Worthless, crumpled little leaf— Cast off without a care; Set upon the listless wind, Carried here and there. You’re not but nature’s clutter To disgrace a pristine lawn; The only want we give you Is we want you good and gone! And the Lord within the Manor Sees you only as a chore; He’ll have to rake and bag you Which is irksome all the more.
There’s a tale of a mother who lived in a shoe, When faced with a challenge knew not what to do. So the family had dinner without any bread— Then she spanked all her children and sent them to bed! Why we rehearse this nobody knows, So let’s faithen the story and see how it goes. . . .
As you walk the lonely road. . . Mile after mile Without expected blessing, This may be your trial. But if you’ve done what you can And still must wait awhile; Don’t give up my faithful friend— Delay is not denial.
Author’s Note: To be clear, I do not think that the current difficulties we are facing signify the end of the world! However, the disruption to normal life caused me to remember these thoughts I jotted down a couple of years ago. Though at first this poem may seem disheartening, at a time when many things seem out of our control, what is in our control is who we become. And that is encouraging indeed.
How will it be when it ends, When it ends . . . How will it be when it ends— When Hell is unleashed and with murder contends; How will it be when it ends?